Goldengirl

The shot switched to the interviewer, glancing up from his clipboard. ‘The, er, point that emerges is that in 1980 no athlete seriously pitching for gold medals can remain an amateur in the old-fashioned sense of the word. It just can’t be done on weekends and evenings. You need long periods to train, specialised coaching. And for that you must have financial support, whether it comes in state aid or from private sources. In a free society such as ours it’s up to individual athletes to get what assistance they can. You’d go along with that, Doctor?’

Serafin didn’t look up. He was talking to himself.

The interviewer wrapped it up as fast as he decently could. ‘I’d like to underline that nobody condemns Goldine or her father for being realistic about the financial involvement necessary to Olympic success. We just like to face facts. Well, it’s nearly 6 A.M. here in Moscow, and the city is waking up to what could be a great day for young Goldine Serafin in the Lenin Stadium. We’ve heard from her father. Now let’s look in again on the press conference Goldine gave after her victory in the 100-metre dash on Saturday...’

The schedule for Wednesday, August 20, was a repeat of the final day in Eugene, with the 200-metre Semi-Final, 200-metre Final and 400-metre Final packed into a single afternoon. The world press had crystallised it into a duel between two girls. They were pictured like contestants in a big fight, compared inch for inch, record for record Only the special souvenir edition of Sovietsky Sport mentioned anyone else for honours, making Muratova one of the ‘Big Three’ in the 200 metres, a compliment she justified by equaling her Olympic Record in the first Semi-Final, defeating Krüll by two metres. But it didn’t require a deep knowledge of track to see that the East German was coasting, and had more in reserve for the Final than Muratova.

Goldine was equally undemonstrative in the second Semi-Final, easing into overdrive only in the last twenty metres to make sure of third place, then trotting straight through the competitors’ tunnel and back to the medical unit.

Dryden could have gone down to get a progress report from Dalton and Nagel, but he decided against it. There was no more he could do to guarantee success; it was up to the doctors. Besides, he could not predict what effect his appearance in the room would have on Goldine. He dared not risk provoking an outburst at this stage of the game.

‘Don’t give yourself ulcers over this,’ cautioned Melody. ‘She has it all wrapped up. This isn’t the crunch.’

At 3:50 P.M. the phone rang in the U.S. Team Headquarters. McCorquodale took the call. He didn’t say much, except to mutter ‘I see’ a couple of times. When he put the phone down he was ashen.

‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘That really does it. Goldine’s old man is dead. Killed himself. Jumped out of his hotel window, twelve floors up. Bloody hell, why did he want to do a dumb thing like that?’

Nobody in the room had seen the TV interview. They learned about that from Klugman when they called him in. ‘Didn’t see it myself, but I heard he took a mauling. You going to tell her?’

‘Someone has to,’ said McCorquodale. ‘There’s over an hour to the Finals. She’s going to hear it someway before then. Yeah, she has to be told. We thought maybe...’

Klugman nodded. ‘I figured you would come to that.’

‘We thought she’d take it better from you, being her coach. This is going to shatter the kid. Too bad about those Finals. She’ll be in no state to run after this... will she?’

Klugman shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

‘Say now,’ said McCorquodale after a judicious pause, ‘you might try putting it to Goldine that the old man wouldn’t have wanted her to cop out now. She could go in the Finals as a kind of tribute to his memory.’

‘It’s a thought,’ said Klugman, looking at the ceiling.

He found Goldine limbering up in the covered area. He took her to sit on a bench.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘You know I should keep moving.’

‘Something has come up. Bad news.’

‘I drew inside lane in the two hundred?’

‘No. It’s Doc. He’s dead, Goldine. Killed himself.’

She said nothing.

Tracksuited runners continued to jog around the circuit.

‘They want me to say you should still run,’ said Klugman presently. ‘Don’t let this throw you. He’d want you to run. You’ll be doing it for him.’

She caught her breath sharply, turned and spat hard in Klugman’s face. ‘Punk! I’m doing nothing for him. I don’t give a shit what he would want. Get this straight. I’m running for myself. No one else. Okay, Doc’s dead. So what? I don’t want to know how or why. I’m indifferent. This is my day, okay?’

Klugman took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. ‘You should keep moving, then.’