“Eat me,” Cassidy muttered. Hell, they were all skinny except for Billy Parish. What did that have to do with anything?
Coach Burke smiled sympathetically at Cassidy and told them to get ready. Chip Newspickle dropped down to his hands and knees, digging the beautiful spikes into the clay, right foot slightly in front of the left, fingertips spread flat against the chalk line. He looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. Cassidy didn’t have a clue about a sprinter’s crouch, so when Coach Burke rather sharply reminded him again to get ready, he nervously toed the line with his left canvas tennis shoe, leaning forward loosely from the waist, the way he always did. Chip Newspickle, he saw, was poised like a cat.
“Get ready . . . set . . .” The blast of the whistle was so shrill Cassidy actually flinched. When he gathered himself and pushed off from the starting line, his left tennis shoe slipped and his first three strides were so off balance he thought he was going to go right down on his face. More hoots from the crowd.
Getting control of his panic, he concentrated on the ground a few yards in front of him and finally felt his familiar stride settling in beneath him. But when he looked up, he saw Chip Newspickle’s backside all but disappearing up the track.
He could hear the growing glee behind him as the knot of humiliation grew in the pit of his stomach. He now understood that the 5.8 was no myth and that Chip Newspickle was in fact some kind of freak of nature. And this also occurred to him: most likely, Quenton Cassidy was an ordinary fool with some very silly ideas.
He tried to put Chip Newspickle out of his mind and simply concentrate on running smoothly. He didn’t have anywhere near that amazing leg speed, but he was still running well. His stride was longer than Chip’s and the ground was passing quickly beneath him. More than that, he was feeling comfortable despite running almost flat out. It occurred to him that he was merely doing something he was used to and that he in fact enjoyed.
He consciously loosened his shoulders and relaxed the rest of his body and noticed that he actually began to go a little faster.
Something else was odd. As they neared the middle of the turn at the 110 post, Chip Newspickle was no farther ahead than he had been at the end of the first fifty yards. He had fifteen yards on Cassidy, which seemed like a very long way, but at least he was not gaining anymore. Was the laughter from the crowd subsiding a little?
When Chip hit the straightaway at the end of the first curve, Cassidy was now matching him stride for stride, though still far behind. For the first time it seemed to Cassidy that he was not really flat out yet. He was probably at ninety percent, but that felt reasonable. He was keenly aware of how much ground his strides were eating up.
At the 220 mark, halfway through the back straightaway, Bickerstaff called out, “Twenty-seven! Twenty-eight! Twenty-nine! Thirty flat, thirty-one, thirty-two . . .”
Chip Newspickle was just under twenty-eight seconds, Cassidy three seconds back, but he had gained five yards. And he could see something familiar happening up ahead. Chip Newspickle’s back and shoulders were slightly arched and he was carrying his arms wider and more stiffly, like he saw Stiggs and especially Randleman do. Chip was still moving fast but no longer looked invincible. A shiver ran up Cassidy’s spine and tingled the hair on the back of his neck, and he thought, I can beat him.
He concentrated on his stride and tried to imagine himself floating over the track, eating up the yards as effortlessly as he could. At the 330 post, Cassidy had gained back another five yards. It was obvious to everyone now that they were watching a real race. There was no laughter from the crowd, just a single pleading call: “Come on, Chip!”
But Chip’s form continued to degenerate; he began to arch backward and his arms and shoulders were now moving as a solid unit, rotating awkwardly around his trunk instead of pumping up and down like pistons.
Sensing the other boy’s vulnerability, Cassidy bore down around the final curve, pulling him back with every stride. He kept his eyes fixed on those beautiful spiked shoes flashing in front of him and concentrated on relaxing and extending his stride.
As they came out of the turn with fifty-five yards to go, he was just off Chip’s shoulder and Cassidy saw his quick, panic-stricken glance. Chip turned grimly back to his task, bore down as he had been trained to do. At the finish line he willed himself into a lean.
That lean saved Chip Newspickle from the ignominy of losing a race to a skinny nobody in second-period gym class.
