committed me all the more. All the rest of the fall and the winter, all I thought about was those Eastern Interscholastics.
Mr. Foster took care of all the registration work. I believe he used the college lines to call long distance, because he had to make several calls before they allowed me to swim in the Eastern Interscholastics, and it would’ve cost him a pretty penny otherwise. You had to go through an operator for long distance then. It was terribly expensive. Just to get a long-distance call was an exciting thing. Now, I know Mr. Foster was an honest man, but let’s just say he cut a corner here when it came to getting me into the Eastern Interscholastics. It was all for a good cause, though.
It seemed like all the other swimmers were from private schools, the ones with indoor pools. Also, it was mostly boys. There were only three events for girls: the hundred-yard freestyle, the breaststroke and the backstroke. The boys, now, they even had relays.
At first they weren’t even going to let me in because I didn’t have any record to substantiate myself, except for that one meet down in Easton, and nobody had kept the times or anything there. It wasn’t sanctioned. That’s a big word for people who run these things. Sanctioned. Because they do the sanctioning. It did help that Mr. Foster was calling from a college. That gave him some authenticity, and he laid it on a little thick by saying that I was preparing for Washington College myself, which was ridiculous, because they didn’t even have a swimming team—not even for boys. But who knew that up in Philadelphia? It was a harmless enough fib. As I said, Teddy, all for the greater good.
The hardest part was getting the meet director to believe what Mr. Foster told him about my times that he’d clocked. They were too good. The meet director said, “If that time is right, she could be in the nationals.” To make sure there’d been no mistake Mr. Foster timed me again that afternoon, and I’d actually improved some, so he reported that I had even faster times. So, the Eastern Interscholastics agreed to let in Trixie Stringfellow from Chestertown High School to compete against all the swells.
The Interscholastics were held at the Penn Athletic Club pool, which was right on Rittenhouse Square, a very fancy address in Philadelphia. They gave Mr. Foster the schedule, which had the girls backstroke going off at two o’clock, so we knew we had plenty of time to drive up. Still, we left at the crack o’ dawn to be sure. We went in Mother’s car, the maroon Ford we’d gotten from the insurance to replace the car that Daddy was killed in. Carter’d been dying to watch me race, but I let her come along only if she promised—cross her heart and hope to die—not to tell another soul about it. Frankly, Teddy, I was scared to death.
Now, we got there in plenty of time, hardly past noon, but wouldn’t you know it, they’d screwed up when they told Mr. Foster that the girls backstroke would be at two o’clock. Instead, it was the breaststroke at two. The backstroke was going at twelve-thirty. And here I was still in my street clothes, and I had to pee terribly, and this man, who was the meet director, came running over and said, “Are you the girl from the Eastern Shore? Where have you been?” And so forth and so on, wailing like a banshee.
Well, Mr. Foster explained about the time confusion, but, of course, the meet director wouldn’t believe that he was the one who’d made the mistake, so he didn’t have any sympathy at all, and he just told me to go to the locker room and get into my suit if I wanted to swim. Teddy, by the time I got back to the pool there couldn’t’ve been but about two minutes before my race. All the other girls were standing there, cool as cucumbers, and here I was completely frazzled.
“I hope at least you’d peed.”
Thank you very much for that line of inquiry, but, yes, I did have time to take care of that, and, you know,
Mr. Foster took care of all the registration work. I believe he used the college lines to call long distance, because he had to make several calls before they allowed me to swim in the Eastern Interscholastics, and it would’ve cost him a pretty penny otherwise. You had to go through an operator for long distance then. It was terribly expensive. Just to get a long-distance call was an exciting thing. Now, I know Mr. Foster was an honest man, but let’s just say he cut a corner here when it came to getting me into the Eastern Interscholastics. It was all for a good cause, though.
It seemed like all the other swimmers were from private schools, the ones with indoor pools. Also, it was mostly boys. There were only three events for girls: the hundred-yard freestyle, the breaststroke and the backstroke. The boys, now, they even had relays.
At first they weren’t even going to let me in because I didn’t have any record to substantiate myself, except for that one meet down in Easton, and nobody had kept the times or anything there. It wasn’t sanctioned. That’s a big word for people who run these things. Sanctioned. Because they do the sanctioning. It did help that Mr. Foster was calling from a college. That gave him some authenticity, and he laid it on a little thick by saying that I was preparing for Washington College myself, which was ridiculous, because they didn’t even have a swimming team—not even for boys. But who knew that up in Philadelphia? It was a harmless enough fib. As I said, Teddy, all for the greater good.
The hardest part was getting the meet director to believe what Mr. Foster told him about my times that he’d clocked. They were too good. The meet director said, “If that time is right, she could be in the nationals.” To make sure there’d been no mistake Mr. Foster timed me again that afternoon, and I’d actually improved some, so he reported that I had even faster times. So, the Eastern Interscholastics agreed to let in Trixie Stringfellow from Chestertown High School to compete against all the swells.
The Interscholastics were held at the Penn Athletic Club pool, which was right on Rittenhouse Square, a very fancy address in Philadelphia. They gave Mr. Foster the schedule, which had the girls backstroke going off at two o’clock, so we knew we had plenty of time to drive up. Still, we left at the crack o’ dawn to be sure. We went in Mother’s car, the maroon Ford we’d gotten from the insurance to replace the car that Daddy was killed in. Carter’d been dying to watch me race, but I let her come along only if she promised—cross her heart and hope to die—not to tell another soul about it. Frankly, Teddy, I was scared to death.
Now, we got there in plenty of time, hardly past noon, but wouldn’t you know it, they’d screwed up when they told Mr. Foster that the girls backstroke would be at two o’clock. Instead, it was the breaststroke at two. The backstroke was going at twelve-thirty. And here I was still in my street clothes, and I had to pee terribly, and this man, who was the meet director, came running over and said, “Are you the girl from the Eastern Shore? Where have you been?” And so forth and so on, wailing like a banshee.
Well, Mr. Foster explained about the time confusion, but, of course, the meet director wouldn’t believe that he was the one who’d made the mistake, so he didn’t have any sympathy at all, and he just told me to go to the locker room and get into my suit if I wanted to swim. Teddy, by the time I got back to the pool there couldn’t’ve been but about two minutes before my race. All the other girls were standing there, cool as cucumbers, and here I was completely frazzled.
“I hope at least you’d peed.”
Thank you very much for that line of inquiry, but, yes, I did have time to take care of that, and, you know,
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