L. T. Doaches, owner of the Fat Boy’s Pit Barbecue off Interstate 75, had posed the question: since Doobey’s first three years had allegedly been “rebuilding” years for the ol’ Swamp Dawgs, and keeping in mind certain early and somewhat rash predictions, in retrospect how did the coach view this past season’s 4-6 record? As L.T. put it: “I mean, are we gonna start rebuilding again without seein’ what it was we got ourseffs built the last time?”
It was a mouthful of a question, L.T. having obviously practiced it some, but he delivered it without a flaw and, to the affirmative grumbles and guffaws of the group, replaced his pear-shaped bottom on the Holiday Inn folding chair, Dick Doobey meanwhile discerning all he wanted to know about the general Rotarian mood.
A little surprised by the brewing hostility, he babbled something about some real fine junior college transfers, some redshirts who would be “a real great help to us out there next year,” and a few other favorite mouth-worn Doobey maxims. Kernsville cynics suspected that the NCAA held yearly seminars for the purpose of allowing football coaches to swap these fluffs of wisdom back and forth. Doobey’s favorite was: “In order to win you’ve got to avoid losing first.” Things like that.
The same material that at one time would have at least won nodding approval now netted him a few muffled coughs. He was dying up there with a live mike and a glass of watery iced tea. He tried to tell some funny anecdotes, generally racially tinged, mangled one-liners uttered by some player or another, the punch line of which inevitably began: “Well, gosh, Coach…”
As a last resort he told some of his My Daddy Used to Say chestnuts that always won chuckles of nostalgia for the old man if not appreciation for his fumbling offspring. Nothing worked. Finally, one sportswriter, a short Jewish fellow Doobey disliked intensely, asked Doobey’s opinion of the DUMP DICK DOOBEY bumper stickers that were showing up on cars in and around Kernsville.
Doobey cleared his throat. “Well, now, there has always been dissident elements, you see, in our American System, and while these people may think they are doing the right thing, and while they are certainly entitled to their opinion, you see, such disloyalty to the program can only…”
This tack also netted him little in the way of positive Rotarian feedback. It was becoming painfully obvious to him that many of these very Rotarians were either among the “dissident elements” or were sympathetic to them.
Dick Doobey was discovering that a football coach in a small Southern town walks upon water only if he is either “rebuilding” or else whaling tar out of Ole Miss. There is no middle ground called “Holding Your Own.” And you can sell the “rebuilding” excuse only so long before you find your career folding up like a ten-year-old road map. Uprisings are fomented; Rotarians go on cautious rampages; and—oh, the infamy!—the very bumpers of automobiles call for your destruction.
DICK DOOBEY took his feet off the desk and pressed the intercom.
“Mary Lou, come on in here a minute, willya, hon?” His mind reeled with daring, if half-baked, strategems. Mary Lou, hoping for hanky-panky, bounced in, miniskirted and primed for action; she sported an alarming beehive hairdo.
“Shall I get the key to the whirlpool?” she asked coyly.
“Uh, not now, hon. I need you to take something down for me.” Frowning slightly, she left to get her steno pad.
“This will be a memo to all coaches from Dick Doobey as Athletic Director, not head football coach. You, ah, don’t need to write all that down, hon, I mean word for word and all. Like when I said ‘not head football coach’ you didn’t need to write ‘not head…’ Well, you know what to put.” Her shoulders sagged impatiently. What an incredible mind, she thought. They went through something like this nearly every time.
Doobey waited self-consciously for a few moments as if to allow his words to fall from the air so he could start fresh.
“Ahem. New Rules on Hair Groomin’ and Dress, uh, Procedures for Southeastern University Athletes…”
9.
An Afternoon
THE RUNNERS CIRCLED the big grass field in a slow, prancing jog, their shirtless bodies gleaming with sweat. As they trotted by Ben Cornwall, they all looked up at him almost simultaneously. Their rasping and coughing grew louder as they approached.