“Sixty flat point three!” shouted Coach Bickerstaff, hurrying over in his stiff-legged gait. “Dead heat!” He looked at Burke, who nodded, a tight smile on his face.
A stunned group milled around the finish line, looking at each other and at the runners in disbelief. The laws of the universe had been turned upside down before their eyes, and they were still trying to make sense of it.
Bickerstaff and Burke began shooing them back onto the track, trying to get them organized.
“All right, all right, knock it off!” said Bickerstaff. “Get ready, the rest of you. And let’s see more of the kind of effort we just saw there!” But no one was paying much attention. They were still wandering around and gawking at the two red-faced, completely blown-out runners.
Bickerstaff walked back to the infield where Cassidy and Chip Newspickle were still wobbling, bent over at the waist, hands on knees, elbows touching in a kind of sympathetic camaraderie, rasping in the air with a desperation that bordered on panic.
“What’s your name, son?” he asked.
“Cass . . .” he said. “Cass . . . Cassidy.”
“After you’ve changed, come on by my office.”
CHAPTER 11
* * *
COACH BICKERSTAFF
The office was a fascinating hodgepodge of sporting paraphernalia and coachly miscellany.
There was a diploma on the wall from Eastern Kentucky State College, dated June 6, 1949, awarded to one Robert Leroy Bickerstaff, a bachelor of science degree in physical education. There was a basketball team photo with the legend “Maroons Basketball—1947.” In the photo, second from the far right, standing next to the slightly taller equipment manager, was a crew-cut sprite of a boy wearing number 13. If it hadn’t been for the Dumbo ears, Cassidy would not have recognized Coach Bickerstaff at all. The telltale red hair did not register in black and white. It was a strange thing to contemplate, that Coach Bickerstaff had played sports in his youth, that he had had an actual boyhood of his own.
Cassidy sat, hair damp, books in lap, taking it all in: the pair of nested low hurdles needing repair in the corner, the shelves filled with books on basketball, football, weight lifting, calisthenics. There was one called Doc Counsilman on Swimming and another called Modern Interval Training by someone named Mihály Iglói. There were stacks of correspondence from other coaches and athletic directors seeking to schedule games and meets. There were stopwatches and coaching whistles hanging from hooks on the side of the bookcase, along with baseball caps, clipboards, sunglasses, and windbreakers. There was a dusty glass-fronted case filled with trophies from days gone by.
He noticed one small black-and-white photograph on the wall, almost hidden among the rest. It showed a group of eight young boys squinting into the sun from the steps of an old-timey brick schoolhouse, accompanied by an older gentleman in a three-piece suit. Their names were listed below the photograph, along with the caption: “Cynthiana Junior High track team, 1940.” It didn’t take Cassidy long to spot the telltale ears of the elf-boy standing next to one Oley Fightmaster, a young brute holding a shot.
“We were undefeated that year,” said Coach Bickerstaff, hurrying through the door. Cassidy jumped back in his chair. The coach tossed his clipboard on top of the messy desk and sat down heavily in the ancient swivel chair.
“Of course, size of our school, everybody did practically every event. A couple of those boys were pretty fast, including yours truly,” said Bickerstaff, putting his ripple-soled coaching shoes up on the corner of the d
esk. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes with the momentary relief of a man who spent most of his day on his feet. “And Oley there was third in the state in the shot. But the competition wasn’t all that tough back then, at least not in north-central Kentucky.”
“Yes, sir,” Cassidy said. Coach Bickerstaff had played basketball in college! He was from Kentucky! It never occurred to Cassidy that coaches and teachers were from anywhere.
“It’s okay, Quenton, relax. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute. Coach Burke says you’ve tried out for the basketball team . . .”
“Yes, sir, I practice a lot. And I’m growing.”
Bickerstaff’s smile was sympathetic.
“Well, son, lots of boys are after those twelve spots. You’ve surely noticed that most of them are a lot bigger than you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Cassidy glumly. This was not new information. Stiggs and Randleman were constantly reminding him what a shrimp he was.
