Run, Billy, Run

by Matt Christopher

  Because his father needed him to help with more cutting of the tree, plus felling a second and a third, Billy missed the next day of practice. It worried him what Coach Seavers might say to him when he resumed practice. But wood was a necessity, and it was free for the taking. Procuring it had to be done. Maybe the coach would understand that — and maybe he wouldn’t.

  It was on Wednesday morning that Billy saw Coach Seavers in the hall. The coach was alone, carrying a book in his hand, and walking at a brisk pace, as if he were in a hurry to get somewhere. Wearing a blue blazer, a striped tie, and light gray slacks, he looked altogether different from the person in coach togs who commanded his track and field squad like an army general.

  It was between periods when students were changing classes, so the corridor was crowded. Billy eased over toward the side in the hope that the farther away he got from the coach the greater the possibility was that the coach wouldn’t see him.

  He was right. At least he thought he was, since the coach didn’t glance at him once, speaking only to those students who passed close by him and spoke to him.

  Billy knew it was just a moment’s respite. If he didn’t meet the coach face to face in the hall, he’d meet him on the field.

  He wasn’t able to keep out of sight of Seattle and Rudy, though, and their taunting remarks.

  “What did you do, quit?” asked Seattle. “Can’t take it?”

  “He hates to come out on the tail end all the time,” grinned Rudy. “Can’t blame him.”

  “I didn’t quit,” Billy said emphatically. “I had work to do.”

  “Work? You got a part-time job or something?” Seattle seemed to be having a delightful time jibing him.

  Rudy grabbed Billy’s hand, but Billy yanked it away from him before Rudy could see the calloused, open-blistered palm.

  “I saw you carrying wood,” said Rudy. “You and Dan and your old man. That the work you talking about?”

  “That’s the work,” Billy said.

  “Maybe that’s what you’re cut out for, Billy,” said Seattle. “A lumberjack. Timberrrrrr!”

  Billy walked away, bristling with anger, the sound of Seattle’s and Rudy’s laughter echoing behind him.

  After school he took the early bus home again to help his father saw down a tree, cut it into about five-foot lengths, carry them to their back yard, saw them to shorter lengths, then chop them and neatly stack up the kindling-size wood in a tall, round pile. Dan helped, too. And Christina, wearing blue jeans, a warm jacket, and gloves, worked alongside her brothers and father as hard and steadily as they, the sweat rolling down her nose and cheeks.

  “Good job, kids,” their father praised them when the job was done. “This will cure pretty good through the summer, and will burn real nicely when we need it next winter.”

  “Are we going to saw down any more trees, Dad?” Dan asked.

  “One more,” replied his father, grinning at his younger son. “Why? Getting tired?”

  “Darn tired,” said Dan.

  They laughed, and Mr. Chekko ruffled the boy’s hair. “It’s the law of the game, Dan,” he said sympathetically. “We’ve got to work to eat, work to keep warm. I’m going to buy a few tons of coal, too, but the more wood we burn, the more money we’ll save.”

  That, Billy knew, was the crux of the whole thing. Keeping expenses down, and saving money. Mom and Dad sure didn’t have it easy.

  “Can I stay after school tomorrow and practice with the track team, Dad?” asked Billy. “I’ve missed two practices already.”

  “What’s tomorrow? Thursday? Okay. You can practice. But if Dan and I are in the woods you’d better hightail it out there as soon as you get home.”

  “Okay.” He knew he’d have to go out to help his father and Dan even if he was dead tired from practicing, but it was worth it. Running remained uppermost in his mind, and he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to run on Cove Hill’s track team.

  As they headed for the house, Dan asked him if he knew that there was going to be a meet tomorrow between Cove Hill and Mercer.

  “No,” said Billy. He never discussed his running at home unless someone else mentioned the subject first.

  He hadn’t heard about it, nor had he paid any attention to the notices that were up on the bulletin board. Usually they were about careers, and he wasn’t keenly interested in them yet.

  “You going?” Dan asked.

  Billy glared at him. “Sure I’m going!”

  He hadn’t seen Wendy all week, except from a distance that was often too far to speak across. But he would catch a light in her eyes that suggested to him that she had very much noticed him, and might even wish that he would make an effort to go to her and say something. But he didn’t feel secure enough to talk to her. He felt sure that she was only singling him out because she was sorry for him, and he despised that.

  She was at the meet with two other girls, one of whom was the auburn-haired Pearl McCarthy. He didn’t know the other one — a tall, skinny brunette — and didn’t much care if he ever did.

  He sensed Wendy looking at him as he trotted by her on his way to the other runners grouping around Coach Seavers.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” he answered.

  “Good luck!” she called to him.

  “Thanks!”

  He came to a stop in the rear of the ring that formed in front of the coach, but it was as if that mastermind had seen him approaching and was waiting for him.

  “Chekko!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you think this is, a social event that you can come to any time you wish? Where were you during the rest of the week?”

  “I had to work, sir. Help my father.”

  “Okay. Fine. I can appreciate that. But I can’t tolerate it.” His boisterous voice carried even beyond the perimeter of listeners. It was evident he didn’t care who else heard him. “Your father doesn’t work on Fridays?”