“One thirty-eight. Two to go, guys,” the coach told them. They immediately lowered their heads and continued jogging. They were on their rest interval, respite in the acid storm.
Cornwall walked back across the field to catch the next 660 on his split-timer. A 330 jog wasn’t much recovery time and he could tell by the strain on their faces that they were working hard. The last two would be quicker perhaps but Cassidy and Mizner had made sure the first six were evenly paced and fast. Cornwall studied his two star runners as he crossed the field to the opposite post. They looked less distraught than the rest, but not by much. Cassidy was saying something to Mizner, who replied with a thin smile. Cornwall couldn’t hear it, of course, and wouldn’t have understood if he had. The conversation, between gasps, went like this:
“There must be some mistake,” Cassidy said. “I have not yet attained that sense of euphoria commonly reported by runners.”
“You are speaking no doubt of the fabled ‘third wind.’”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t read Runner’s World lately so I don’t know what they are calling it this month.”
When they reached the post Cornwall clicked the expensive timer and studied with admiration the easy power of the runners flowing into their long strides. The head track coach, oddly enough, didn’t know a great deal about distance running (Cassidy and Mizner were constantly—though very unobtrusively—amending his workouts), having been a javelin man in college.
But Cornwall understood that the half milers, milers, and true distance men were the heart of a track team. They could run everything from the mile relay on up. It was imperative that he pay attention to their training.
He had learned very early, though, that the milers and distance men were like seeds: the good ones, given minimum care, just grew on their own. He had only a casual jogger’s appreciation for their training—he knew from his own days of conditioning that what they were doing before his eyes was far beyond his ken—and he knew the daily grind took its toll. The attrition rate was startling. Even the most promising runners, disheartened by injuries or poor performances, would sometimes leave their scholarships on his desk. He never tried to talk them out of it; he knew that once they lost it, it was gone for good.
Now as he watched across the big field, the runners entered the far turn with Cassidy and Mizner still leading. Up close their breathing would make a considerable racket, but from here they appeared to be gliding along without effort. From the middle of the pack a shorter runner moved up to their shoulders. Without even having to squint, Cornwall knew it would be Nubbins. If they didn’t break him, Cornwall thought, that Nubbins might turn out to be something after all.
Entering the far straight, Cassidy and Mizner picked up the pace slightly and only Nubbins hung on with them. They seemed to sense his presence, but showed no outward sign of it. In an interval workout there was no objection to a hard finish so long as the early running had been even and taxing. Dogging in the early stages in order to shine later on was considered antisocial behavior. Cassidy saved his fiercest workout kick for such occasions.
But Nubbins had been conscientious and was now making a bid for status. He knew very well Cornwall was watching closely. Cassidy slackened somewhat and Nubbins went by, pulling up to Mizner as they came out of the turn. But when the freshman bore down in the last straight and tried to pull away, Mizner matched him stride for stride. Cornwall smiled as he clicked the split-timer for them. He looked down at the watch and thought: Jesus. They had run 1:28. Nubbins looked entirely washed out, a face without hope or humor, but he kept on jogging. Cassidy caught up to Mizner and they trotted along without speaking. Cornwall still did not understand that pairing; they were so different. Cassidy was br
eezy, almost lighthearted for a runner; Mizner was studious and serene. But they were identical in one respect: the haunted cast of their eyes as they entered a gun lap was exactly the same. The coach walked back across the field, still studying Cassidy and Mizner jogging through their rest interval. Those two, he thought. I’ll never get another pair like them. Just read the watch for them, see they get fed, get them their plane tickets, and keep them in shoes—no small expense—and they’ll go out and win everything in sight.
They were chugging up to him now, looking up from their despondent jog with the same expectant expression. It always amused him how interested they were in the numbers, no matter how exhausted; it was the first thing they wanted to know after a race, even from the depths of their distress.
“Leaders 1:28, Cass 1:29.5, everyone else hit at about 1:33. Last one, fellows.” The runners were jogging especially slowly now; this was the way they always did it. Everyone would want to be as fresh as possible for the last one in order to end on an upbeat.
