Their first competition was at home, a dual meet with Pompano, a junior high farther down the coast. Cassidy was put in the half mile, along with Demski and Lenny Lindstrom. Pompano had a runner named Mizner, tall, dark complected, and reed thin. He was all business, too, jumping out to the lead at the gun. Demski fell in behind, with Cassidy behind him. Everyone else just let them go.
They ran that way for a sixty-nine-second first lap. As they came by the starting post, Demski tried to make a move to pass Mizner, but the taller runner was having none of it. Demski fell back in behind again before the first turn. Cassidy’s frustration grew with every step. He had no trouble with the pace, but his ridiculous man-carrying-a-box running style all but hamstrung him. Every time he tried to bring his knees up a little bit higher to produce some speed, his rebellious thighs screamed.
Throughout the second lap, he watched with increasing misery as Mizner and Demski battled it out up ahead. It wasn’t just that he was behind, but more from the knowledge that he wasn’t at all tired. He knew that without this handicap he would be right up there mixing it up with Demski and Mizner.
As it was, Demski finally got around Mizner before the last turn, and they battled all the way down the final straightaway, with Demski winning by a yard in 2:21. Cassidy galloped in awkwardly, fifteen yards back, but ahead of Lindstrom and the two Pompano runners.
Walking around in circles, trying to catch his breath, Cassidy was muttering and trying to spit, but failing at even that. He had so little saliva that his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. His invective was therefore unintelligible.
Coach Bickerstaff seemed annoyingly jubilant.
“That’s hanging in there, Quenton! You got us a point!”
“Craff!”
“Beg pardon?”
But Bickerstaff was off to congratulate Demski on his great kick, leaving Cassidy bent over, grabbing his knees, and sucking air. The frustration boiled over again when Demski gave him a big grin and a high sign. Cassidy gave him a wave then bent back over, pounding on his inflamed thighs with his fists.
It didn’t help.
CHAPTER 17
* * *
LONG WEEKEND
The torture continued through April, and Cassidy didn’t know which was worse, the pain or the frustration. Or maybe the fact that Coach Bickerstaff was actually pleased with his piddling performances. The more fourth and fifth places he suffered through, the more Bickerstaff seemed to think he was the king bee!
But Cassidy now knew something was seriously wrong with him, and that if he could just stop training long enough for it to heal, he would have been fine. He begged Bickerstaff to let him try taking a few days off, and got a “nice try” chuckle in response. Bickerstaff had spent much of his ten coaching years listening to goldbricking kids.
The first week in May, a teachers’ planning day on Monday gave them a long weekend. With no scheduled meets, Cassidy purposefully didn’t run a step for three days in a row. Instead, he and Stiggs and Randleman hiked in to Trapper Nelson’s camp on the rugged Jeep road, packing in supplies for a weenie roast. Trapper already had the fire going and the table set when they got there, so they spent a pleasant hour on the rope swing, dropping into the cool river and trying to splash Willie the parrot, who was far too smart to stay in range of teenagers.
They had brought two packages of hot dogs, one for them and one for Trapper. Trapper ate the whole package save a single hot dog. The boys had two hot dogs each, and thus two were left over. Trapper was eyeing the remaining three weenies on a paper plate at the end of the picnic table, but finally declared a truce.
“There was a time when I would have finished them off and been looking for more. I guess I’m slowing down a bit,” he said.
“I wish I could slow down like you,” said Randleman, flexing a biceps. He had lifted weights for years trying to develop a physique like Trapper’s.
“Yeah, well, don’t wish your life away, Youngblood. You’ve got plenty of time. Hey, looks like your ride’s here. All day-campers to the dock!”
“To the dock!” cried Willie the parrot.
The twenty-two-foot Aquasport was just pulling in from downriver with Randleman’s dad at the wheel. He was a retired Air Force officer who now sold insurance, and sold a lot of it, judging by the little tricked-out boat with its bimini top, outriggers, dive platform, and front canopy. There was another man on the boat sitting very erect in the back. It took Cassidy a moment to place the judge.
