Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics (14 page)

The swimmers were introduced from lane one to lane eight. The biggest roar, without doubt, was for Susan Carol, who was in lane six as the fourth qualifier. Magnuson, who had qualified second, would be next to her in lane five, and Hersey was on the other side in lane seven. Wentworth was in the middle, lane four, as the top qualifier. Vollmer was in
lane three, and Lee in lane two. The swimmers in lanes one and eight—Penny Bates and A. J. Block—were long shots.

As loud as it was when the swimmers stepped onto the blocks, Susan Carol was convinced everyone in the building could hear her heart pounding. She reminded herself of what Ed had said shortly after warm-ups had ended: “Everyone in the pool will be just as nervous as you.” But as she bent down in response to the starter’s instruction to “take your mark,” she was convinced Ed was wrong. No one could be as nervous as she was at that moment.

The start came so quickly that Susan Carol was almost startled by the sound. She felt herself flinch as she left the block and was convinced she had cost herself time even before she hit the water.

As she kicked her way to the surface, with her arms extended as far in front of her as possible, she told herself to forget the start and focus on her stroke. She knew she couldn’t win the race in the first fifty meters, but she could certainly lose it. As she always did when the pressure was greatest, she tried to hear Ed’s voice in her head.

Stay low
, her Ed voice reminded her. In a pool this deep, with lanes that were nine feet wide, there was almost no wash from the other swimmers to worry about, so she visualized her chin barely clearing the water every time she came up to breathe. Instinctively, she counted her strokes. If she was pacing correctly, she should hit the wall on her twenty-first stroke. She would get a little extra air at the wall by getting there on an odd number since she breathed every second stroke.

As she reached the flags five meters from the end, she could tell she was going to hit the wall correctly; mentally she breathed a small sigh of relief. She dropped her shoulder going into the turn—which had once been illegal—and, as she lifted her head out of the water to make the turn, she could see that Magnuson was already into her push-off, meaning she was about a half second ahead of her.

Don’t panic at the fifty
.

There was Ed’s voice again, reminding her she shouldn’t concern herself with what the other swimmers were doing until the last ten meters. She had no idea what Magnuson’s strategy was—maybe she was hoping to get out fast and make the others try to catch her too early. It didn’t matter. Susan Carol had to focus on the way
she
felt and not be affected by what anyone else was doing with half the race left.

She pushed off hard, staying under the water for one comfortable beat before kicking her way up. She liked to breathe after the first stroke on the way back, just to steal some extra air after being underwater coming off the turn. A thought flashed through her mind:
In less than thirty seconds you’ll know
.…

She flushed it quickly. Her stroke felt good halfway back, but she could sense that Magnuson was still ahead of her. If it was just Magnuson, that was okay. In the Olympic Trials, second place was just as good as first place. Third place, however, meant heartbreak.

Stay patient
was Ed’s next counsel as the flags started to come into view when she came up to breathe. She didn’t
want to pick up her kick too soon and find herself slowing at the finish. In a sprint like this, the race was usually won or lost in the last five meters. She could see that Hersey, on her left, wasn’t close. There was no sign of the forward splash a butterflyer makes when taking a stroke, which meant Susan Carol had to be at least a half body length ahead of her.

The flags loomed directly in front of her. For the first time since she had left the blocks, she was aware of the noise. She could feel her body tingling with exhaustion from the effort and adrenaline from the moment. There was no more time to think. She took one more breath, which she knew would get her to the flags, and then she put her head down. She
had
to get to the wall in three strokes or she would almost certainly get touched out at the finish.

One—two—three … She kicked as hard as she possibly could and stretched her arms to the wall and felt her hands reach the touch pad. At the very least she knew she hadn’t been touched out because of a poor finish. She pulled her head out of the water, trying desperately to see the scoreboard. There was shrieking all around her, and she saw that Magnuson had buried her head in the gutter, clearly devastated.

Susan Carol’s heart sank. She yanked off her goggles so she could see the board. At the same moment that she was able to read it, she heard Ed’s voice over the din: “You’re an Olympian, Susan Carol. You’re an Olympian!”