Actually, they would still be out of breath when they started the last one, and Cornwall thought again how surprising it was that after the first several intervals they looked as bad as they would get. The rest seemed to take no more out of them, though he knew each one had to be more difficult than the one before. But then they blew into the last one like they couldn’t think of a better way to end the day. They were a strange crowd, runners, Cornwall thought. They were strange back in his track days and they were still strange.
They finally arrived at the starting post with their mincing little steps and with a deep gasp leaned into the last one as Cornwall clicked the watch. They flew into the first turn and Cornwall smiled again. Cassidy was already ten yards in front. By the time they were out of the turn and into the far straight, he was twenty-five yards ahead and still telescoping away. Mizner smoothly led the rest of the pack. Around the final turn and into the straightaway Cassidy powered on with crisp businesslike strides. There was a lift in his stride and from his expression Cornwall could tell he was serious. Forty yards in front Cassidy flashed by the post and Cornwall flicked the watch at him in that strange little “gotcha” affectation of earnest timers everywhere. The coach let out a little grunt as he glanced briefly at the watch before catching the others on the second sweeping hand. Cassidy did not keep jogging as before, but curved back in a parabola of expectation.
“Whyn’t you get your ass in gear, Cassidy?” the coach asked.
Cassidy was still gasping, and unamused.
“C’mon. Coach. What. Was it?”
“You think I don’t know when you guys are loafing?”
Cassidy rolled his eyes at that, but stood panting, hands on hips. Let him have his fun.
“You had 1:24.6.” The coach smiled. “Everyone else was right about 1:29.” Cassidy nodded, satisfied, and started to jog off toward Bruce Denton, who stood wringing wet, watching from the side of the field.
“That’s about right,” Cassidy called back. “Last year would have been 1:26 something about this time.” Cornwall knew how accurate his training records were and that Cassidy wasn’t guessing.
“You might even do some good in cross-country pretty soon, you keep this up,” the coach called out to him. He knew it was a sore point. Mizner had caught up to the other pair as they headed off for the one-mile warm-down course.
“Right,” Cassidy called back, “and I might run the hundred in nine flat and play wide receiver for the Dolphins.”
CASSIDY SLUMPED ON THE BENCH, draped immodestly with a towel, more or less savoring the deep itchy ache of the last 660 and apparently studying his toes with great interest. He would be losing another nail soon. Ugliest feet in the world, he thought, next to Denton’s. He ran his hand up and down his left Achilles tendon. Very tender; better pay attention to it and back off if it gets any worse. Maybe ice it. The old Injury Evasion Fandango. Did it ever end?
The afternoon workout had cost him seven pounds. He longed for cooler weather. In the shower Denton laughed: “It’s the lean wolf that leads the pack.”
“If I am captured in Indochina,” Cassidy told him, “I will not last out the night in a bamboo cage.”
“Just walk out between the bars,” Denton had suggested.
The older runner had been impressed with the 660 workout, but mildly disapproved of doing hard intervals so early in the year. He had settled for a twelve-mile run himself.
“It’s easy for you to criticize,” Cassidy said, still slumping on the bench while Denton dressed quickly. “You won’t be doing the old one-mile run on some little eleven-lap roller-derby track in a few weeks. I need me some get-down speed out there.”
“When did you turn into a black sprinter?” Mizner asked, “What’s this ‘get-down’ stuff?”
“He’s a miler person, you see,” Denton said, “and he’s explaining about how it’s dog eat dog out there. Right, sport?”
Into the steamy and subdued postworkout atmosphere charged Daniel Hayes Ingram, a student trainer whose round face was a sad pink-and-white topographical map of adolescence. In high school Ingram had secured a place on the track team and set about accomplishing his lifelong goal: a five-minute mile. Having failed—by 3.4 seconds—he learned how to tape ankles and apply ice packs and was thus spared eternal exile from that intimate neutral world where the sounds were of rushing water, rough laughter, and the click-clack of brittle spikes on tiled floors. Substitute gratification does not vent completely the deeper yearnings, however, and Danny Ingram was known as a highly excitable person. He now clucked and sputtered with such energy as to gather a small crowd. If the news was not of interest, they would at least get to watch a trainer go mad.