“All aboard!” Captain Randleman called out.
“How you doing, Pete?” Trapper called. “You guys do any good today?”
“Hey, Trap. Got one sail. The judge had another one on for half an hour but lost it at the gaff. Trolled the ledges a bit and picked up some rock hinds. Leave you a few if you want. Not a bad day for a late start.”
Trapper was helping Stiggs and Randleman get their gear down to the dock. Cassidy had gotten permission to spend the night and, stuffed from dinner, was content to watch the activity from the deck.
“You okay, Quenton?” someone called from the boat.
Cassidy peered out over the rail. It was Judge Chillingworth calling to him. He gave Cassidy a little wave.
“Hi, Judge. Doing fine, sir. Hello, Captain Randleman.”
“Coach Bickerstaff says you’re tearing them up on the track,” said Captain Randleman. For some reason this made Cassidy’s heart sink.
“I don’t know about that,” he said, hoping his chuckle didn’t sound forced.
* * *
After they’d cleared away the dinner things and cleaned the little groupers, Cassidy and Trapper sat on a homemade bench by the fire. It wasn’t exactly chilly out, but the warmth felt good anyway. Trapper was slicing up a pair of lusciously ripe Hayden mangoes from his own tree, handing some pieces to Cassidy and some to Willie, who would fly down to the table, snatch a piece of fruit, then return to his limb to eat it.
“So, what’s been going on with you, anyway? I can tell something’s up,” said Trapper.
With only a little prodding, Cassidy told him about his wounded thighs and the misery they had been causing.
“This has been going on for how long?”
“Since the start of track, back in March.”
“Hmmm.”
“I’ve thought about asking my parents if I can go to the doctor.”
“Well, you could do that. In my experience, though, most regular doctors don’t know a lot about sports injuries and it sounds like you have a sports injury.”
“Coach Bickerstaff thinks I’m just trying to get out of doing the workouts. He says I’ve got growing pains. But Trapper, I like to run.”
“I know you do. And this has gone on way too long for growing pains.”
“That’s what I thought. But I don’t know what to do. I’m so tired of running with this ridiculous stride like a waterbird just to get through the workouts. Then, on the weekends when we have meets, I barely hang on in races I think I could win! All I want to do is be able to run like I know I can.”
“I don’t blame you for being upset, Quenton. Coach Bickerstaff is a good man, but he’s pretty much overworked with all the different sports they have him doing, in addition to teaching phys ed and doing the administrative stuff. I believe he mostly played basketball in college, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but he ran sprints in track. I think he was pretty fast. He has some trophies.”
“Okay, sprinters are a different breed. Tell you what, all I know about running is doing road work for boxing. Let me talk to Dennis Kamrad at the high school about this. They finally hired him over there to teach civics and coach the varsity crew full-time. Rowing is an endurance sport. He’s a smart guy. I’ll bet he’ll have some ideas.”
“That would be terrific, if you would.”
“I’ve also got this friend out in Kansas, guy I worked with one summer when Charlie and I were on the road. He hurt his leg really bad as a kid, got run over by a truck
. They wanted to amputate it, but the kid put up such a fuss they let him keep it. They were pretty sure he would never walk again. But he not only walked, he became a great—and I mean great—runner. We got to be pretty good friends that summer. I’ll write to him. Better yet, I’ll call him up, long distance, next time I get into Stuart to pick up my mail. If anybody can help, he can.”
“Trapper, that would be . . . I just . . . Thanks, Trap, thank you.”
“Save it till we see how it goes. May not pan out at all. But I’d put money on my guy. He was really a terrific athlete in his day.”
“What event did he do?”
“The mile.”
“What’s his name?”
“Archie San Romani.”
“Never heard of him.”
“That’s funny, he speaks highly of you.”
It took Cassidy a few seconds to get it.