The board confirmed it: Elizabeth Wentworth, the other teenage sensation, had won in 56.81—her best time
by more than a second. Susan Carol had finished second in 56.99. She had barely beaten Magnuson to the wall thanks to her perfect finish. Magnuson had gone 57.02. The difference between being an Olympian and being an also-ran was three one-hundredths of a second. The two kids had beaten the veterans for the Olympic team spots.

Susan Carol didn’t know what to say or do. Without thinking, she went under the lane line to comfort Magnuson. Wentworth had done the exact same thing. Magnuson still had her face in the gutter and was sobbing.

“I’m so sorry,” Susan Carol said, because she could think of nothing else to say.

“Me too,” Wentworth said.

Magnuson pulled her head up and then did something remarkable. Hanging on to the wall with one hand, she first took Wentworth’s hand and held it up in the air. Then she put Wentworth’s hand down and grabbed Susan Carol’s hand and held it up in the air. The crowd was going nuts.

“You two better promise me,” Magnuson said, still gasping for breath. “You better
promise
me to go one-two in London, or I’m going to come looking for you.”

The three of them had a group hug, then they climbed out of the water. A USA Swimming official was standing there. “Elizabeth, Susan Carol, congratulations. You have to come with me to NBC right away,” he said, pointing in the direction of a mini-podium where Andrea Kremer was waiting to interview them.

“Can I get a towel?” Susan Carol asked.

“We’ll get you towels,” the man said. “Come on.”

He began herding the two new teenage stars in the direction of their close-up. Christine Magnuson was left standing by herself on the deck. No one offered to bring her a towel.

Stevie actually thought his head might explode as the swimmers approached the flags. From the angle where he was sitting—standing, actually—it was impossible to tell who was winning. The first five swimmers appeared to be matching one another stroke for stroke. Susan Carol had been closing ground (or water) since the turn, when she had been fourth, but there was no way to tell who was first or who was fifth.

He remembered what Susan Carol had told him about how important it was to put your head down once you got to the flags. “There’s plenty of time to breathe when the race is over,” she had said.

He held his own breath when he saw her put her head down and take her last three strokes into the wall. It was impossible to tell where she had finished until he—like everyone else in the building—looked at the giant scoreboard. When he saw the
2
next to her name, he forgot that he was supposed to be a dispassionate journalist and jumped into the air yelling, “YES, YES!”

Kelleher gave him a look, and he quickly got ahold of himself.

“Sorry,” he said.

Kelleher had a huge smile on his face. So did Tamara. “It’s okay,” he said. “It isn’t as if we’re trying to pretend
you’re unbiased in your stories. Just don’t go too crazy. No need to call attention to it.”

Stevie nodded, still a bit breathless. “What a race!” he said. “Look at those times, how close they are. I still can’t believe she did it.”

Kelleher nodded. “The best story is Christine Magnuson, which is what I’m going to write. There are few things worse in sports than finishing third in the Olympic Trials. Especially since this was her only event. Susan Carol at least would have had another shot in the 200 fly if she didn’t make it.”

“You weren’t rooting for …”

“No, no,” Kelleher said, laughing.

“Come on, guys, let’s get down there,” Tamara said. “It’ll be a madhouse, you can bet on that.”

They made their way from the press section down to the pool level. Fortunately, most of the crowd had stayed in their seats since Michael Phelps was getting ready to swim a semifinal in the 200 freestyle, and there were three more finals right afterward.

But down in the bowels of the arena there was chaos. Mike Unger raced past them, talking into a walkie-talkie. “Wentworth and Anderson in the interview room ASAP,” he was saying. “No Phelps unless he somehow doesn’t qualify. Breaststrokers after they get their medals. Can’t rush these two girls.”

Tamara nodded approvingly as Unger moved out of earshot.

“Good to have Mike back in control,” she said.

“Yeah, but I need to talk to Magnuson,” Kelleher said. “I doubt if she’s going to volunteer to come to the mixed zone.”

