by Rich Wallace
Manny looked down at the river glistening in the moonlight. Then he unzipped his gym bag for the third time that evening, checking again to make sure he had his new racing shoes and his jersey. Coach Alvaro had handed out the jerseys the day before—red tank tops with HUDSON CITY CHARGERS in black lettering.
They parked in a giant, multi-level garage, and Coach Alvaro led the runners and their parents on the chilly walk along Fort Washington Avenue to the Armory.
“Wow!” said Manny as they entered the arena. It was the largest indoor space he’d ever been in—twenty times the size of the gym at his school. The six-lane 200-meter track was brick-red and the turns were sharply banked. On the infield was an eight-lane sprint straightaway, pole-vault and long-jump runways, and an area for the high jump. A huge American flag and a U.S. Olympic flag hung from the rafters high above the track, and swarms of kids were jogging on the track or stretching on the infield.
The Hudson City Chargers stood and looked around the arena. Manny’s mouth was open and his eyes were wide. He felt tiny. Was he ready for this?
Calvin let out a low whistle. “This is some facility,” he said.
“Guess we’ll find out what we’re made of,” Manny said. “This is the real thing.”
“I’ll get us registered,” Coach said. “You guys take a few laps before the meet begins. Get used to those banked turns.”
Manny jogged next to Calvin and Zero. “Let’s go a little faster on this turn,” he said after a few laps of the track. They began striding harder, racing through the turn and onto the backstretch.
“Weird,” Calvin said as they slowed to a jog. “Feels like one leg’s longer than the other. Or like you’re running uphill sideways.”
“We’ll be all right,” Manny said. “It’s dry in here, though.” His throat felt tight from the short sprint. Racing indoors would certainly be different.
An announcement came to clear the track for the first event.
“You guys run in about thirty minutes,” Coach Alvaro told them as they joined the others in the bleachers. “Stay loose.”
Soon came the announcement they’d been waiting for. “First call, boys’ eleven-twelve sprint medley. Report.”
Manny shivered. Everyone in the arena would be watching him.
“Let’s go, guys,” Coach Alvaro said. He handed DiMarco an index card listing the team name and the four runners, with an estimated time of 4:35. “Hand this to the clerk. Remember—stick to the inside lanes. If you get forced outside on those steep turns, you’ll wind up running a lot of extra yardage.”
Manny took a deep breath and they made their way out of the bleachers to the floor.
About eighteen relay teams gathered near the starting line. DiMarco went over and handed in the card. Manny took a seat on the floor and watched as older runners sprinted by on the track. Fast, he thought. And strong. Runners, coaches, and other spectators in the bleachers above the track were cheering and pounding on the railing as the leaders neared the finish line.
DiMarco came back and kneeled next to his teammates. “We’re in the second section,” he said. “That’s good, I guess. We can watch the first heat and get a feel for how it goes.”
Manny nodded and shut his eyes and slowly let out his breath. His armpits were damp with nervous sweat. The runners around him waiting for the race looked serious. Determined. Their jerseys said things like PEGASUS TRACK CLUB, WASHINGTON HEIGHTS YMCA, ROCKAWAY ROADRUNNERS.
Nearby, four guys were jogging in a tight single-file line, making sharp handoffs with a baton. Their shirts said Bronx A.C. in yellow script against a black background that was slightly darker than their various skin tones.
“Those guys look good,” DiMarco said.
“They in our race?” Calvin asked.
“Same race, different section,” DiMarco replied. “The fastest section.”
The Hudson City runners stood and watched as that fastest section began. The 200-meter runners seemed to fly along the track, and the 400-meter runners were smooth and strong. Manny kept his eyes on the anchor runner for the Bronx A.C., who waited calmly at the line for his teammate to hand off the baton.
The Bronx A.C. runner took the baton and followed the two leaders for a lap before passing them both on the backstretch. He led comfortably for another lap, then seemed to accelerate as the others began to tighten. His lead grew steadily from there.
