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Overview
At the 1936 Berlin Olympics, American swimmer Sydney Stringfellow finds herself falling in love with Horst Gerhardt, a dashing young German. When the rising tide of global conflict tears them apart, Sydney returns to America, where she finds love again—in the arms of Jimmy Branch, an American man who takes her hand in marriage before shipping off to fight in World War II. And that is when Horst reappears in Sydney’s life, drawing her into a dilemma of passion, betrayal, and espionage.
With Bliss, Remembered, the celebrated Frank Deford has produced “a work of enthralling historical fiction” that ranks with the best of his novels, including Everybody’s All American, which Sports Illustrated ranked as one of the twenty-five best sports books of all time (Library Journal, starred review).
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781590205341 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | ABRAMS, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 05/15/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 352 |
| Sales rank: | 583,173 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Frank Deford (1938–2017) was an author, commentator, and senior contributor to Sports Illustrated. In addition, he was a correspondent for HBO’s Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel and a regular Wednesday commentator for National Public Radio’s Morning Edition. He won both an Emmy and a Peabody Award for his broadcasting.
Deford’s 1981 novel Everybody’s All-American was named one of Sports Illustrated’s Top 25 Sports Books of All Time and was later made into a movie directed by Taylor Hackford and starring Dennis Quaid. His memoir Alex: The Life of a Child, chronicling his daughter’s life and battle with cystic fibrosis, was made into a movie starring Craig T. Nelson and Bonnie Bedelia in 1986.
In 2012 President Obama honored Deford with the National Humanities Medal for “transforming how we think about sports,” making Deford the first person primarily associated with sports to earn recognition from the National Endowment for the Humanities. He was also awarded the PEN/ESPN Lifetime Achievement Award for Literary Sportswriting, the W.M. Kiplinger Distinguished Contributions to Journalism Award, and the Associated Press Sports Editors’ Red Smith Award, and was elected to the National Sportscasters and Sportswriters of America Hall of Fame. GQ has called him, simply, “the world’s greatest sportswriter.”
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The summer after my mother found out that she was dying of cancer, she asked me to come visit and watch the Olympic swimming on television with her. It was 2004, when the Games were in Athens. Mom had been on the United States swimming team in the Berlin Olympics in 1936, when she was eighteen. While she never talked about that experience — she was, in fact, mysteriously silent on the subject — she would say, "That's the only thing of any real consequence I ever did in my life." That wasn't true, but it was very much like her to speak so modestly. To put this in perspective: my mother was one of these people who gave much unto the world, brightened the lives of those around her and left us all better for her having been here among us.
You can be sure I understand if you think I am prejudiced, and I am, but nonetheless, that all happens to be the God's truth.
Of course, she also could be herself, which was a handful.
She was an awful lot of fun; she had a way about her. Unlike most old people who seem to withdraw unto themselves, she became more expressive and confident of herself (and her opinions) as she grew older. She had developed an uncommon facility about the past, wherein she discussed herself back then with a certain out-of-body quality, as if that girl was someone else altogether. And while she certainly maintained the courtesy and graciousness that had always marked her, she felt less compunction to suffer fools. In particular: woe to the poor person who called her a "senior." Mom, I think you could say, went out — well, if not with a bang, then certainly with a lot of sizzle.
I was, then, not altogether taken aback when, after I told her that I'd be delighted to come see her, she said, "I'll have something in the nature of a surprise for you, Teddy." But, although I pressed her in a good-natured way, she wouldn't tell me what it was, and I had all but forgotten about it until I arrived, a few weeks later, at her garden apartment in Eugene, Oregon. After Daddy died and she sold the house in Montana, she came to Eugene because she had heard it was a nice place to live, and it was a college town, and while she wanted a more benign climate, she didn't want to go to the Sun Belt and "play bridge with a bunch of old hags like myself."
She made a lot of good friends in Eugene and enjoyed her years there, stirring the pot. She told me she was accepting of death, although her one wish was that she would not die while George W. Bush was the president of her country. Unfortunately, much to her chagrin, she would be denied that hope.
Mom, whose name was Sydney Stringfellow Branch, threw off her mortal coil, going on eighty-seven, on January 11, 2005. "Well," she said, a few days before the end, when the die was cast, "at least I won't have to be around for that damn fool's second inauguration." And she added: "You know, Teddy, I've always wondered what comes next, but at least I can die positively knowing that as long as Bush is president here, I'm guaranteed to be going to a better place."
