by Rich Wallace
“Comes with the territory,” Serrano said. “You got e-mail?”
“What? Sure.”
“Write down your address for me. I’ll be in touch.”
“Okay. Catch me upstairs.”
“You got it.”
Manny took a seat in the bleachers with his teammates, sipping from a bottle of blue Gatorade. His throat burned from the racing and the vomiting.
Coach came over eventually and took the seat next to Manny.
“How bad was my time?” Manny asked.
“Just over 2:22,” Coach said.
“That’s terrible. I’m supposed to be getting faster. ”
“You were on pace for a 2:16 until that monkey jumped on your back,” Coach said. “Listen, every good runner has races like that. It’s just part of the learning curve. You stayed with those guys for most of the race. The tough guys keep at it, whatever they’re up against. There’s nobody tougher than you.”
Manny nodded. He’d blown this opportunity, but there were plenty more ahead. He knew he could run faster. But those other guys—Bertone, Kamalu, Serrano—they were on a whole different level from him.
11
Two Meals Behind
By the time they got back to Hudson City late Saturday afternoon, Manny was starving. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and he hadn’t digested anything all day.
Manny had ridden over with Calvin, Zero, and Anthony in Mr. Martin’s van. As the runners unloaded outside the school, Manny had an idea. “Let’s all meet for wings or pizza or something.”
“Or both,” Anthony said. “Villa Roma?”
“Yeah. Let’s tell the others.”
Many of the runners agreed to meet at 6:30 at the restaurant. Manny had enough time to walk home, shower, and call Donald.
And brush my teeth, he thought. His mouth tasted stale and pukey.
“How’d you do?” Dad asked as Manny entered the house. Sal and his parents were having dinner.
“Not good,” Manny said. “Went out too fast and fell apart.”
“Those are the breaks.”
“Yeah. Okay if I go to Villa Roma? A bunch of people from the team are going.”
“Sure,” Mom said. “Didn’t you get anything to eat at the meet?”
“No. I threw up after my race. I couldn’t even think about eating until a little while ago. Now I’m starving. ”
“Do you want some pasta?” Mom asked. “Or Pepto-Bismol?”
“Nah, I’m all right. I just need a shower. We got any mouthwash?”
Villa Roma was right in the middle of town, and it attracted a young crowd. Most went there for the pizza and the video games. Manny looked through a stack of freshly washed T-shirts on his dresser, then thought twice and chose a blue button-down shirt from his closet instead.
Donald had said he’d show up later, so Manny walked downtown alone. The side streets were dark and cold, but the Boulevard was busy with traffic. Most of the restaurants were bustling.
Several of the runners were already at a big table toward the back when Manny arrived. He waved to Zero and Calvin.
Sherry and two other girls were there. She pointed to the seat next to her. “Sit here,” she said.
Manny shrugged and sat down between DiMarco and Sherry. She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt with TEEN QUEEN written on it in small, glittery beads. Her red hair was down. She smelled like perfume, but not too strong.
“Anybody order yet?” Manny asked.
“Just pitchers of soda,” Sherry said. “We were waiting for you and Anthony to show.”
“There he is.” Anthony was walking over with a big grin. He had his medal pinned to his sweatshirt—third place in the shot put.
A teenage waitress came over and looked around the table. “Big crowd,” she said. “What’s the occasion?”
“Anthony won a medal,” said Zero, pointing across the table.
“So did Sherry,” Anthony said. She’d placed fifth in the girls’ 800.
“We’re the fastest people in town,” Zero said. “And the hungriest.”
Manny asked for a hamburger, fries, a strawberry milk shake, and an order of wings.
“Feeling better, huh?” Sherry said.
“Feeling empty,” Manny replied. “I’m two meals behind, at least.” He patted his stomach. “Lots of room for expansion.”
Sherry laughed. “You missed my race.”
“Sorry. I was sick as a dog.”
“Yeah. You turned white.”
Manny shrugged. “I am half white.”
“I mean you were pale. Like you were going to pass out.”
“I know what you meant.”
Zero pounded his fist lightly on the table and raised a glass of Coke. “A toast to Manny, who did the fastest running of the day,” he said with a big grin. “After his race. From the track to the bathroom!”
Manny blushed and laughed. Anthony threw a wadded-up napkin at him. Then he opened his mouth wide and said, “Raaaaalph.”
Sherry rolled her eyes. “Are you guys gonna be gross?” “Who, us?” said Zero. “No way.”
“Just make sure there’s a clear path between Manny and the bathroom,” Anthony said. “Don’t get in his way, Sherry.”
Manny shook his head with an embarrassed smile. He tapped his chest with his finger. “Guts,” he said.
“We know,” said Zero. “All over the sink.”
“Very funny.”
When the food arrived, Manny drank half of his milk shake before starting on the hamburger. By the time he’d finished the fries, he was full. “You want any of these wings?” he said to Sherry.
“Maybe one,” she said.
“Anybody want these wings?” Manny said, louder.
“Send ’em over,” Anthony said. “Me and Zero will polish them off.”