Manny looked up at the runner standing next to him, a tall, thin athlete from the Synergistic Track Club. “He’s fast,” Manny said.
The guy nodded. “That’s Kester Serrano. He’s wicked quick.”
Manny gulped and stretched his arms high above his head. They’d be on the track any second now.
“Second section,” called an official. “Let’s go.”
Zero and the other leadoff runners took their places on the track. Zero was in lane four. The runners would stay in their lanes for the first lap. The second runners would cut for the inside.
Zero stumbled as the gun went off but quickly recovered and stormed down the backstretch and around the second turn. Calvin was waiting, but he took off too soon and they fouled up the exchange. Calvin had to come nearly to a complete stop to grab the baton, and Hudson City was suddenly in last place.
Manny stared at the runners, barely blinking. DiMarco was bouncing up and down, waiting for the next handoff.
Calvin moved up to fifth before handing off, and DiMarco rapidly gained on the runner ahead of him. He moved into fourth place on his second lap, about twenty yards behind the leader.
Manny took the stick and sprinted through the first turn, opening a gap ahead of the fifth-place runner. He glanced up at the runners ahead of him. Can’t do it all at once, he thought. Move up steadily, then go all-out on the last lap.
Manny could hear his teammates yelling his name, but his focus was directly on the track and the runners in front. After one lap he began to relax. After two laps he could sense that he was gaining.
Two runners were still neck and neck at the front of the pack, but the third runner had begun to fade. Manny went into the second lane on the turn and moved ahead of him.
The bell sounded for the final lap, and the two leaders began to sprint. Manny accelerated, too, gaining slightly, but not enough. On the last turn the second-place runner finally broke, tightening up badly and losing contact with the leader. Manny was five yards behind, but he still felt smooth.
“Kick, Manny!” came the cry from DiMarco, and Manny responded by finding another gear. Racing down the middle of the straightaway, he caught his opponent and surged ahead, crossing the line in second place.
“Great job!” Coach said as they gathered in the bleachers a few minutes later. “You guys ran faster than half the teams in the first section. You’ll probably get medals.”
Coach took Manny aside. “You ran 2:22, Manny,” he said. “That’s terrific for a first race.”
“What did that other guy run?” Manny asked. “In the first section.”
“Serrano? He was about 2:18.” Coach patted Manny’s shoulder. “That’s close,” he said. “You get in a race with him and there’s no telling how fast you’ll go.”
Manny’s second race wouldn’t be for a couple of hours at least. He watched as Anthony and the others raced. Sherry ran a strong 800-meter leg, too. And Manny, Zero, DiMarco, and Tait had the thrill of claiming medals for their performance in the sprint medley.
Eventually, Manny and his teammates went back to the track to warm up for the mile relay. He glanced often at Serrano as they stretched and jogged. Manny would be running the third leg in this race, with DiMarco on the anchor.
The official looked up from his clipboard and spoke in a commanding voice. “Boys’ eleven-twelve mile relay, listen up. First section: Lane one, Suffolk Striders. Lane two, Bronx A.C. Lane three, Hudson City ...”
“Wow!” said DiMarco. “First section.”
“We deserve it,” Manny said. “We medaled in the other race.”
“Fast company,” said Calvin. He made a fist and raised it. “Big time.”
Zero and Calvin made a clean handoff this time, as all six runners came in within two meters of each other. On the infield, Manny ran in place for a few steps, then jumped straight into the air. The race was close. “Let’s go Calvin!” he yelled.
Kester Serrano took off his sweatshirt and shook his arms. It was obvious that he was running the third leg. Same as Manny.
The second runners completed their first lap, and an official waved the next group onto the track. Manny and the other five crowded onto the starting line.
“Spread out!” hollered the official, and each runner moved about an inch. Serrano’s elbow was leaning into Manny’s back.