“Have you ever considered track?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Too slow, I guess.”
“Well, there’s more to track than the fifty and the hundred. It takes a lot of stamina to run a good quarter. And it takes even more to run the 880.”
Cassidy looked puzzled.
“Yes, that’s right. In track there are races longer than the one you ran this morning. The 880—a half mile—is two laps around. It’s a tough race.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, I don’t want to mislead you. You tied in a race with a very good sprinter today. But Chip’s no quarter-miler. In fact, he’s not as good in the 220 as he is in the 100 and the 50.”
Cassidy wondered what motive Bickerstaff could possibly have for downplaying the greatest near triumph of his life.
“But still, he’s no slouch,” Bickerstaff said, taking his feet off the desk and sitting up straight. “He’s full of fight and he wouldn’t have let you get anywhere near him if he could have helped it.”
“He ran pretty hard,” Cassidy said.
“You didn’t give him much choice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, Chip’s never run anything longer than a 220 in a meet, but a 60 flat quarter mile would win some of our dual meets. And if you can push beyond that a bit, you might just give Demski something to think about in the 880. He’s just getting started, but he’s getting to be pretty darned tough. I want you to think about that. If you came out for track at the end of March, I think you might do very well.”
Cassidy wasn’t sure what to think. He had always pinned his hopes for glory on basketball. Other than Chip Newspickle and Ed Demski, the track team was notorious for being a scut bucket of misfits and rejects.
“I really want to play basketball,” he said.
“I read you. Your prerogative entirely. But it’s not an either-or situation is all I’m saying. I just want you to think about it. Will you do that for me?” Then he actually smiled. Cassidy had never seen him smile before.
“Yes, sir! I will.”
“Okay, go ahead and take off. You’re going to be late to third period. If you get any grief, tell them you had a conference with me.”
Bickerstaff started taking papers off the top of the stack on his desk, reaching for his reading glasses.
“Yes?” he said, looking up. Cassidy was still by the door.
“What’s the school record for the 880?” Cassidy asked.
“You probably shouldn’t be too concerned about—”
“I just wanted to know,” Cassidy said.
“Son, it’s 2:07.3. That’s a tick under two sixty-four-second quarters back to back. I know that sounds awfully—”
“I can run faster than that,” Cassidy said, and left.
Bickerstaff stared at the door. What was it with this kid? He started reading the first letter but stopped after the first paragraph and took off his glasses.
What the hell, he thought, maybe he can at that. Bickerstaff looked over at the small black-and-white photograph of himself and his teammates from all those years ago. There was a fierce and familiar look of determination on the face of that strange-looking, Dumbo-eared child.
CHAPTER 12
* * *
STATUS OF A SORT
They were shooting at a netless hoop at their old elementary school, and Stiggs and Randleman were acting more than a little pissy.
They had seen people smiling at Cassidy in the hallways. A couple of guys had actually stopped by their table at lunch to make some wisecracks and it was obvious they were including Cassidy in their ribaldry. Stiggs and Randleman, as starting forwards on the basketball team, were accustomed to tolerating Cassidy as a goofy sidekick. They allowed him in their pickup games because he was a warm body and he was always available. They were actual stars, whereas he was a mascot. This new status of his was not sitting well.
“I heard Chip had a charley horse in his leg,” said Stiggs, shooting up a brick that clunked in the dead spot between the back of the rim and the backboard before rolling forward into the basket. Their attempts at ego deflation had been going on for some time.
“Yeah,” said Randleman, driving to his left, faking a jump shot, then reversing and making a short hook. “Or a side stitch or something.”
“Somebody said he was sick. His mom had to take him to the hospital,” Stiggs said.
“Funny he didn’t mention it,” said Cassidy. “And he came back from the hospital with braces on his teeth.” He knew better than to rise to the bait, but couldn’t help himself. He dribbled out to the foul line, turned, and heaved up a hopeless brick of a two-handed set shot that missed everything.
