There was more action downstairs than on the track. The covered warmup area, with scores of girls working out in bright-coloured tracksuits, had the purposeful confusion, speeded up, of an air terminal in high season. They had difficulty spotting Goldine. She was on the far side, bent low at her calisthenics and simultaneously listening to a lecture from Klugman. She was in a black warm-up suit, her hair tied in a gold scarf. This wasn’t the moment to approach her, so Dryden applied himself instead to making sure where everything was located: dressing rooms, press room, director’s headquarters, medical room, judges’ and stewards’ check-in. There was also a snack bar. He took Elmer inside for a hamburger and coffee.
When they heard the girls called for the hundred, they went upstairs, picking up a program on the way.
‘Coming up to Heat One of the one-hundred-metre dash,’ called the announcer in his corn-belt twang, ‘and do we have a class field for this race! Debbie Jackson, fastest qualifier in the two hundred, goes again and meets Marlene Da Costa, winner of the two hundred Heat Two, and Goldine Serafin, the Bakersfield blonde, who also made the two hundred Final. Going with them is cute little Delphine Donovan, of the San Diego Mission Belles, at four-eleven a minisprinter, but watch out for her — she’s no slouch. Then we have a clubmate of Marlene’s in the Long Beach Comets, and never far behind her, Judy Winstanley. Lane six will be unoccupied, as Margaret Wales has withdrawn, but oh boy, these girls are going to have you screaming for them, never mind the rain. Do I hear those Long Beach Comets, down from L.A. in force? Two of your girls go in this one, and remember, it’s just the first two in each heat who go through.’
‘Does this crap last the whole afternoon?’ asked Valenti. ‘Can’t we switch him off, or something?’
Serafin ignored him, totally occupied watching Goldengirl testing her blocks on the gleaming track. Klugman had rejoined them and was explaining the strategy. ‘She’s going for second again. We figure Jackson will lead them in, so Goldengirl’s job is to edge Da Costa.’
‘Wouldn’t it be simpler to go for a win?’ Dryden asked.
‘With three finals to come, and Olympic qualifying times to set?’ said Klugman, with a glare. ‘In these conditions? You have to be joking. She needs to conserve her strength. No sense burning it up in the heats.’
‘We defer to Mr. Klugman’s judgment here,’ said Serafin. ‘He has worked things out with Goldengirl.’
‘You’re bothered about the conditions?’ said Cobb. ‘Is the surface slippery?’
‘Maybe we should issue her skates,’ suggested Valenti.
‘It gives a sufficient grip,’ Klugman answered, unamused.
Down in the rain, the whistle blew to bring the girls under starter’s orders. They unzipped their warm-ups and dropped them in the baskets provided at the start. Debbie Jackson, the favorite, a slimly built black girl, was taking her time while the others waited in the rain.
‘That’s the kind of dodge you pick up when you’ve run a few,’ Klugman said pointedly to Serafin. ‘Look at Goldengirl. The first to strip, and she’s that drenched you can see the bra through her shirt. Thank Christ she has the sense to keep on the move. Weather like this finds out muscle weakness sooner than anything.’
‘Coming up to countdown for this red-hot first heat of the one-hundred-metre dash,’ gushed the announcer. ‘We have five girls going, fans. From right, number seventeen, Debbie Jackson, San Jose Cindergals; fifteen, Marlene Da Costa, Long Beach Comets; twenty-four, Goldine Serafin, unattached; sixteen, Delphine Donovan, San Diego Mission Belles; and thirty-two, Judy Winstanley, Comets. Over to you, starter.’
Not till this moment had Goldine’s height in relation to other girls made a strong impression on Dryden. The line-up might have been choreographed for some grotesque modern ballet: five girls — three black, two white — marshaled by two portly women in plastic raincoats. Goldine head and shoulders above everyone in the center. Next to her the smallest girl in the race, on a level with the number on her shirt. It was a definite relief when they got to their marks and sank their disparities in the uniformity of the crouch start.
The gun fired twice. A false start. ‘Not Goldengirl,’ Serafin emphasised.
For a second time they formed their unflattering row. Again, they moved forward to the starting line and got into their blocks. The rain drummed heavily on the roof of the stand.
‘Set.’
As the gun cracked, the first away was the announcer: ‘Good start this time. Jackson smoothly into her stride. Serafin picking up sharp, too. This girl can move! Looks like Jackson, from Serafin. Da Costa out of it. But here comes Winstanley! Watch this, fans.’