Anyway, it was the previous August when I visited her. I came by myself, for although Mom adored Jeanne, my wife, I could tell that she wanted to see me alone. So I'd left home, left behind Jeanne, left our empty nest (well, save for our dog, Elsinore), and come to Eugene at the time when the Olympic swimming started. Mom and I would watch it every night. She adored Michael Phelps, all the more so that he came from Baltimore, because she had grown up nearby, across Chesapeake Bay, on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. "I wish he'd swim in the backstroke," she said. That had been her specialty.
"You can't swim everything, Mother."
"He can. He's amazing."
"I never asked you: why did you swim backstroke?"
"You really wanna know, Teddy?"
"Yeah."
"Because when you're on your back you don't have your face stuck in the water. You can see the sky. I liked that."
"Who woulda thunk it?" I said.
"Now, it's not so good when you're in a race in an outdoor pool, because if the sun's out, it's in your eyes, but me just swimming the backstroke in the river, why, if the sun got in my eyes, I just turned over for awhile. You've got to remember, in the beginning, I just swam for the hell of it because the river was out our backyard. I imagine if I'd lived in Nepal, I'd've climbed mountains and been a Sherpa."
"Aren't the Sherpas all men?"
"For God's sake, Teddy, don't be so literal. Is this any better: if I'd grown up in Las Vegas, I'd've been a whore."
Mom made certain to find out when the women's hundred-meter backstroke would be shown. That had been her event when she'd made the U.S. team. "I want to tell you all about that," she told me.
"You do? I could never get a word out of you on that."
"Well, there was a reason."
"What was that?"
"That's what you're gonna find out, antsy-pants. But things were connected."
"I don't know what that means."
"It means I didn't ever want to talk about the Olympics because that was connected to other stuff, which I didn't think was any of your damn business."
"Till now."
"A woman can change her mind. So can a man, but most of you are too stubborn ever to do that."
That reminded me. "I thought you had something for me."
"I do."
"What is it?"
"Teddy, just hold your horses." She shook her head in despair at me — which was not uncommon, although I usually couldn't imagine what exactly it was that Mom held me in despair of. "Nobody can wait anymore," she said in exasperation. "One of the great technological advances in this world, which is actually a terrible step backwards, is cameras."
At times like this, I had no idea where she was going. "How so?" I asked. Mom liked a straight man.
"Much of the fun of taking pictures was not knowing how a picture came out. You took a picture and then had to wait till you got the roll back from the drugstore to find out how good the pictures were. And when you found out one of them — even only one of them — was a honey of a picture, it made your day. Now, with all this digital nonsense, you can see the picture right away. What fun is that?"
"Well, there's something to be said for getting something right, isn't there?"
"Oh sure," she said, in that world-weary way, which I took to really indicate a weariness of me and my questions. "But the point is — the larger point, Teddy — is that there are no surprises left. You can tell on the phone who it is before you pick it up. All the children are on that Facebook thing, so there're no blind dates left. Just peek-a-boo dates. Everybody has to know what sex their child is hardly before they're out of bed and through conceiving. No, no, no, we think we're so clever, but we're a poorer world without surprises."
Still shaking her head at the folly of us all, she got up and went over to her little antique desk, opened a drawer and pulled out one of those large acetate envelopes. It was a bright purple — violet, her favorite color. I instinctively reached out my hand for the folder. You would've thought that I'd have learned by now. "No, no, no," she said. "Not yet. In fact, I've decided that I'm gonna tell you the first part of the story."
"This is a story?" I asked, pointing to the envelope. "You've written a story?"
"No, no, Teddy. Not a story story. It's the real story that happened to me long ago that I want you to know about."
"To you?"
"My story, yes."
"At the Olympics?"
"That's part of it." She grinned — and rather mischievously, I thought. "That's a lot of the part I'm gonna tell you."
"Why do you wanna tell me that part?"
"Well, the first part is a lot of fun, so I decided I'd enjoy telling you that." As she stood before me, she gently rapped the envelope on her thigh. "But the second part is more important, so I better let you read that to make sure it's absolutely clear."
"All right, I got it."