Manny felt a smack on his shoulder. He turned to see Jason Fiorelli standing there, alongside Donald. “Not so fast with those wings,” he said. “Save some for us.”
“Where’d you come from?” Manny said.
“Donald called me. Told me you guys were hanging out here,” Fiorelli said, reaching for a wing.
Manny looked over at Donald. They hadn’t seen much of each other over the past couple of weeks. Was Donald hanging out with Fiorelli now?
Jason Fiorelli was considered the coolest kid in the sixth grade—an athlete and a comedian with good looks and the kind of attitude that never took anything quite too seriously. He was a star in football and basketball, and generally had at least a couple of girls following him around. He was fast and agile. The type of athlete Manny wanted to be. Sort of like Kester Serrano.
“Hi, Sherry,” Fiorelli said.
“Hey,” Sherry said flatly, looking past Fiorelli toward something at the front of the restaurant.
Donald brought a chair over from another table and slid in between DiMarco and Manny.
“What’s up?” Manny said.
“Nothing much,” Donald replied. He tipped his head slightly in Sherry’s direction and gave Manny a questioning look, like, What’s the story with you and her?
Manny turned up his hand and gave an I don’t know look back. Sherry had obviously been after Fiorelli this year. Jason hadn’t caved, though. Maybe Sherry had given up the chase.
Manny caught Donald’s eye and gave the same unspoken gesture about Fiorelli. Donald shrugged. “We been hanging out some,” he said.
Sherry had gotten up and walked to the jukebox. She was leaning against it, looking at the selections. Villa Roma was known for having a good jukebox, although there was almost nothing current on it. Mostly classic rock and dance, plus a dozen or so Frank Sinatra songs and some big band stuff.
Manny left his seat and walked over.
“I’ve got a couple of quarters,” he said when he reached Sherry.
“I already put in a buck.” She pointed to the listing for “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor. “What do you think of that?”
“Disco,”
he said dismissively.
“The best disco song of all time,” she said. “What do you want, Aerosmith or something?”
“My dad plays the Doors every time we come in here.”
“Okay.” Sherry punched in the numbers for “Light My Fire.” “That’s for your dad. What about you?”
Manny studied the selections. He glanced back at the table. Nobody was watching them. Anthony was sitting with his chair tipped back, talking to Mary Pineda. Zero and Calvin were playing table football with a wad of paper.
“A New Jersey boy,” he said. “State pride.”
“Sinatra?”
“No. Springsteen.”
“You got it,” she said. “And one more for me.” She chose Madonna’s “Borderline.”
Manny started to walk back to the table.
“Wait,” she said.
“What?” He stepped over.
Sherry leaned with her back on the jukebox and wiped her hands on her jeans. “Nothing,” she said.
“Come on. What?”
“I couldn’t believe it when Jason walked in here.”
“Why not?”
She looked over at the table. Jason and Donald were eating the wings and talking with their mouths full. She started to speak, then stopped.
Manny stood there flat-footed. He felt a trickle of sweat run down his side from his armpit.
“I asked him out about two weeks ago,” she said. “To come here for pizza, believe it or not.”
“So, what happened?”
“He said he’d get back to me. And he didn’t.”
“Oh.”
“He acted like it never happened. The next day in school he said hello like he always does, then he walked away real fast. The day after that he started avoiding me.”
Manny scratched his jaw. “Well,” he said, “Jason gets a lot of attention from girls.”
“No kidding,” she said. “He could have just said no.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, it’s not a secret that I asked him. All my girlfriends knew. So I ended up looking like an idiot.”
Manny nodded. “Sorry,” he said.
She shrugged. “It has its advantages,” she said. “Made me run my butt off every day to stop thinking about it.”
“Yeah. I can relate to that.”
“How?”
“Not ... you know. Not because of girls or anything. Just when I get frustrated. I run it out of me.”
“It seems to work. I got over it.” She tapped on the jukebox glass. “Then he came in here tonight.” She shook her head. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
Sherry glanced around the restaurant, then took a deep breath. “Can we go outside?”
“Sure.” They got their coats and stepped out to the sidewalk. “What’s going on?” Manny asked.
“Had to get out of there,” Sherry said. She hesitated, then asked, “Do you think I’m too tough?”
“What do you mean? You have to be tough to be a runner.”
She tilted her head back and squinted from the glow of the streetlight. “Too tough for a girl, I mean.”
He looked at her for a moment. “Why should that matter?”
“I don’t know. Somebody like Jason ... I mean, what do guys think about a girl who ... you know what I mean. I can beat most of the guys on the team.”
“So?”
“Am I girly enough? I’ve been this tomboy all my life. And then I try to change my image a little, and Jason doesn’t even respond.”
Manny leaned against the building. Who was he to give advice to a girl? But he’d try.
“There’s plenty of female athletes,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Yeah, but even for the other girls on the team, it seems like more of a social event than a sport,” she said. “I mean, I want to kick butt when I’m racing. One reason I quit gymnastics was because I was too intense. I kept screwing up because I was trying too hard.”
“You gotta work hard at sports. That’s what I love about it.”
“But does it turn guys off if a girl is like that?” Sherry asked. “My mind-set is a lot more like you and DiMarco than it is like Mary or the others.”