“They got Walton!” Ingram gasped for the third time. The track men looked at one another.
“John Walton, you idiots! They got John Walton!” Ingram was exasperated by their blank stares. They knew who he was talking about, but could not get the context. They calmed him with abuse and made him begin slowly. He had their interest now and they were going to get to the bottom of this.
“I was just in Cornwall’s office…”—he took a deep breath—“and the telegram just came in from the New Zealand travel committee. Walton has agreed to run in the Southeastern University Relays this spring! He’s on tour then and had the weekend open. Holy Jesus Christ, John Walton running here! Won’t that just be something else now? Can you imagine what he’ll do to all these yokels around here when he…”
It was a particularly awkward thing to say, for as the import of the news had finally come across, the others had turned almost as a man to see what kind of reaction would issue from the distance runners’ corner, where Cassidy and Denton sat watching them with great interest.
“Well, I didn’t mean you of course, Cass, uh…” But the trainer was clearly into his own pit and his clambering around only brought more debris down upon himself. It was very quiet. Big fans in the roof beat at the hot air.
“Who did you say was coming to the relays, Danny?” Cassidy asked.
“Uh, Walton, John Walton, the miler from New—”
“John Walton? Is he supposed to be pretty good?” Cassidy maintained a countenance of innocent curiosity. Denton turned slightly and coughed.
“Yeah, well, he’s only run 3:49 and all…” Some of the others were snickering but Danny had a very high embarrassment threshold. “Say, Cass”—he was all curiosity now—“how do you think you’ll, uh, handle, you know, the…situation?”
Cassidy pondered. He looked at the ceiling and sphincterized his lips. Then his face lit up: inspiration!
“I think what I would do would be to hang right with him, see…”
“Yeah, well…”
“Check him out real close, like for a couple of laps. Make him take the initiative, see, make him run my race, see…” Denton was leaning against his locker, biting on a towel.
“But John Walton, I mean, when he—”
“Then going into the last lap, I’ll
be right on his tail, see, all the way into the last turn…”
“But they say his kick—”
“Then I’ll take a shortcut across the infield, sprint down the pole vault runway, and lean at the tape. Works every time.”
The assemblage dispersed in what might be called a good mood, but there was an eeriness in the air. Some names were uttered with reverence in that tiled sanctum and John Walton’s was one of them. Surely Bruce Denton’s name was accorded similar respect in other locker rooms around the world, but there was always something even more mysterious and exotic about those far-off heroes, rarely seen in person, whose feats were frozen for all time in irrefutable black-and-white numerals. Walton’s aura, as the first human being to run the mile under 3:50, was that of almost total invincibility. To the public he may have been just one more in a long line of champions, but to those whose own numerals gave credentials of insight, Walton’s name brought with it an unpleasant chill. A 3:55-miler would understand it better than a 4:05-miler. Walton was the best there was, but he was only an image to most of them. And now that he was to be viewed in person—take the form of flesh and blood—no one knew quite what to think.
Bruce Denton was an Olympian. He was accustomed to unstable atmospheres where heady names such as Walton’s were bandied about like so many harmless acquaintances, but these undergraduates clearly were not, despite their best efforts to act nonchalant.
“Aw, he pulls on his shorts the same way we do,” said one of the freshmen. But it didn’t dispel Walton’s ghost in the least.
“That’s right.” Denton chuckled. “Except he pulls his shorts up over legs that can run a mile in three minutes and forty-nine seconds.”
Some of them laughed as they finished dressing, but there was no further discussion. Cassidy still sat on the bench, towel draped across his middle, too weary even to clothe himself. He looked up at Denton and smiled. His 660 workout didn’t seem like such hot stuff anymore.
Once a Runner Page 5
