Fly On, Granddaughter!

Rosemarie Blatter spent her long days working for a budding pharmaceutical company, which was in the final stages of getting its narcolepsy medication approved by the FDA. Her job was to enter investigators' data provided to her by the CRA's into a database. The drug study had gone on for over five years, with Rosemarie having gotten hired as a nascent Research Assistant close to the end of the drug study. At first, she had worked alongside a more experienced RA, but then that person was promoted to a CRA position. This left Rosemarie in the enviable position of sole data entry person, and she took to the position with relish.

Rosemarie also loved the summer Olympics, and in middle school took a liking to the javelin event.

Rosemarie was glued to her TV for the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. She was an emotional child, and she cried as Jim McKay described the excitement as Rafer Johnson climbed up the final steps to the Olympic rings. His fire looped around the rings and united into the cauldron on top of Johnson's perch.

Like Johnson, Rosemarie too was African American. The opening ceremony that evening from her home in Plainfield, N J was only the beginning, with the javelin event nearly two weeks away, but she watched as much of the Olympics as she could. Finally, close to the end, she witnessed Arto Härkönen clinch the gold medal in the javelin event.

Rosemarie compared herself to Härkönen. Could she also compete in the javelin event in a future Olympics? She consulted the World Almanac and learned that women could indeed compete! Transfixed by the stellar news, she got to work throwing a broomstick, and later tried a rusty iron ice breaker in her grandfather's backyard. She was able to build up her strength and accuracy, knowing that she was basically throwing a long, needle-like missile in a direct comparison to ancient hunting techniques. 

Her grandfather bought cheap stuffed animals and put them in their backyard at 30-, 40-, 50- and 60-meter intervals and gave Rosemarie an extra $5 for each "rabbit" she bagged with her improvised javelin.

"Härkönen doesn't have anything on you, girl!" said her grandfather. "Don't let anything stop you! Get in those Olympics!" He was able to get Rosemarie into the Penn Relays by the time she was a junior at Plainfield High School, and she did well, throwing her javelin to exactly 50 meters in 1989 and then tacking on another two meters in 1990, placing third in both events. It seemed Rosemarie was unstoppable and could have easily entered the coveted Olympics in Barcelona in 1992, but she was beginning to develop a sharp pain in her left wrist.

Rosemarie started noticing that her wrist also hurt at her job as an RA, and things had really tightened up there because their star drug’s impending approval, and she was busier than ever. Her grandfather told her to take some ibuprofen, and it helped, but only when she wasn't working or training. Soon the pain was so bad that she could barely type or throw her javelin, and her distance had suffered as well.

"What am I going to do, grandfather?", she said one frigid night. "I can't keep icing this wrist and taking ibuprofen. I read that it's really bad for my liver!" And she cried over the phone to her grandfather.

He was quiet for a moment. "How badly do you want to get into the Olympics", he asked her.

"More than anything in my life, grandfather!" she stated flatly. There was no denying the finality in her voice.

"Then we have to figure something out. What if we switch hands?" her grandfather asked.

"I don't know. I can't even write with my right hand!" said Rosemarie.

"We'll have to try it. Go get a piece of paper and a pencil. Don't use a pen, just in case you make mistakes. Just make circles, and then try triangles, squares and rectangles. Then just switch to letters and numbers. Get to work, Rosemarie! Don't stop until you get all the letters of the alphabet! Fly on, Granddaughter! Don't forget the toy rabbits you hunted in the backyard! Just think of the placements you got at the Relays! Just keep going! You'll do fine!" said her grandfather.

Rosemarie sat there for a few seconds, letting her grandfather’s words sink deeply into her. She thought back to the flames of Rafer Johnson’s torch flowing and leaping around the Olympic rings and how her tears flowed. She couldn’t remember if her grandpa was in the room with her or not; it was so long ago now. But the same tears, as if held back by an ancient dam, flowed back now. She let out an articulate sob.

Rosemarie’s grandfather sat quietly. “Please get to work, Granddaughter. Call me when you finish the alphabet with your right hand. I don’t care how late it is”, he said. She stayed up until two the next morning, but she didn’t call him. Rosemarie dropped off into a deep sleep, and then she got up again at ten the next morning, which was extremely late for her. She ran over to her grandfather’s house and showed him her previous night’s work. She had kept at it for five hours, and completed the alphabet, numbers and even a few lines from the end of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, her and her grandfather’s favorite Shakespearian work. “And it was all with my right hand, Grandfather!” said Rosemarie.