Manny looked uptown at the digital clock by the bank. It was 8:18 and twenty-eight degrees. He buttoned the top two buttons of his coat and blew on his fist. “I don’t know,” he said. “All I know is when I’m in a race or a game or even in practice, I go all-out. I don’t care what anybody thinks.”
“Guys are supposed to be like that.”
“I suppose.”
“You’re right, though. I need to be who I am.” A few flakes of snow had started to fall. They appeared in the circle of light closest to the streetlight then disappeared. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re all right.”
“You, too.”
Sherry gently swung her arm until her fist smacked Manny’s shoulder. “Pow,” she said. She stuck out her tongue, then smiled, turned, and went back into the restaurant.
Manny exhaled, and his breath came out in a stream of vapor. He looked back up the Boulevard.
His legs were tired. He’d sleep like a rock tonight. Rest tomorrow.
And on Monday he’d get back to work.
12
Nearing the Peak
On Monday, Coach Alvaro had Manny work on holding a steady pace, putting him through eight repeats of 200 meters at 33 seconds each with a 200-meter jog between.
On Tuesday, Manny ran four miles through the streets of town, concentrating on staying relaxed, especially going up the hills.
Wednesday’s workout featured longer intervals: a set of four 400-meter trials with DiMarco, Calvin, and Zero.
And on Friday after school, the team headed for the Jersey City Armory for a low-key development meet. Coach had Manny run the mile for a change of pace, and he triumphed at the longer distance by steadily pulling away from the field.
“Good one,” Coach said after Manny had recovered. “You’ve got one more shot at the 800 next weekend; then the Metropolitan championship is a week after that. I think you can win it, Manny.”
“We’ll see.”
Manny was still haunted by his collapse in the last 800-meter race, and he was eager to erase the memory. He’d badly wanted to compete at that distance today, but Coach was firm in his belief that a mile would serve him better.
“Your speed is great; it’s the endurance that you need to build,” Coach said. “Be patient. You’re just starting to peak. We’ll get one more fast race in next weekend, then set you loose at the championship.”
Manny walked over to Donald’s late Saturday morning. A light snow had fallen overnight, but it was already beginning to melt. The winter had been mostly dry—a big plus for the track team, since they trained entirely outside.
Today Manny didn’t want to think about training or racing. He needed a break.
Two days off, he decided. Nothing but relaxing and eating.
“What’s going on?” Donald said when he answered the door.
“You up for hanging out?” Manny said.
“Definitely.”
“You eat yet?”
“A little.” Donald ran his hand through his hair. It looked like he’d just gotten out of bed. “I could eat again.”
“Let’s get some pizza.”
“Sure. Then you want to go to the high school wrestling match?”
“Why not?” Manny had never been to one.
“I been to the last two matches,” Donald said. “It’s awesome.”
They got pizza at Luigi’s, a small place just off the Boulevard. “Better food here than Villa Roma,” Donald said.
“Not as much fun, though,” Manny said. Luigi’s didn’t have a jukebox or video games. Just four tables set tightly in the front of the room. Most of their business was take-outs and deliveries.
Donald crammed the last of his second piece of pizza into his mouth. “Take that with you,” he said, pointin
g to what was left of Manny’s second piece. “I don’t want to miss the first match.”
“What difference does it make?”
“Hudson City’s best wrestler is the smallest,” Donald said. “Hector Mateo at 103 pounds. He’s undefeated. Pins everybody.”
They hustled along the Boulevard to the high school and got into the gym just as Mateo was taking the mat against a wrestler from Bayonne. Both wrestlers were lean and not very tall. But Mateo had thick muscles and was quicker than his opponent. He shot in low and gained control.
“I saw him pin a guy in sixteen seconds last week,” Donald said.
The Bayonne wrestler managed to escape, but Mateo rapidly took him down again. This time, there was no escape. Mateo executed the pin in little more than a minute.
“The great thing about this sport is that you wrestle people your own size,” Donald said. “Not like football, where we had to tackle guys who outweighed us by sixty pounds.”
Manny nodded. His father had been a successful amateur boxer, and he had told Manny the same thing about that sport. He’d had his nose broken a couple of times, though.
“We could start wrestling when we get to seventh grade. You think you might?” Donald asked.
“I don’t know. I never thought about it.”
“You’d be good.”
“Maybe. You?”
“I think so,” Donald said. “I think I’d like it.”
“Yeah, it would suit you.” Manny pictured Donald out there, straining with all his might against another wrestler. “Hard work.”
“I can handle it.”
“Working out can be fun, believe it or not.”
“Yeah,” Donald said. “If you find the sport you like.”
“That’s the key.”
Bayonne was strong in the middle weight classes and wound up winning the match. Donald kept his eyes on the mat all afternoon. “Wrestling’s definitely the sport for me,” he said when it was over.
“That’s great,” Manny said. The wrestlers reminded him of runners, totally focused on the event, giving everything they had. And having to do it alone. No teammates could help you in a race or a match. Could Donald handle it? Why not? “You’d be a natural,” Manny said.