“Swish!” he proclaimed. “Jerry West scores again!”
“Yeah, right,” said Stiggs. “More like an air ball. He snagged the ball out of the air and started his own voice-over: “. . . Bill Russell with the rebound and he’s bringing it up the court himself.”
Randleman lunged at the ball and got a fingertip on it, but Stiggs recovered and kept up his banter as he turned at the top of the key and headed back toward the hoop.
“Time running down with the score tied ninety-five–all. Twenty seconds left and Cousy is covered, K.C. is covered, Russell takes it himself down the key . . .”
Cassidy swiped at the ball as he went by, but Stiggs did a smooth crossover dribble and left him flailing at empty air as he laid the ball gently on the backboard for an easy bucket.
“The crowd goes . . .” Stiggs began.
“. . . wild . . .” said Cassidy, grabbing the ball, “. . . but maybe too soon, because Jerry West takes the inbound pass and is bringing it up the floor with just five seconds left . . .” Cassidy was dribbling back to the foul line, dodging nonexistent opponents.
“But it’s too late because . . .” said Stiggs.
“. . . Almost too late as he shoots his famous jump shot from the top of the key . . .” said Cassidy.
The “jump shot” was the same two-handed set shot but with an added little hop at the end. Again, it touched nothing, but it was much closer than the last one and may have even gone in.
“Swish!” said Cassidy.
“But the referee ruled the shot was not in time . . .” said Stiggs, chasing the ball as it bounced under the basket and off the court.
“But then the other referee overruled him and said the shot was good and the game was over and the Lakers win! The end, and good night!” Cassidy grabbed the ball out of Stiggs’s hands and thrust his face up at the bigger boy.
“Drive carefully, folks,” Cassidy said.
Stiggs slapped the ball away from Cassidy and began dribbling back toward the foul line.
“But then the other other referee put two seconds back on the clock and . . .” Stiggs was not giving up yet.
“NOOO!” said Cassidy and Randleman together. Randleman, like Cassidy, was a Lakers fan, plus he maintained that these imaginary contests should adhere to a few very basic laws of physics.
“No, he already got you,” said Randleman.
“. . . and it’s up and it’s . . .”
But Cassidy and Randleman were already fetching their T-shirts.
“. . . just short,” said Stiggs, conceding finally. He undid the strap from his black Buddy Holly glasses and wiped the sweat from his eyes with his shoulder as the other two raced to the water fountain.
After they had thoroughly waterlogged themselves, they sat on the picnic table by the monkey bars and contemplated their tight, water-balloon bellies. Still a little red faced, Stiggs was lying on his back on the tabletop, his skinny legs dangling off the end, watching the fast-moving orange clouds moving across the south Florida sky.
Randleman tried to interest them in the dingy cigarette stub he had salvaged from his dad’s ashtray, but no one was in the mood. All three felt the palpable stillness of stopped kid time that comes at twilight, when the day is over but night hasn’t quite begun. Those in-between moments seemed to exist separate and apart from the rest of time; they sensed this intuitively and always tried to make them last.
So now they lolled about, putting off the moment they would have to collect themselves and pedal the mile and a half back to Rosedale Street.
No one wanted to be the one to call it, though. Randleman slouched backward on one bench, studying his old sixth-grade classroom, where Mr. Meredith had once awakened him from a sound midmorning nap with a well-aimed eraser. Stiggs was still on his back but no longer watching the clouds. Stiggs’s eyes were almost shut, as if he were dozing off. But then he said, softly:
“Imagine that. I bet ol’ Chip Newspickle was surprised as hell.”
CHAPTER 13
* * *
THE JUPITER HILTON
The sun was just climbing out of the ocean beyond the far end of the Singer Island bridge. The fat tires of Cassidy’s old Schwinn buzzed pleasantly on the heavy metal grating of the drawbridge as he pedaled across, using a splay-footed style to keep from banging his knees on the zinc bucket hanging from his handlebars.
Racing the Rain Page 5
