Modern-day McCarren Park, where hurdler Constance Darnowski trained for the 1952 Helsinki Olympics. Photo by Noah Zimmerman.
GEOFFREY COBB
Author, “Greenpoint Brooklyn’s Forgotten Past”
gcobb91839@Aol.com
Fager Field, Harrisburg Pennsylvania, July 4, 1952.
Seventeen-year-old Connie Darnowski sat alone on the hard wooden bleachers at Fager Field, staring silently at the eight hurdles that would decide her future. Five years of training had led to this day. Every sprint, every practice, every hurdle she had ever cleared had led her here. The stakes were high: win this race and represent the United States at the Olympic Games in Helsinki. Lose, and the dream she had chased since childhood would die.
The five-foot-four-inch Polish American raven-haired hurdler began to think about her path to the American Olympic Finals. Her mind drifted back five years to the afternoon when, as a twelve-year-old, she attended her first track meet. She probably would never even have started running if she had not lived close to the track in McCarren Park. She could still picture that day with remarkable clarity. Her brother Vinnie, a powerfully built shot putter, was competing in a Police Athletic League track meet and she had come out to cheer him. She was astonished to see girls competing in sprint races. It was the first time in her life she had seen girls taking part in organized athletics, and it thrilled her. She was astonished to see girls competing in sprint races, which thrilled her.
Though the girls were older than she was, Connie was the fastest girl at Saint Stanislaw Kostka school, and she believed she could outrun these older, more mature girls.
Connie returned home and asked her parents if she could run in the meet the following year. She knew that other Polish American fathers were protective and would not let their daughters participate in something so unladylike, but thankfully her dad was different. He had played soccer in the American Army during World War I and was also a strong basketball player who loved sports. He told her that she could certainly run against the other girls and told her that her uncle had been the sprint champ of Saint Cecilia’s grammar school, so sprinting ran in her bloodline.
A year later, twelve-year-old Connie easily beat these older girls in the 100-yard dash. She remembered the excitement of running as fast as she could and the joy she felt as she broke the tape, winning the first race on a track she had ever run. There was something magical and addictive about running faster than the other girls and seeing the envy in their eyes. Tens of thousands of girls her age had similar dreams of running, but their dreams remained unrealized. In 1948 there were almost no organized opportunities for girls who wanted to become track athletes. Long before Title IX, many schools offered no teams at all.
She looked down at the lose-fitting blouse she wore, and the words written on it, German American Athletic Club. Connie realized she was extremely lucky that the German American club trained in McCarren Park. One of the girls she had defeated in that first race, Loretta Blaul, belonged to the German American Athletic Club. She told Connie that her father coached the team and urged her to join.
Without Coach Blaul, she wouldn’t be sitting in these bleachers today. He taught his hurdlers to skim over each hurdle so closely that, as he liked to say, they should be able to knock a coin from the top without losing speed.
The star of the German American club was Nancy Phillips, who would become Connie’s role model and toughest opponent. Four years older than Connie, the tall, long-legged blond with a pretty face was already a woman, no longer a girl. A three-time national champion in the 80-meter hurdles, Phillips practiced with intensity, pursuing her athletic dreams with incredible focus. She said little and led by example. Her ability to keep sprinting at top speed, even when her legs ached, earned the whole team’s admiration.
Connie idolized Phillips. She watched everything Nancy did—from the way she set her starting blocks to the effortless rhythm with which she cleared each hurdle—and quietly tried to imitate it.
Connie determined to work just as hard as Nancy and of course, she improved, but she could never equal Phillips, who won every race against Connie. Three years passed and Connie narrowed the gap between her and her idol, but Phillips still reigned as the queen of the hurdles.
1952 arrived, a crucial season for the girls on the team because the Olympic trials were being held in July. Connie and her teammates trained as hard as they ever had with one goal in mind; winning the trials. In June, Connie and Nancy squared off, but the result was the same: Phillips won the gold medal. Now, the moment that she had trained all those years for was at hand: the final of the 80-meter hurdles. The starter called the runners to the line. Connie felt as if an electric current was running through her body. She became conscious of how sweaty her palms were as she set the blocks, nervously waiting for the gun. A tense hush fell over the stadium. The shot rang out and Connie exploded out of the blocks, as did Phillips in the next lane. She extended her leg to clear the first hurdle, aware that Phillips was a split second ahead. Connie cleared hurdle after hurdle, but Phillips kept her slight lead, as they approached the final hurdle. As Connie cleared it, she was aware of a crash next to her, but her feet hit the ground, and she sprinted to the finish breaking the tape to win.
Only after she turned around did she understand what had happened. Nancy had hit the last hurdle and fallen.
Connie should have been celebrating. Instead, she hurried back down the track. Nancy lay beside the overturned final hurdle, devastated. Connie knelt beside her, helped her to her feet, and embraced her as tears filled Nancy’s eyes. Compassion filled her heart. At that moment, Connie understood that victory wasn’t everything. Coach Blaul had taught them how to hurdle, but she realized that in this moment of victory track had taught her other even more valuable lessons.
