Our founding member, the visionary Baron Pierre de Coubertin, has always believed that the primary measure of a woman is the number and quality of offspring she produces, not the number of athletic records she achieves. A woman is best suited to encourage her sons to excel rather than focus on her own ambitions. It has become fashionable for women to claim attention in physical and mental endeavors outside of the domestic sphere, but the IOC supports the timeless ideal of maintaining traditional roles for women as wives and mothers and does not bother itself with fads.
We urge you to look ahead and focus on the most important feminine job: shaping the young minds and bodies of the next generation. Best of luck.
Cordially,
Johann Clieg
Undersecretary, Public Affairs of the IOC
FROM THE DESK OF THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF OF THE CHICAGO EVENING STANDARD
January 12, 1929
Dear Miss Robinson,
Thank you for writing to us to share your frustration that women may be banned from future Olympic competition. We appreciate your proposed editorial on the subject of encouraging women’s participation in sports, but after discussing it with our editorial team, we concluded a “Day in the Life” piece with a focus on your fashion choices would be far more popular with both our readers and sponsors. In fact, one of our leading cosmetic advertisers would be willing to name a shade of lipstick in your honor if you are interested in developing some compelling business opportunities that capitalize on your recent accomplishments.
We must handle the topic of lady athletes delicately with our subscribers and sponsors. During last summer’s Olympic coverage, we received many complaints about photos that showed lady athletes appearing overtaxed and unattractive. According to one of our readers, “There are few things more depressing than opening the evening paper after a long day at work only to find a photo of a tired girl dragging herself across a finish line.” It’s fortunate that you smiled happily as you won your race so that we could publish the photo of your victory!
I’ve included the business card for Betsy Miller, our senior fashion and lifestyle editor. She will be following up with you to schedule an interview and discuss possibilities for us to work together that I believe fitting for an attractive and talented young woman like yourself.
Respectfully,
John Lynch
Editor-in-Chief
The Chicago Evening Standard
10.
October 1929
Malden, Massachusetts
CHICKEN STEW, FRIED SQUASH, GREENS, AND SOUTHERN spoon bread. Louise’s great-aunt Vera could always be counted on to cook a meal that left them all near-catatonic, but still, even after too many courses to count, no one could resist her aunt Lucy’s desserts. Louise slid a slice of apple pie onto her plate and took a seat on the steps to watch Junior, Julia, Agnes, and her cousins play baseball in her great-aunt’s backyard. She bit into a forkful of Macintosh apples, cinnamon, and sugar and let out a low moan as its buttery sweetness hit her tongue. Shadows stretched across the golden light of the yard, and the sounds of her mama and aunts gossiping provided a steady hum under the shouts of the younger children as they played. A feeling of contentment spread through her.
“Pretty good stuff, huh?” Uncle Freddie said, dropping to sit beside her and nodding at the pie before sitting back to watch the kids play. “Junior’s been bragging about his pitching for a while, but now I see he’s not full of hot air. The boy’s got a fine arm.”
“He’s still full of hot air, though,” Louise said.
“I suppose that’s probably true.” Uncle Freddie laughed and they continued to watch the game in companionable silence. Eventually twilight descended and it became harder and harder to see the boys in the “outfield,” but no one stopped playing, even as the whiteness of the ball dimmed in the backyard’s violet-hued low light. The fall days had been unusually warm, but as soon as the sun set, a sharp coolness pierced the evening air. Already the leaves on the trees were brightening into vibrant shades of gold and crimson.
“You gonna lick that plate clean?” Uncle Freddie asked as Louise scraped her fork over the plate to get the last bit of apple chunks.
“I might.”
“Reckon you earned it. Your mama was saying you ran a good race yesterday.”
Louise took a final bite of the pie and placed her plate on the ground. “I sure tried.”
“That kind of effort counts for a lot,” said Uncle Freddie, nodding. Julia, who was playing third base, missed a wild throw from Junior. The ball rolled across the grass toward where they sat on the porch steps.
Julia trotted after it, snorting as she scooped up the ball. “Junior, you really think you’re going to play for the Tigers someday? That was a crazy throw.”
“Take that back!” he shrieked.
“Oh yeah? You take that,” Julia said as she wound her arm and threw the ball back straight at him, before sticking her tongue out to make the insult complete.
The ball smacked into his glove and he glared at it for a second before howling and turning to hurl the ball into the outfield.
“Junior, what’s your problem?”
“Why’d you go doing that?”
Disgruntled voices rose from the far edges of the yard, and Junior stormed from the game.
Uncle Freddie shook his head. “Junior? Come on back here and pull yourself together,” he called, but a moment later, the back door slammed and Junior’s wail rose from inside the house. Uncle Freddie chuckled. “Julia, you’ll be the one playing in Playstead Park if you keep throwing like that.”
Louise could see the whiteness of Julia’s teeth as she grinned, and then her younger sister turned and wandered into the outfield in search of the baseball.
“You looking forward to moving to California?” Louise asked.
“It’ll be a good adventure. I’m going to miss being close to all of you, but I’m restless. I figure it’s time to try something new, find new work. I’ve stayed in touch with one of my friends from the army, and he finished his engineering degree when he returned home to Chicago. Now he’s in flight school in Los Angeles and believes there are opportunities for more coloreds in aviation. Says he can get me some work.”
“You going to be the next Lindbergh?”
“No, but my friend writes about promising opportunities. I’m ready to take my chances and join him.”
Big, bold headlines in Friday’s newspaper had reported a crash in the stock market, and despite President Hoover’s assurances, people were jittery. Uncle Freddie’s plans for California had been in the works for over a month, but a new urgency seemed to underlie all his talk of the future.
“California sounds grand. All that sunshine.”
“I won’t miss our winters, that’s for sure.” He paused and lifted a fallen elm leaf from the step of the porch and studied the swirl of vivid colors bleeding along its surface. “I’ll miss fall, though. Not much can beat the beauty of these colors.”
“It’s not going to be the same around here with you gone,” said Louise. As the bachelor of the family, Uncle Freddie could be counted on to pay attention to his nieces and nephews. He’d help with geometry homework, debate the merits of chewing Chiclets versus Juicy Fruit gum, and provide exercises to strengthen pitching arms—these were the important things the kids could entrust to Uncle Freddie.