“’Awesome! Now it’s on to those pesky rabbits!” her grandfather said. “Let’s see if you can get to 35 meters right out of the gate, Rosemarie.” 

Rosemarie picked up her javelin. It had lain on the ground the night before and it was freezing. It felt so weird in her right hand, but her left wrist was in a brace, and it hurt whenever she tried to flex it.

“Don’t worry about that hand,” her grandfather said. “Just throw. Don’t try to wind up. Just chuck it into the air.” 

Rosemarie tried a throw, and the javelin went up a few meters and arrowed straight into the frozen ground and then fell over. Disappointed, she retrieved it and returned to her original position next to her grandfather. He just smiled at her. She tried again, and retrieved it again, and then repeated the action a dozen times. Then it was a score of times, and then fifty, and Rosemarie started feeling more confident.

“All we can do is practice, my dear. Let’s try again tomorrow; I’m not feeling too well today,” said her grandfather. But Rosemarie wanted to continue, emboldened by the chilly air and anemic sunshine of that midwinter Saturday afternoon.

“Please come sit with me. Let’s watch a movie together this afternoon,” said Rosemarie’s grandfather.  

As the winter melted into spring, Rosemarie kept working at getting her throws into the 40-meter range. She knew she had to get well into the 50-meter range just to qualify for Team USA. She was amazed that her right wrist had gotten so strong, as well as her throwing muscles. She found she had to produce a mirror image of her stance and her initial run. Her grandfather told her it was like driving in his native Jamaica, and that he always had to remember to keep right in New Jersey. By the beginning of April, the narcolepsy drug had been approved, and Rosemarie left that job to focus solely on the javelin and on getting into the summer Olympics. It would be expensive, but she had saved up almost $10,000 for her entry into the event. Her grandfather gladly matched the amount, and she had enough to participate in Barcelona.

But Rosemarie’s grandfather had taken a deep turn by April, and he seemed like he had aged ten years in a few weeks. It was pancreatic cancer, the same disease that had claimed his own father, and at about the same age as he was now.

“Granddaughter, I don’t know how much time I have left. Are you still practicing?”

“Oh, yes Grandpa, I am working very hard! My right wrist is just as strong as my dominant hand now. It’s like I’ve totally switched over!” 

“That’s good, my dear. I signed you up for the qualification event in Atlanta in two weeks! You’ll have to take the bus; I couldn’t get a plane ticket,” he said.

“That’s OK, Grandfather. You’ve done so much for me!” And Rosemarie reached her arms gingerly around him in his bed and hugged him ever so gently. Then she kissed his cheek, tasting the sheen of sweat from sickness and months of effort.

“What kind of strategy will you have in Atlanta, Granddaughter?”, he asked her weakly.

Rosemarie thought for a second, and then for another. She looked searchingly into her grandfather’s eyes. For once, she didn’t have an answer. Both of them just stared at each other, not really knowing what to say. A painful introversion seemed to have permeated their relationship, chasing each of them into dark corners and fearful thoughts.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ve taught you everything I could have. It's just that when I was a little boy, we played soccer in Jamaica. We played in our bare feet out in the hot sun. We played for hours! We skipped school sometimes!” And then Rosemarie’s grandfather uttered his deep, rolling laughter, which he seemed to reserve for special moments when his memory became active, and he closed his deep-set eyes.

“No, no kiddo. I’m just kidding. We didn’t skip school. The schoolmasters would have killed us with their blackthorn sticks!” he said.

“So, what’s the lesson, Grandfather?” said Rosemarie.

“Oh, nothing. It’s just a funny story, I guess. Maybe you’ll think of me in better times.” And he smiled broadly at his granddaughter.

In a week Rosemarie was in Atlanta without her grandfather, but she quickly befriended her counterpart, a girl from California, seeking the same spot-on Team USA. On the second day of the competition, Rosemarie threw a 62.2-meter strike, while Shayla, her competitor, got a 58.3-meter throw. There was to be a second round, but the competitor forfeited, and Rosemarie won. She and Shayla embraced and parted ways, promising to keep in touch. Shayla also would go on to Barcelona, but as a spectator, and she would be going to support Rosemarie.

