Chapter Text
“This is it, boys! It’s go time. This one’s do or die.”
“It’s just another race, fellas. Let’s not be dramatic.”
“I dunno, this feels like the perfect day for some drama.”
“Don, you still with us? Time to get up.”
“Yeah...I’m here.”
“Wow, the Clipper looks shiny!”
“That’s me and George, folks. Only the slickest hulls for you.”
“Aw, darlin, you shouldn’t have.”
“Ok, places. Ready...lift.”
“Holy cow, look at all the cameras.”
“It’s the whole damn world watching, boys. Smile pretty.”
“Yes, Coach.”
At the dock, they ran through the plan one last time. Right before they pushed off, Ulbrickson told them, with an unusual hitch in his voice, that he was proud of them. Then he leaned down and whispered something in Bobby’s ear, out of reach of the camera mics. As they began paddling gently away, heading down the lake toward the start, Shorty asked, “What did he say to you?”
Their cox’s blue eyes flashed.
“He told me, and I quote: ‘Remind those knuckleheads not to sink the boat.’”
***
Later that evening, after their post-race showers, Bobby delivered his sweaty shorts to Chuck as per the rules of the bet. He threw in his wet socks for good measure.
***
New York City
September 1, 1936.
Dear Bobby,
I’m getting on the train tomorrow for Seattle. Didn’t catch any more colds thank God. Hope this letter gets to you while you’re still in Switzerland...maybe your relatives can forward it. I never wrote to you before and it makes me kind of nervous to do it but when I said so to Joe (he’s on the same train back and we’re splitting a hotel room here) he got a funny look on his face and said he was sure you’d be OK with it. He’s always been level with me and I trust him—he’s been kinder to me this whole trip than anybody except you and I know he wouldn’t steer me wrong. (He saved my bacon again a couple days ago after the big fancy parade they threw us. A news guy stuck a mic in my face and said, “Here’s one of the star athletes now, state your name and hometown for our audience, young man,” -and Bobby, I swear, my mind went -blank- and I looked around for the nearest manhole to jump into. Then Joe grabbed the mic and said, “Me, sir? I’m Joe Rantz, from Sequim, and this is DON HUME…” and then he coughed and looked at me and I mumbled “Olympia” and the news guy blathered on like nothing had happened. Then Joe dragged me out of there and bought us some ice cream even though I’m pretty sure his money is running pretty low by now. I’m going to pay him back once I get home and find a job.)
...Anyhow...I’m not sure why a fellow as cute and sparky as you would want to be close with a quiet schlub like me (I’m joking! We both know I’m quiet though), but I really liked you keeping me company especially when I was sick. That night in Berlin when we went to the stadium was fun too. You said some really sweet things to me on the taxi ride back—I think you were pretty soused from the champagne but I didn’t mind. Made me think back to a story I once heard in Sunday School as a kid. David and Jonathan. Story said they were 'one in spirit,' I thought that meant they were more than friends if you get my drift but it kind of never says so out loud. Wish it did. I liked the story a lot (except for later on where David murders his chief general or somebody to hide having slept with the guy’s wife so he can marry her. Please don’t read that part...)
My hands are shaking so hard I can hardly write now. If you’re upset about what I said, burn this letter. I promise I’ll never bring it up unless you say so. Maybe burn it anyway just to be safe.
I hope Switzerland is the bee’s knees. I know you like to climb. Collect some rock specimens for me to examine when you get back. My geology class is hiking Rainier next term. I’ll try to pull some strings so you can tag along. Or maybe we can hike somewhere just by ourselves. Or both. You know, Cole Porter really wrote some good lyrics. You’re the top, you’re a Berlin ballad... OK I’ve said enough. See you in October.
Yours,
Don
[Text on the back of a postcard depicting the Italian coastline]
September 22, 1936.
Hi Don,
I’m in Naples. Visiting Pompeii tomorrow. Wish I had your geological brain with me. I got your letter and I’m keeping it. You deserved everything I said and did in Berlin and more. Don’t worry about the King David thing—you play piano not harp. Talk more when I get back.
Love,
Bobby