"But Teddy: prepare yourself now. There's some sex."
That took me aback a little. "There is?"
"I hope you can abide that, Teddy. I promise not to offend your delicate sensibilities."
"I'll try not to blush, Mom."
"And I'll try not to spell it out."
"Okay, it's a deal."
Her expression changed then, and in a voice so different that I thought at first she was putting me on, she spoke softly: "Some violence, too."
I watched her closely before I realized she was serious. Even then, I wasn't certain. "Violence? Really, Mom? Violence?"
"One day, yes." But quickly, then: "Only let's not get into that now. That's a ways off."
"Okay."
She put a smile back on her face, reached into the envelope, pulled out a little tape recorder and handed it to me. "You gotta use this."
"But you said you've already got it all written out in there." I pointed to the acetate envelope.
"That's true, but I'm sure I'll flesh it out some in the telling, so it'll be a fuller picture. Probably more scintillating, too."
"You want me to get this transcribed afterwards?"
"You can if you want, Teddy. After I'm dead and gone, you can do whatever you want." She sighed. "That's the point."
Mom wasn't fey when she said that. Rather, her voice was suddenly very trenchant, and, of course, it made me all the more curious. "What is the story, Mom?"
"That's what I'm gonna tell you. You don't need a preview of coming attractions. Can you work this gizmo?"
I may not be a technological wizard, but I knew enough to push the start button, and I said, "Testing, testing," and stopped it and pushed the little backwards arrow and played it back. Sure enough: "Testing, testing."
"I got it," I said. "Whatta guy."
"Let's go outside," Mom said, leading me out the French doors to where she kept a pretty little garden — flush with rhododendron, which had always been her flower of preference. It was a soft summer's day, terribly quiet. She sat down and smiled at me in something of a conspiratorial way. It even left me a little uneasy, because it was obvious she had something up her sleeve. Sex, okay. But violence? My mother?
"When does the story start?" I said, laying the little tape recorder down on the table next to her.
"Nineteen thirty-four," she said. "When I was sixteen, on the Eastern Shore. But, really, Teddy, you'll see that this moves on from the damn Depression and becomes the last story about the war."
"World War Two?"
"Yeah. It's the absolute very last story about World War Two. I gotta believe all the others have already been told by now."
CHAPTER 2Truth be told, I never knew all that much about my mother's life Back East. She and Daddy moved to Missoula, Montana, when she was still carrying me, and so I — and, too, my younger sister, Helen — simply had no connection with that part of her life, where she was brought up, in Chestertown, Maryland, which is on the Chester River off the upper reach of the Chesapeake Bay.
Even if she wouldn't talk about it, Mom was proud of having been on the Olympic team. Of course, she was always quick to add: "I wasn't good enough to win a medal" — and that invariably concluded the conversation. As I got older and learned more about Hitler and the important political implications of those Nazi Games, I asked her more about them, but she always managed to be evasive on the subject. The one time I really pressed her on it was when I was in high school and was assigned to write a composition about something interesting that somebody in the family had done. But she brushed me off again. "You gotta remember, Teddy, I was only a wide-eyed little girl from the Eastern Shore, and I couldn't've cared less about the politics."
It rather left me in the lurch, though, because what I really wanted to write about was how my father had been wounded at Guadalcanal in the summer of 1942. However, Mom had always told me that, like so many of the men who'd fought in the war, Daddy wanted to forget about it, and so I was instructed never even to approach him on the subject.
So, Guadalcanal was out and the Nazi Olympics were out, and I ended up writing my paper on how my grandfather, whom I'd never even known, had won a music contest when he was a boy, playing the accordian. I didn't even appreciate the significance of this achievement. Mother had to explain it to me, how everybody always looked down on the accordian, and disparingly dismissed it as a "squeeze box." Apparently, however, my grandfather was a downright whiz with the instrument, and when he came up against all those other kids playing their fancy pianos and violins and cellos, the judges were unable to deny him his due. It was a big deal in Chestertown at the time, and it remained prominent in my mother's family folklore, but frankly, to me, it seemed awfully insignificant compared to the Berlin Olympics and Guadalcanal. But, there you go: any port in a storm.