It was all Rosemarie could do to get back to Plainfield in a nearly twenty-four-hour ride. But the worst of her fears were realized when she went straight to the hospital. Her grandfather had passed away in his sleep. He was 71 years old. Rosemarie kept things together as best she could. She called Shayla, and they cried on the phone together. Rosemarie had gotten to tell Shayla all about her grandfather and about the toy rabbits, but not about switching hands. Rosemarie decided to keep that a secret until the competition in Barcelona.

Shayla and Rosemarie flew to the Olympics together a week into the competition, because the women’s javelin event was one day before the closing ceremony. Rosemarie was nervous, and also chagrined that she could not practice until a day before her event. It turned out that there were twelve women, including two from Finland and one from Sweden in the event.

“I hope I place at least third in the event,” Rosemarie told Shayla. She smiled at her new friend. “You beat my butt!” said Shayla. “You’ll do great! But I’m curious. How did you get interested in the Olympics anyway?” Then Rosemarie related her story about seeing the Los Angeles Olympics and crying at the opening ceremony.

“I don’t think I could ever get emotional about anything like that”, said Shayla. “I was the youngest of five children, and all of them were brothers. It was a rough-and-tumble household, let me tell you. I just had to be tough. And my father was an anesthesiologist, so it was all about success. No losers in that damn house!”

“Oh, Shayla, you sound so angry,” said Rosemarie. “I’m sure you had some fun times with everyone.” 

Shayla stared at the seatback in front of her, her gaze averted to the cup of icy coffee in a styrofoam cup. She was quiet for the rest of the trip. Rosemarie left her to her thoughts.

Hours later, in Barcelona, the women quickly found transportation to the Olympic village. The predawn hours didn’t allow for much sightseeing, but they got to their room quickly. After a meal, both of them zonked out for a few hours before Rosemarie had to get to practice. The next day, Shayla was still taciturn, but she hugged Rosemarie before she left; Shayla had to stay in the room because she lacked tickets to any of the events, except to the next day’s women’s javelin event.

Rosemarie got on the transport to the main field, and it was then she got a look at her competition. Nobody smiled, but about half of them had someone attending them. It turned out that mostly the attendants were family members; only one had a coach. Rosemarie thought about the fact that the Olympics truly was an amateur event! Rosemarie found her javelin, and she hefted its 600 gram mass into her left hand, just to see if her wrist had improved from carpal tunnel pain. She walked a few meters with it in her dominant hand, but immediately switched to her right hand after the first tendrils of pain returned. Nobody saw her wince.

Rosemarie had an hour to practice, and she watched the other women throw as well. Shayla arrived a half hour into the practice, and the after the field had closed and the male javelin athletes arrived, Rosemarie and Shayla walked around the track together and talked.

On the next to last day of the 1992 summer Olympics, Rosemarie’s best throw was a 59.8-meter zinger. However, it wasn’t enough for her to earn a bronze medal, but she had placed sixth. It was a mere hour after it had started, and by 11 am her event was over. The stands were totally full for the men’s events to immediately follow, and the day had turned completely cloudless and hot; it had turned into a furnace by late afternoon. Rosemarie and Shayla retired to their room and watched the rest of the Olympics on the group TV in the lobby with other athletes.

“How’s your left wrist, Rosemarie?” asked Shayla.

“It’s better, I guess. I think my javelin days are behind me. I’ve got to get a job!” said Rosemarie. Shayla laughed, her blue eyes twinkling in the overhead lights of the lobby. The two decided to fly back the next morning, hours before the closing ceremony. Shayla would have been unable to participate, and all the stadium’s seats had been taken. They hadn’t even been in Barcelona long enough to recover from jetlag. Fortunately, they both slept well on the flight back to New Jersey. There were reporters stationed at Newark Airport upon their arrival, but nobody came and talked to them. It was as if Rosemarie had already been forgotten.

Shayla and Rosemarie hugged a long time, and then they went together to Shayla’s terminal for her flight back west. It was while they were waiting that they hatched a plan to move in together in California, where Rosemarie could get a job and begin college with the money her grandfather had left her.

“I’ll get out to you as soon as I close up shop around here,” said Rosemarie. The women hugged again, and Shayla walked up the jetway to board her flight and was swallowed up from Rosemarie’s view.

Alone again, Rosemarie took a taxi back to Plainfield, using the last of her money. She went straight to her grandfather’s cemetery plot and looked down at his meager headstone. It simply read: “George Tyler” and then his years: “1921-1992” 

“Thank you, Grandfather. You always told me to fly on. Thank you for the toy rabbits!” Then Rosemarie turned away and headed into her future.