  “He works every day, sir. From seven to three. Except weekends.” Billy’s eyes went past the coach’s, looked at nothing in particular. His lower lip quivered. The coach either enjoyed embarrassing him in front of all these people or else he didn’t care.

  “Okay, Chekko. I’m not going to ask you to go into detail for me about what kind of work you help your father with. I only hope it’ll help in what I want you to do. Do I make myself clear, Chekko?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Okay, men,” he said, turning his attention to the whole team now. “We’re competing in a practice session with Mercer. They win a lot of meets, but we’re not concerned about that today. We’re only interested in competition. Who wins or loses makes no difference. But —” He paused to let the word sink into the athletes’ minds — “that doesn’t mean you’re at liberty to run or jump or whatever with only two-thirds or even nine-tenths of your capabilities!” he went on, his voice rising. “I want you to put your one hundred percent into it! Understand? I want you to think it’s the real thing! That you are here to win! And if you’ve got any other thoughts about that on your minds you’re on the wrong team!”

  Then he let his eyes rove over each and every man, as if to challenge them one by one. No one said a word.

  Chapter 8

  BILLY WATCHED the sixty and the one-hundred-yard dashes, both won easily by Cody Jones. He couldn’t help noticing Pearl McCarthy rush up to Cody, throw her arms around his neck, and kiss him after each win, while Wendy and the other girl stood back and watched.

  He didn’t know what he was going to run in, but he hoped it would be the eight-eighty, the mile, and the two-mile, the distances he had signed up for. He felt certain that he could perform better in those distances than in any others.

  What’s the coach going to do? he wondered. Wait till the last minute before he tells me? Most of the other guys seemed to know in which races they were to run, but not him.

  Well, he was sure he would’ve known if he’d been at the workouts ev
ery day. Maybe the coach kept him in suspense until the last minute to teach him a lesson.

  “Okay, Chekko. Get ready for the two-twenty,” Coach Seavers said, surprising him by coming up behind him and grabbing his elbow. “I want to see what you can do. Remember, pick up those knees. Pump those arms. Exert yourself the entire distance. Exert, exert, exert. Be ready, Chekko.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  The two-twenty? Oh, man.

  From that moment on he began to feel like a bundle of wires, each one being stretched to the breaking point. He tried to avoid Wendy’s eyes when she came near him. He didn’t want her to see how nervous he was.

  “Well, Billy, which one are you in, huh?” asked Cody, smiling with the confidence of a winner. “Or ain’tcha?”

  “The two-twenty,” replied Billy.

  “So am I! How about that? Any other?”

  “I don’t know. The coach didn’t say.”

  He warmed up for the race by jogging on the track with the other runners between races. Then the order came that the two-twenty was to start in two minutes, and the runners got ready. There were four, two from each school. Me and Cody running for Cove Hill, thought Billy. Me, when the coach could have picked one or two others who surely must be faster than I am.

  The runners were given their lanes. Billy was in lane two. The runners on either side of him were from Mercer. Cody was in lane four.

  They set their starting chocks in place. First the left, then the right, the left again till the runners were satisfied.

  “Take your mark!” called the starter.

  Billy crouched down, held his fingers tightly together and laid the tips down against the cindered track, his right knee down, his foot back.

  “Get set!”

  He lifted his knees, pushed his body slightly forward, got his drive leg — the left leg — ready to catapult him.

  Bang! went the gun.

  Billy took off, putting pressure against the chock with his left leg to give him the momentum he needed. Then he was up and away, arms pumping at his sides, legs pounding under him as fast as he could make them go.

  Even before the runners had gone ten yards Billy saw the ones on either side of him moving slowly past him. He kept his eyes straight ahead, but from the corner of his right eye he could see Cody and the runner beside him out-distancing him by two yards . . . three yards . . . and steadily gaining.

  He struggled hard to catch up, to make a better showing, but his legs just wouldn’t produce. Then it was over. A Mercer runner won; Cody came in second. Billy, a pitiful last.

  “Yay, Billy!” an unfamiliar voice shouted from the crowd. “You get the booby prize, Billy!”

  Someone else yelled another humiliating remark at him, and he wanted to head for the locker room before there was a chorus of them. But he knew he couldn’t do that. He had to stay, to face the humiliation, whether he was going to run in another race or not.

  The runners kept running on the track, gradually slowing their paces as they turned around and came back.

  Billy saw the coach approach and talk to Cody, who was bent over now, hands on his knees, still breathing heavily from the run. For a second their eyes met — Billy’s and Coach Seaver’s — and Billy wondered whether the coach might want to say something to him. Insult him. Criticize him. For it seemed that it was only to the best performers that he offered genuine praise.

  But the coach’s eyes shifted back to Cody as if they hadn’t met Billy’s at all. Billy looked away, and walked over to the area where the discus throwing meet was taking place. He stayed there till a girl, one of the scorekeepers, tapped him on the elbow and said that the coach wanted to see him.

  “See me?” he echoed. “What does he want to see me about?”

  “I think he wants you to run in the four-forty, too,” she said.

  He stared at her. “You sure?”