Here they came. Calvin was falling off the pace of the leaders, but he was ahead of the Bronx A.C. runner and one other. In the chaos of the exchange, Manny took the baton in fourth place, about two yards out of third and another two yards ahead of Serrano. Nobody passes me, he thought as he set out in a full sprint.
The baton, light as it was, provided a nice counterweight as Manny leaned into the first banked turn, focused on the bright blue jersey of the runner just ahead.
On the backstretch, he could hear Anthony and the others yelling his name. Manny’s breathing was fierce. Hug that inside lane, he remembered.
One lap gone, and he could sense Serrano just off his shoulder. Manny ran harder.
Serrano went wide on the turn and pulled alongside Manny, his legs and arms churning. Manny moved out slightly, too. He had caught the runner in front of him, but he needed to get past before Serrano boxed him in.
Suddenly the three of them were running abreast. The runner in blue accelerated. Manny matched his pace, but his arms and legs were growing tighter. As they headed into the final turn, Serrano was forced to move into the third lane in an attempt to get past the other two runners. They came onto the homestretch inches apart.
Every step was an effort as Manny sprinted for the finish. He could see DiMarco waving his arms, and Manny grimaced as he extended the baton and his teammate grabbed it.
Manny collided with the runner in blue and they held each other up as they stumbled off the track. “Nice race,” Manny whispered.
The other runner just patted Manny’s shoulder, too tired to speak.
DiMarco managed to hold onto fourth place. Serrano’s team had a speedy anchor who moved up to second.
Manny recovered quickly, but his throat was dry and scratchy. He walked over to the pile of clothes where he’d left his sweatsuit.
Serrano was sitting on the floor near Manny’s stuff. He had his shoes off and was massaging his left foot. He wasn’t much taller than Manny, but he had large hands and feet to grow into. His hair was extremely short, shaved almost to the nub.
Serrano nodded to Manny. “You guys from Jersey?” he asked. He had a soft but intense voice, and he kept his eyes right on Manny’s.
“Yeah.” Manny coughed. His throat was dry and sore.
“Never heard of the Hudson City Chargers.”
“We’re brand-new.”
“I figured,” Serrano said. “Otherwise I’d know about you. I check all the results online. Find out who my competition is.”
“You ran awesome tonight.”
Serrano shrugged. “I do okay.”
“You ever run here before?”
“Like for three years,” Serrano said. “I got a bit of a rep. People know me.”
“You the Armory champion or something?”
Serrano smiled. “Got third in the 800 at the Metropolitan championships last winter. The top two guys moved up to thirteen-fourteen, so I guess I’m the favorite this year. But there’s lots of fast people who come here. White guy Patrick Bertone from Brooklyn was right on my butt last year, and this Nigerian from Flushing, Oscar Kamalu. Maybe you?”
“Hope so,” Manny said.
Serrano reached up his hand and Manny shook it. “Kester Serrano.”
“I know. Manny Ramos.”
“The Armory rocks,” Serrano said. “This meet tonight is kind of low-key, but wait till you see the place in January, February. Everybody is here then. From all over the city; it’s like the United Nations. Asian dudes. Brothers. You got Jamaicans. Dominicans. Long Island people. And everybody’s fast.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Yeah, we’ll be seeing each other,” Serrano said. He stood and reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt, pulling out a pair of thin-rimmed glasses. He blew on the frames, wiped them on his shirt, and put them on. “You think tonight was quick?” he said. “Just wait, Manuel. You ain’t seen nothing. ”
7
Basketball
Manny slept in on Saturday. It had been after midnight when they returned from the meet. Sal hadn’t budged when Manny entered their bedroom, but he was waiting when Manny woke up that morning.
“Did you win?” Sal asked excitedly.
“Take a look,” Manny said, pointing to his dresser. His two medals were there, and Sal hopped off his bed and picked them up.
“Wow!” Sal said. “You smoked everybody?”
Manny grinned. “Not exactly. Those are for a fifth and a fourth. But that’s not bad for our first meet.”