Once Mother got me settled in her garden and was convinced that I was actually capable of operating the little tape recorder, she went back and fetched a pitcher of iced tea. It was obvious to me by now that she was laying in for the long haul. Before she began talking, though, she looked over at me and broke into this glorious, even beatific smile.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing really. I'm just remembering, and it makes me happy." She stopped and pointed again at the tape recorder. "Now, you sure that's working?"
I left nothing to chance. I played the rewind: "... makes me happy. Now, you sure that's working?"
Satisfied, then, Mom sat back and began.
* * *
Teddy, the house I grew up in wasn't right in Chestertown. It was a few miles out of town, toward the Bay. The lawn backed right down onto the river. The Chester River. This long, sloping lawn. Lord, but it was a wonderful place to play. We had a dock there, and Daddy always had a boat. We had some land, too. I can't remember how many acres, but Daddy sold most of it when I was a little girl. See, my father's side of the family had a little money, and he didn't want to bother with farming. You had to look after the tenants, the tenant farmers.
There was an old house on the property where the tenants had lived. You wouldn't have known it was there, that old tenant house, tucked away behind where the river bends. After Daddy sold the farmland, we just stored stuff in there, but when the hard times came, the Depression in '29, there was an old colored man — excuse me, we called the black people colored then, and it just slipped into my conversation, remembering ...
"I understand, Mom. I won't stamp you as a racist."
Well, Teddy, isn't that white of you ...
We both laughed, and she went on:
There was an old black man ... an African American. Well, he seemed old to me. Probably wasn't over sixty. Certainly nowhere near as old as I am now, that's for sure. And maybe not even as old as you. His name was Gentry. That was his first name, Gentry. Gentry Trappe. There was the town of Trappe, Maryland, farther down the Shore in Talbot County, and I suppose Gentry Trappe's family had been slaves way back and just took that name, or there were people named Trappe they named the town after who owned his ancestors when they were slaves. Anyway, Gentry Trappe was a wonderful old fellow, quite distinguished in his way. I always called him "Mr. Trappe." Poor man — his wife had died in the flu epidemic of 1918. You familiar with that?
"Oh yeah, sure."
Terrible thing. It was right about the time I was born. Well, Gentry Trappe never remarried and his children grew up, and then he lost his job in the Depression. Daddy had known him forever, and so he said, "Gentry, why don't you come and live in the old tenant's house on my place?"
And he said, "Oh, Mr. Robert, I couldn't afford anything like that."
But my father explained that he thought it'd be a good idea to have someone in the house, just to be on the property, to look after the two of his ladies — that's my mother and me — when he was away on business. Your grandfather was the sweetest man, Teddy. There was no justice in such a model of goodness being killed. We always think of the mother's milk of kindness, but I believe, if there's any kindness in me, it came more from my daddy than Mom.
Daddy knew Mr. Trappe would want to plant a little garden, and all he asked in the way of rent was that when the sweet corn crop came in, he'd give us a dozen ears or so, and some peaches and maybe a dozen of those good Eastern Shore tomatoes. One thing I remember about my father. He'd dig into a tomato like it was an apple. Just take a big bite. All that juice and those little orange seeds running down his chin. I can see that now. I was never that partial myself to tomatoes. I like tomato soup and tomato sauce and tomato ketchup more than plain tomatoes themselves. Must have somethin' to do with rememberin' the juice runnin' down Daddy's chin.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Bliss, Remembered"
by .
Copyright © 2010 Frank Deford.
Excerpted by permission of Abrams Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
What People are Saying About This
If you've always enjoyed Frank Deford's sportswriting, you're in for a surprising, blissful departure with Bliss, Remembered. Sure, there's sports- Sydney Stringfellow is a beautiful young swimmer, good enough to be an Olympian. But the year is 1936, the Games are in Berlin, and Deford's story takes us through Nazi Germany, heroes and villains real and imagined, love, lust, heartbreak, and heroism. There's a hell of an ending, too. Who knew that Frank Deford , apart from everything else, is a crazy romantic?
I've long been a huge fan of Frank Deford's writing, and this wonderful novel is further confirmation that he is much more than one of America's best sports writers- he is one of our country's best writers, period. (Ron Rash, Author of Serena)
One of the greatest writers of our time, Frank Deford has done it again. This book is compelling, insightful and Frank even shows us his romantic side. I didn't just like it, I loved it.