laughed nicely again. “Well, when you get to be a champion—and I can tell already, honey, you’re gonna be one—they expect you to do things.”
“Who does?”
“The stuffed shirts who run swimming. I call ’em ‘the blazers,’ ’cause they always wear blazers with fancy shields on their pockets. And you have to play ball with them, or there’s hell to pay. Of course, we’re amateurs, we’re just doing this for the love of it, so we don’t get paid, but they still expect you to do things . . . for the good of the sport.”
“Oh.”
“So I happen to be over in Atlantic City for a week. My husband is Art Jarrett. He’s a singer with the Ted Weems orchestra. You know him?”
“The band with the fellow who whistles?” She nodded. That was Ted Weems’ signature: he had a guy who just whistled along with his band. It was a weird specialty, but it worked for Ted Weems, and he milked it to death. That guy could whistle just about anything. “I’ve heard him on the radio, on the Jack Benny Canada Dry Program.”
“Well, my husband’s not the whistler, but he’s the vocalist in Ted’s band, and so you’ve probably heard him. He’s a swell singer.” Actually, Teddy, it was just the whistler I remembered, not any singer, but I certainly didn’t clarify that. However, the lady was delighted that she thought I remembered her husband, the vocalist. “We’re playing at the Claridge Hotel for a week. I sing a little myself, too. So when the blazers asked me to come over here and hand out ribbons, I agreed to do it.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Yeah, you gotta stay on the good side of the blazers.”
“I’ll remember that, Mrs.—”
“Mrs. Jarrett. But I’m just Eleanor, okay? Because if you get a little bit better, you’re gonna be swimmin’ against me before too long.”
“Really? You think so?”
“Honey, you’re that good. And you’d be even faster if you’d wear a bathing cap.”
“Oh, I know. I was so rushed when I got here I completely forgot about it and left it in the locker room.”
“Well, don’t do that again. That hair of your’s probably cost you another half-second, maybe more. Course, it didn’t make any difference against these gals, but when you start swimming nationals, that’s the difference between winning and losing.”
“I won’t forget again. I promise.”
“Okay, honey.” She started to step away, and then she turned back. “Now, I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”
“Trixie Stringfellow.”
She pondered that. I thought she was confused about my last name, because Stringfellow is an unusual name. You can just imagine some of the variations the wiseacres in school made up, including some off-color versions. But Stringfellow wasn’t the issue. Instead, she said: “That . . . Trixie. Is that your real moniker?”
“My what?”
“Your moniker? Your real name?”
“Oh no, my real name is Sydney. I’m just called Trixie. When I—” I was going to explain about how my late father gave me the name, but she interrupted.
“Sydney? Where I come from that’s a boy’s name.”
“Well, not where I come from. And it’s spelled with a y which is different from the boy Sidney.”
Eleanor considered that for a moment, and then she said, “Well, a little piece of advice. Ditch the Trixie.”
“What?”
“Honey, if you’re gonna be a champion, if you’re gonna swim in the Olympics, you don’t wanna be Trixie. Names like Toots, Babe, Chickie . . . Trixie. No offense, but you don’t want names like that when you’re standing up there and they’re playing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ for you. You want a grown-up name. Not something some cheap dame gets called.”
“I never thought of that.”
“Yeah, well, if I were you, even if most people think it’s a boy’s name, from now on, I’d be Sydney.”
And you know what, Teddy? I was, from that moment on.
Well, Michael Phelps did indeed win again that night, and so Mom asked me to
“Who does?”
“The stuffed shirts who run swimming. I call ’em ‘the blazers,’ ’cause they always wear blazers with fancy shields on their pockets. And you have to play ball with them, or there’s hell to pay. Of course, we’re amateurs, we’re just doing this for the love of it, so we don’t get paid, but they still expect you to do things . . . for the good of the sport.”
“Oh.”
“So I happen to be over in Atlantic City for a week. My husband is Art Jarrett. He’s a singer with the Ted Weems orchestra. You know him?”
“The band with the fellow who whistles?” She nodded. That was Ted Weems’ signature: he had a guy who just whistled along with his band. It was a weird specialty, but it worked for Ted Weems, and he milked it to death. That guy could whistle just about anything. “I’ve heard him on the radio, on the Jack Benny Canada Dry Program.”
“Well, my husband’s not the whistler, but he’s the vocalist in Ted’s band, and so you’ve probably heard him. He’s a swell singer.” Actually, Teddy, it was just the whistler I remembered, not any singer, but I certainly didn’t clarify that. However, the lady was delighted that she thought I remembered her husband, the vocalist. “We’re playing at the Claridge Hotel for a week. I sing a little myself, too. So when the blazers asked me to come over here and hand out ribbons, I agreed to do it.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Yeah, you gotta stay on the good side of the blazers.”
“I’ll remember that, Mrs.—”
“Mrs. Jarrett. But I’m just Eleanor, okay? Because if you get a little bit better, you’re gonna be swimmin’ against me before too long.”
“Really? You think so?”
“Honey, you’re that good. And you’d be even faster if you’d wear a bathing cap.”
“Oh, I know. I was so rushed when I got here I completely forgot about it and left it in the locker room.”
“Well, don’t do that again. That hair of your’s probably cost you another half-second, maybe more. Course, it didn’t make any difference against these gals, but when you start swimming nationals, that’s the difference between winning and losing.”
“I won’t forget again. I promise.”
“Okay, honey.” She started to step away, and then she turned back. “Now, I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”
“Trixie Stringfellow.”
She pondered that. I thought she was confused about my last name, because Stringfellow is an unusual name. You can just imagine some of the variations the wiseacres in school made up, including some off-color versions. But Stringfellow wasn’t the issue. Instead, she said: “That . . . Trixie. Is that your real moniker?”
“My what?”
“Your moniker? Your real name?”
“Oh no, my real name is Sydney. I’m just called Trixie. When I—” I was going to explain about how my late father gave me the name, but she interrupted.
“Sydney? Where I come from that’s a boy’s name.”
“Well, not where I come from. And it’s spelled with a y which is different from the boy Sidney.”
Eleanor considered that for a moment, and then she said, “Well, a little piece of advice. Ditch the Trixie.”
“What?”
“Honey, if you’re gonna be a champion, if you’re gonna swim in the Olympics, you don’t wanna be Trixie. Names like Toots, Babe, Chickie . . . Trixie. No offense, but you don’t want names like that when you’re standing up there and they’re playing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ for you. You want a grown-up name. Not something some cheap dame gets called.”
“I never thought of that.”
“Yeah, well, if I were you, even if most people think it’s a boy’s name, from now on, I’d be Sydney.”
And you know what, Teddy? I was, from that moment on.
Well, Michael Phelps did indeed win again that night, and so Mom asked me to
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