The swimmers who qualified for the team would nearly always be brought into the interview room to answer questions from the media. But journalists didn’t only want to talk to the qualifiers. Like Kelleher, some might want to talk to a swimmer who had just missed qualifying. More often, reporters wanted to talk to swimmers from their local area.

But as Trevor James had pointed out when he had Bobby read his credential, access to the athletes was pretty tightly controlled. The mixed zone was an area at the end of one of the hallways near the locker rooms, where media and athletes were allowed to “mix.” The problem for the journalists was that the swimmers were not required to go there. You could ask for an athlete to come, but they could say no. If Magnuson didn’t feel like talking at that moment, she didn’t have to.

“I’m going to find Mike Unger and ask if he can get one of his people to find out if Magnuson is willing to speak,” Kelleher said. “I’ll catch up to you guys later.”

He picked up his pace to catch Unger. Stevie followed Tamara into the interview room.

The first person he noticed was J. P. Scott, standing in a corner. He had his arms folded and was whispering to someone else in a suit. If he was overjoyed that his client had made the Olympic team, he wasn’t showing it. Curious as always, Stevie told Tamara to save him a seat and made
his way over to Scott—who was clearly not happy to see him.

“Are you coming to eavesdrop on another conversation?” Scott said in a nasty tone.

“Not this time,” Stevie said. “I’m just wondering why you look like Susan Carol finished third. Your client’s going to London.”

Scott’s face twisted into a sneer and he shook his head.

“I thought you were supposed to be smart,” he said. “She
lost
. And she lost to another teenager. I can’t market a loser.”

“A
loser
?” Stevie said, genuinely angry. “She just made the Olympic team at the age of fifteen, and you’re calling her a loser?”

“In a marketing sense, she’s a loser.”

Stevie really and truly hated this guy. “I would think that, in a marketing sense, she was an
Olympian
.

“Maybe you can still sign Wentworth,” Stevie went on. “You might get lucky and find another family to buy into your BS the way Reverend Anderson did.”

“There you go again—not so smart. Have you seen Wentworth’s face? And those shoulders … But it’s not over. We’ve still got the 200 fly. And if she wins in London, everything will be fine.”

“You’ll love her all over again, right?” Stevie said.

“You got it, kid.”

Stevie stared at him for a moment and thought about how satisfying it would be to wipe the arrogant smirk off Scott’s face.

He settled for a parting shot. “Talk about being a loser,” he said.

He turned around and went to find Tamara. Susan Carol had just made the Olympic team. She had never needed her friends more.

T
hree hours later, Susan Carol knocked on Bobby and Tamara’s door. After texting back and forth, she and Stevie had arranged to meet there since anyplace public would be jammed and technically she shouldn’t be fraternizing with the media.

“Remember,” Kelleher said. “It’s all good. No talk of coaches or scumbag agents. At least not until after the 200.”

They had just ordered room service, which fortunately was on call twenty-four hours a day that week. Kelleher had needed longer than usual to write. “Christine Magnuson broke my heart,” he said. “She says she’s retiring. That was her last race. Some columns are tougher than others.…”

He was sitting in a chair next to the round table that served as his desk, with his feet up on another chair. Tamara
was sitting on the bed, and Stevie was on a small couch near the window. When he heard a light tap on the door, Stevie practically fell off the couch as he scrambled to get up and answer the knock.

“Easy, big fella,” Kelleher said with a smile.

Susan Carol came into the room to a hearty round of applause from Bobby and Tamara. She smiled, but just a small one that told Stevie all wasn’t right in her world.

“Do you have the medal with you?” Tamara said.

“Yes, I do,” she said. “I hope you guys like it more than my dad and the Lightning Fast people did.”

Great
, Stevie thought, Scott and company had already convinced her dad that Olympian or not, Susan Carol was a loser.

She had her swim bag over her shoulder, and she put it down on the floor and rummaged through it for a second before pulling out a case and opening it to reveal the medal. It was huge, the size of a coaster, and had the Olympic rings on it. The writing on it said
UNITED STATES OLYMPIC SWIM TRIALS 2012—OMAHA, NEBRASKA
. There was no need for the words
second place
. The silver color of the medal made that clear.