CHAPTER 18
* * *
FAINT GLORY
When Monday afternoon arrived hot and still, Cassidy was amazed to find that his thighs barely hurt at all. He jogged the warm-up mile like a normal human being and even had no trouble sprinting the straights and jogging the curves for another half mile.
“Wh-wh-where’s the fl-fl-fl-flamingo today?” said Demski.
“Flew the coop,” said Cassidy. “Better watch out, Ed.”
Ed grinned.
“Okay, jumpers and throwers meet with Coach Burke at the high-jump pit, sprinters get with Mr. Ayers on the infield for stretching, the rest of you over here with me,” said Coach Bickerstaff. “All right, listen up,” he said, after he had the runners grouped up. “We’ve got more than a month under our belts and we’re looking toward the big meets now. It’s gettin’ around to no-foolin’ time around here, boys.”
Bickerstaff’s Red Sox cap already had a dark sweat ring, and he was holding his clipboard out away from him to keep from dripping onto the mimeographed workout sheets.
“The workout today is eight times 440, with a—”
He was interrupted by the groans.
“All right, settle down. Eight quarters with a 220 in between, and, Demski, I want you to try to keep them as close to seventy-five as you can, the rest of you just do the best you can. Any questions? Yes, Lenny?”
“Who’s going to notify our next of kin?”
“Hardee har har har. Any other wisenheimer comments? All right, let’s do some striders back and forth on the straightaway. We’ll start in about five.”
Cassidy couldn’t believe how great it felt to be actually running again! He had a hard time restraining himself even on the little sprints they were doing.
“Whoa, hoss!” said Demski, as they finished a strider, barely able to keep up. Cassidy just grinned. This was what it was supposed to be like.
Demski had a very good sense of pace, and he finished the first quarter in seventy-four, with Cassidy and Lindstrom a step behind.
“Good, Ed!” said Bickerstaff. “Len and Quenton, way to hang in there. The rest of you were about eighty-two.”
Cassidy was thrilled. He barely felt the effort and didn’t stop for even a second to grab his knees. He just jogged on toward the far starting post, waiting for everyone else to catch up. Bickerstaff walked to the middle of the infield to be closer to the next start.
Demski came up to Cassidy ten yards before the starting line, gave him a funny look, then raised his arm as they approached the white post. He dropped his arm as they took off and they ran side by side the whole way. Demski pushed it a little over the last fifty yards, but Cassidy matched him and they finished exactly even.
“Seventy-two!” called Bickerstaff from the other side of the track. “Lenny seventy-eight, the rest of you about eighty-three.”
“Uh-oh,” said Demski, as they slowed to a jog, “Parsley is going to ralph.”
Sure enough, one of the slower guys, a small kid with a comical cowlick, ran to the outside of the track and let go, keeping his feet wide apart in a vain attempt to avoid splashing his shoes.
“I f-f-forgot Monday was spaghetti day,” Demski said, still jogging,
Demski and Cassidy were both breathing hard but not gasping. Cassidy was elated. The tops of his thighs merely tingled, nothing like the needle stabs that had tormented him for weeks. He could feel them more acutely now than during the warm-up, but it wasn’t bad at all.
Cassidy expected to get shut down by Ed eventually, so he figured he might as well earn a little credibility while he could. No way I can keep this up, but I can have some fun in the meantime, he thought.
On the next interval he blasted away at the post just as Ed dropped his arm. Cassidy got five yards on him and was surprised that Ed didn’t come right back. In fact, he didn’t make up the deficit at all. Cassidy concentrated on his long stride, stretching out on the back straight and just letting it rip all the way around the final curve. He expected Ed to come back on him at any moment, but he never did. Though he could now feel the sharp little stabs of pain in the tops of his thighs starting up again, it was nothing like before and nothing he couldn’t handle.
Bickerstaff was waiting at the white finish post, giving Cassidy a puzzled look as he blew past, ten yards in front of Demski.
“Sixty-eight,” said Bickerstaff, his voice soft. He collected himself somewhat before Demski came by.