“I wish I had been there.”
“Next time you will. It was awesome, Sal. It felt like being a pro athlete. People from all over were competing. Fast runners, but I held my own.”
“Cool.”
“Wanna go to a basketball game?” Manny asked.
“Definitely!” Sal said. “The Knicks?”
Manny laughed. “No. At my school. I’m meeting Donald and Anthony in a half hour.”
“Great! Let’s get breakfast and get out of here.”
The two brothers walked down the hill and met Donald at the corner of the Boulevard. Donald was waiting for them; usually he was the late one.
“Where you been?” Donald asked. “I got here ten minutes ago.”
Manny shrugged. “Slept late. We were in New York until almost midnight.”
“Oh yeah, the big track meet,” Donald said. “You guys get slaughtered?”
“Not hardly,” Manny said. “We kicked some butt.”
“Big deal. Anybody can run.”
“Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” Manny said.
“I still say running is punishment.”
“I bet you’d like it.”
“No way.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes along the Boulevard’s rutted sidewalk, past small restaurants and liquor stores and a florist. Sal followed a few steps behind. When they reached 14th Street, a block from the school, Manny stopped under the big digital clock that jutted out from the bank building.
“What are you doing?” Donald asked.
“I told Anthony we’d meet him here.”
“What for?” Donald’s voice was impatient.
“To go to the game.”
“Hope it’s not crowded,” Donald said. “He’ll need three seats.”
Manny frowned, but he just looked at Donald for a moment instead of challenging him. Finally he said, “What’s your problem?”
“What?”
“You’re always busting on Anthony. But never to his face. He’s a good guy, but he’d pound you if he heard that.”
Donald waved his hand. “He’d never catch me.”
“Don’t be too sure.”
Sal pointed toward the next corner. “Here he comes!”
Donald held up his hand for a high five as Anthony approached. “What’s happening, bro?” he said.
Anthony smacked Donald’s hand. “My man,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going awesome.”
Manny gave Anthony a gentle punch on the arm. Then he looked at Donald curiously. What a fraud, he thought. Acting all buddy-buddy with Anthony two seconds after ripping on him.
The basketball team was playing against Lincoln. Hudson City was su
pposed to have a good team this year, but they’d gotten pounded in their opener a few days before. The wooden bleachers in the small gym were about a third full of spectators.
“There’s Sherry,” Anthony said, nudging Manny’s arm.
“Yeah,” Manny said. “She’s here to watch Fiorelli. She’s drooling over him.”
Jason Fiorelli was one of the stars of the basketball team, just as he’d been in football. He was a carefree kid with good looks and great athletic skills. Manny liked him. He wasn’t arrogant like a lot of the better athletes.
“Wish we had him on the track team,” Anthony said.
“He told me he might join the team in the spring,” Manny said. “After basketball.”
“He’d make a good sprinter,” Anthony said. “Probably a good jumper, too. Or a hurdler.”
“Or just about anything,” Manny said.
Donald sighed. “Can we talk about something besides track? It’s boring.”
“Not to us,” Anthony said.
“To everybody else it is,” Donald said.
Anthony looked around and smiled. “Everybody who? It’s just us sitting here. You bored, Sal?”
“No,” Sal said.
“See?” Anthony turned back to Donald. “Sal isn’t bored.”
Donald frowned. He leaned back on the bleachers and watched the basketball game.
At halftime, Sherry climbed the six steps of bleachers and walked over to the boys. She was wearing her Chargers track shirt over a black turtleneck, and she had her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“You guys recovered from last night?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” Manny answered. “You running later?”
“Yeah. Just two miles easy on the track. You?”
“Same thing.”
“Might as well do it together,” Sherry said.
“Okay.”
“I’ll meet you about half an hour after the game, okay?”
“At the track?”
“Yeah.”
Donald grabbed Manny’s arm. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I thought you were coming to my house after the game.”
“This is important,” Manny said. “I’ll come over later.”
