Darius & Twig (11 page)

“The games seemed tough to me,” Willie said.

“They got a list of all the school districts in the country,” Herb said. “Anything from the Deep South is going to be ahead of New York and New Jersey. Believe me. They figure they got two kinds of black dudes. One from the North and one from football country. Figure it out for yourselves.”

Me and Twig had to leave the field for the start of the dash semis. We called to Willie to show them something.

The first two starts were false, with one kid, a short, wild-eyed dude, getting disqualified.

The next start was good and Willie came in second. Herb looked at his stopwatch and shook his head.

“10:03,” he announced. “Got to pick 'em up and put 'em down, Willie.”

While Willie was resting, Coach went over and talked to him. I didn't see how that was going to make him run any faster.

The first six guys from Willie's heat and the first five from the second heat ran in the boys' final. Willie was second again, but he hit 10:01 and Herb was jumping up and down. Willie had this huge grin on his face when he put on his sweat suit and jacket.

“I want you to do the same thing Willie did,” Willie's mom said to Twig. Her face was all big smiles and gooey warm. “Just get on the track and run your little heart out!”

“Yes, ma'am,” Twig answered.

Me, Twig, and Coach Day had to catch one of the shuttle buses to go over to where the distance races were being held. Willie, his mom, and Herb started back toward the hotel.

“How come Herb isn't going with us to see Twig run?” I asked Coach.

“Distance running is glory,” Coach said. “Football is money.”

When we got to the track, Coach went over to the officials and talked to them. They checked a roster and I saw Coach nodding.

“How you feeling?” I asked Twig.

“Butterflies,” Twig said. “Good stuff.”

Coach came back and told Twig that he was only entered in the 3000, not the 1500. “Herb thought you had a better chance in the longer race,” he said. “And you don't want to take a chance getting hurt in the 1500.”

“You don't get hurt in the 1500,” Twig said, looking away. There was a hint of anger in his voice.

We were in time to watch the 1500, and we settled in the area of the field set aside for athletes. Coach told us to look to see who the press was talking to. “That'll be the favorite,” he said.

We watched. Numbers 325 and 301 had all the reporters around them.

“They're both graduates of the University of Portland,” Coach said. “They've got a great distance program out there and about five times as many races as they have on the East Coast.”

“Where's Portland?” Twig asked.

“Oregon.” Coach looked at Twig. “That's north of California, almost near Canada.”

“That's a state?”

Coach Day looked at Twig and didn't answer.

“Portland's a city in Oregon,” I said.

Number 325 was a dude named LeFebre, and 301 was a skinny black guy who looked African. There were two other Africans in the field of twelve.

At the start of the 1500, the Africans, running together, took the lead. I wondered if they had a plan to work together to win the race. At the end of the first lap, they were still leading and the two guys from Portland were right behind them.

The second lap saw the distance between the first five runners and the rest of the field widen a bit.

“The time is fast,” Coach Day said. “I heard LeFebre has a good kick.”

On the third lap one of the Africans dropped back and the two guys from Portland moved into third and fourth place. Twig kept checking the scoreboard for the lap times, and he banged my leg with his fist at the beginning of the fourth and final lap.

“It's fast enough to keep the guys from Portland honest,” Twig said. “If the black guys can keep it going, it's going to come down to the last two hundred yards.”

LeFebre started picking up the pace and caught the African running second on the straightaway. He passed him easily, but then the guy, realizing he had been passed, picked up his pace and was on LeFebre's tail.

It was the first African, who had led most of the way, who faded badly on the turn. He had looked good all the way but fell back to the middle of the trailing pack in a few seconds. The African who LeFebre had passed now gained some ground, and it looked like he might catch him.

“He moved out legal!” Twig said.

“What?”

“LeFebre changed lanes, and the black guy has to move outside or take a chance running late,” Coach Day said. “Now there's no place to go inside—he's got to move outside, but he's taking too long.”

I watched as LeFebre pumped his arms over the last fifteen yards and won by six feet. The other guy from Portland had moved easily into third place and the two guys embraced just past the finish line.

“What was the move about?” I asked Twig.

“He moved just enough to make the black guy change path,” Twig said. “He was clear when he did it, but that messes with your momentum. You have to wait until he makes his move, gets a new path, and that takes a few seconds off the clock.”

“He's an experienced runner,” Coach Day said.

It was an hour and thirty minutes before the 3000. Coach and I had hamburgers, and Twig had a half container of yogurt. Then Twig stretched as we watched some huge high school shot-putters do their thing in the infield.

When the officials called for the runners of the 3000, I was stupid scared.

“Run your little heart out, man,” I said.

“Watch the pace,” Coach said. “Keep his ass honest.”

“Who?” Twig asked.

“Both of the guys from Portland are in this race and two of the Africans,” Coach said. “Expect them to do better, too. Blacks like the longer distances.”