  “Well, that’s the next race coming up,” she said. “I’m just guessing.”

  He ran back to the track where he saw Coach Seavers talking now to Luke Maynard and Dick Koski, a blond-haired youth about six inches shorter than Luke.

  “You want me, Coach?”

  “Yes, I do, Chekko. How do you feel?”

  “Okay.”

  “Fine. I want to see what you can do in the four-forty.”

  “I’ll try my best, sir.”

  “You tried your best in the two-twenty,” said the coach tartly. “It wasn’t very good.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You sure you’re not too tired?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay. You’re running with Maynard and Koski. ” A whistle shrieked close by. “Get going. Give me all you’ve got. Okay?”

  “Okay, Coach,” all three of them said, almost in unison.

  The race for first place was close. Mercer again took it, but it was only by a step. Each team had three runners competing. Koski came in second, Luke third. Billy came in next to last.

  After a brief tapering-off run, he bent over and put his hands on his knees. Sweat poured off his face. His chest heaved. He felt disgraced, humiliated. Last, and then next to last. It wasn’t much of an improvement.

  “You okay, Chekko?” said a voice.

  He shook his head. “I’m okay. Just winded.”

  The coach patted him on the back. “You slowed down in that last seventy to eighty yards,” he said curtly. “I think that work you’re doing at home tired you, Chekko. Better get a good rest tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Billy straightened up, and saw the coach walking toward the girl who had informed Billy earlier that the coach wanted to see him. He suddenly felt alone and ignored, but he hardly cared.

  Dan and Christina came running up to him.

  “You’re not going home, are you?” Christina asked, looking at him intently.

  “Yes, I am. Right after I shower.”

  “Can we stay?” asked Dan. “We’ll go home on the spectators’ bus.”

  Billy shrugged. “Okay by me.”

  “Thanks, Billy. See you later.”

  They ran off, and he turned and headed toward the school. Nice showing I made for you kids, wasn’t it? he thought. Beats me why you want to stay. I’d think you’d be so ashamed of me you’d want to leave, too.

  But why should they be ashamed of him? They were his family, but they were also individuals. They didn’t necessarily have to suffer just because he did.

  He had his gaze down, his mind wrapped up in thoughts, when a smooth, soft voice brought him out of his reverie.

  “Billy? Penny for your thoughts.”

  He slowed his steps and turned. “Hi, Wendy.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Home.”

  “You’re not going to see the rest of the meet?”

  “I’ve seen enough,” he said.

  He looked away from her and started on again.

  “I thought you ran pretty well,” she said. “You were ahead of all but one of them for over half the race. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you were. Then you slowed down. Are you all right? I mean, do you feel okay?”

  He nodded. “Just tired,” he confessed.

  There was a short pause. Neither one seemed to have any more to say.

  “See you next week?” she said then.

  “Sure.”

  While he was under the shower Wendy’s words tumbled over and over again in his mind. You were ahead of all but one of them for over half the race. He remembered being ahead of two or three of the runners, but he hadn’t realized he had led almost all of them that long. That definitely was an improvement over his performance in the first race. Perhaps the coach had figured it right. What slowed him down was the work — sawing, carrying, and chopping wood. But Billy saw no avenue of escape from those tasks. Mr. Chekko was as firm in having his sons help him with those muscle-straining chores as Coach Seavers was in building up a winning track team. />
  When he finished dressing he put his things, including the duffel bag, into his locker, and left. Why take the uniform home for a wash when it had hardly gotten soiled?

  He started running the moment he got out the door. The shower had refreshed and relaxed him. He felt a mite tired, but figured that if he became too tired during the run he’d reduce his pace to a walk. The run home wasn’t significant now. He just wanted to get away from the track. The sooner the better.

  Twice he slowed his pace down to a walk. The school was four and a half miles from home. He had run the distance at least a dozen times. But the distance seemed longer now. He was tiring quicker than he could remember tiring before.

  His mother stared at him as he entered the house. “I didn’t hear the bus,” she said.

  “It hasn’t come yet,” he told her. “I ran home.”

  She looked into his eyes, searching his thoughts. “You didn’t stay through the whole thing?”

  “No.”

  “You lost, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I was in two races, lost them both.”

  “And you got disgusted and came home.”

  “Yes.”

  He sat down by the kitchen window. Something was cooking in the oven. He sniffed but couldn’t determine what it was.

  “Why did you go out for track if you get disgusted so easily?” she asked him.

  He was looking at the wall clock. It read ten to five. The meets usually got over between five and five-thirty.

  “I thought I’d do better than I have,” he confessed, turning his attention to his fingernails which, he saw, needed clipping.

  “But you’re just starting. What else can you expect? You want to be a champion right off the bat?”

  He got up to look for the nail clippers. “I don’t know what to expect,” he said.

  “Well, don’t expect that,” she said. “You have to creep first. It’s like everything else a person wants to be a winner in. You have to start from the bottom of the totem pole.”

  “You’re right, Mom,” he said. “Way down on the bottom.”

  He found the clippers and stepped outside on the back porch to do the manicuring. He heard the splitting and thudding sound of wood being chopped, and saw his father busy wielding an axe by the woodpile.