“Seventy-two, Ed. Good one, you guys. All right, all the way through, the rest of you. Seventy-six, Lenny. Seventy-seven, seventy-eight, Miley. Okay, eighty, eighty-one, and eighty-two, Derwood, Jarvis. Good work, men. Keep moving. Number four coming up.”
Well, I’ve had my fun, Cassidy thought, and now I’m in for it. Ed’s gonna be ticked, and I’ve probably shot my wad.
But the next one went much the same. He finished in sixty-eight again, with Ed a full three seconds back this time.
Cassidy wasn’t sure what was going on. His little show of bravado had been intended as a kind of a joke, a quick grab for a snippet of glory before Ed and the others caught on and lowered the boom on him. But he had run with little pain and some very real joy at last, and no one else was to match him. In fact, they seemed to be falling behind. The rest of them were eyeing him curiously during the rests, even Demski.
Ed seemed to recover a little bit on number five and actually led most of the way, but Cassidy could tell the pace was getting to him, and he slipped past Demski in the last fifty yards and led by a second with another sixty-eight.
This time Ed stopped and grabbed his knees just past the finish line, and Cassidy did the same.
Coach Bickerstaff had grown strangely silent. After giving the stragglers their times, he walked over to where Cassidy and Demski were still bent over, gasping. He swatted their fannies with his clipboard.
“Okay, you guys,” he said. But it wasn’t the usual command to keep moving, just a gesture of encouragement.
Demski really came alive on the number six, and Cassidy had to admire the fight in him. He took the lead from the start, led all the way around the first turn, and then fought Cassidy off twice on the back straight. Cassidy thought he heard Bickerstaff call out a split time of thirty-three seconds at the 220, but figured he heard wrong.
Though the tops of his thighs were once again on fire, Cassidy drove down the final straightaway, leaving Ed struggling a full second behind.
“Sixty-seven,” Bickerstaff read from the watch as Cassidy went by. Again he said it in a normal voice, kept studying his watch, seeming surprised by what he was seeing.
The rest of the runners were now strung out so far that it was taking longer and longer to get them organized between intervals. Cassidy and Demski were grateful for the extra time provided by the stragglers, some of whom were now taking more than ninety seconds to finish.
They themselves could jog only a few yards before they had to walk again. When they started number seven it was obvious they were still blown out, and Bickerstaff had no doubt they were also trying to save a little something for the last one.
&nb
sp; But still they finished number seven in seventy-two seconds, coming across the line almost neck and neck. They stopped for a few seconds before jogging on, but they were the only ones capable of doing that. Everyone else staggered around in random clumps. Jarvis Parsley was collapsed on the infield, and Bickerstaff sent him to the locker room in the care of a manager.
Bickerstaff watched Cassidy and Demski jogging along with little slow, prancing steps all around the turn, sweat flying off them on every stride. Now, he thought. Now we shall see what we shall see.
But if he thought the anomaly of the earlier intervals was now going to be corrected and that the world would thus be set aright, he was in for one last surprise.
Cassidy sprinted away from Demski from the start and simply ran away from the rest of them. He telescoped his lead over Demski up to twenty yards before the end. Stiggs and some of the other jumpers were standing on the infield yelling themselves hoarse as he went by. Even some of the weight men joined in. The tops of Cassidy’s thighs were screaming at him again, but he didn’t care; he could endure anything for a few more seconds. He finished gasping, body frozen into a solid block of lactic acid, but many full seconds in front of Demski, who, anyone could easily see, was absolutely balls-to-the-wall flat out.
Bickerstaff studied his watch as Cassidy went by. If he called out a time, Cassidy didn’t hear it. He slowed to a straight-legged stagger, then halted, grabbed his knees, and wobbled around, working so hard to get air into his lungs he sounded in his own head as if he were shrieking. Demski and the rest were finishing now and doing likewise.
With a strange look on his face, Coach Bickerstaff walked over with the split timer held faceup in his right hand, the lanyard dangling. He held it down to where Cassidy was bent over, gasping.
Racing the Rain Page 8