“They did the 1500 in 3:58,” Twig said. “That ain't walking.”

“This won't be walking, either,” Coach said.

Twig went over to the starting line, leaned over with his hands on his knees, then stood up and came over to me. He looked distracted, pale.

“I think I'm going to throw up!” he said. “I don't think this race is for me, Darius.”

“No, Twig, look at me, friend. Look at me!” I took him by the shoulders and we were face-to-face. “You're never going to reach a point when you don't give a fuck! You will
always
give a fuck, Twig. Just care now, just care today. That's all I'm asking. That's all you got to ask of yourself.”

“You in this race, boy?” A thin, bright-eyed official.

“Yeah,” Twig said. “I'm in it!”

Twig was starting on one of the outside lanes, but I didn't think it would hurt him because of the distance. Still, I would have liked to see him closer to LeFebre, who was in the third lane. The skinny black guy, who I figured might have been American, was next to Twig. The two Africans were starting from the middle and I wondered if the judges had put them there to give them an advantage.

The race started at a frantic pace, with all of the runners moving inside and getting their positions before the first turn. I looked for Twig and at first couldn't find him. Then I saw him fourth from the rear.

At the end of the first lap all the runners had kept their early positions, with the two Africans again taking the lead. Twig had said that the pace in the 1500 had been hard and I wondered if he should have run that race instead of the tougher 3000.

They started the second lap at 1:01, and the field began to stretch on the turn. My mouth was so dry I had to keep swallowing.

When they crossed the line for the end of the third lap, the runners were stretched over a quarter of the track.

“They're a second over three minutes,” Coach Day said. “He can't keep this up.”

Twig looked okay. The Africans were still working the lead, taking turns being out front, drafting off each other. LeFebre was third, four yards behind them, and Twig had moved up to fifth.

“If one of the Africans gets tired . . . ,” I started to say.

“Don't bet on them getting tired,” Coach said. “It's that fourth guy that we have to worry about.”

“You think Twig's got a chance?”

“For fourth?” Coach shrugged his shoulders. “I didn't expect this pace.”

Four minutes and two seconds. It was an incredible 1500. I could feel the excitement among the spectators. On the sidelines, pudgy guys with stopwatches were checking them and writing in their notebooks. Herb was right. If Twig could get up for fourth, he had something going on.

At the end of the sixth lap, one African fell back to third, behind LeFebre and the other African. Twig was still fifth.

I tried to think of something, some mental picture I could send him. Coach Day, beside me, was getting excited. He couldn't stay still, leaning against the railing, straightening up, and then leaning again.

“If he doesn't tighten up, he's got a chance,” he said.

Twig, don't tighten up! You're as light as a bird. You feel the warm breeze lifting you. You've caught an updraft high above the cinder track. You're lighter than air. You're flying, flying!

The seventh lap ended with LeFebre in the lead. The other guy from Portland was second and Twig had moved up to third, in front of the African who had been leading. I thought of how LeFebre had cut off the runner in the 1500 and wondered if Twig could get clear.

They rounded the turn with the first three runners putting some distance between themselves and the field. Twig had a chance for third!

On the far straightaway, they were bunched for a moment, and then Twig moved into second place. But he turned his head and looked toward the finish line. Was he done? The second guy from Portland was still on his tail and the other Africans were moving up again.

LeFebre looked strong and I could see him swinging his arms out as he lengthened his stride. Now they were at the top of the track, with less than seventy yards to the finish. Then everybody was pushing forward, edging toward the track as Twig made his move. He was stride for stride with LeFebre; then LeFebre lunged forward for a step, slowed for a step to regain his balance, and went across the finish line a half stride behind Twig!

Twig was on the ground. Guards and judges were holding the spectators back as the other runners finished.

When Coach and I got to him, he was sitting up. The tears streaming down his face, his shoulders shaking from the sobs.

“Oh, man, I am so happy!” he was saying. “Oh,
man
, I am so friggin' happy!”

“I can't believe it!” I said. “No, I mean I
can
believe it!”

Twig couldn't walk more than five steps without stopping and closing his eyes to get into the moment.

Some reporters were babbling to him, asking him questions about how he felt and whether he'd believed he really had a chance at the start of the race. I could see my friend struggling to find the words he needed, to find ways of getting his feelings into some kind of sense that would satisfy the mikes being pushed his way.

“I thought maybe I had a chance—I always think—there were some really good runners in this race, and, and—” Fists clenched, eyes closed. “I am so happy!”

Coach and I finally got Twig away from the reporters. We went into the locker room, and there were just one or two reporters hanging out and drinking sodas. LeFebre was also there and came over and shook Twig's hand.

“Nice race,” he said without moving his lips or looking directly at Twig.

Twig nodded in return.

The rest of the day was crazy. When we got back to the hotel to pick up our bags, Herb, Sean, and Willie were in the lobby talking to some other guys and a tall blond woman. The woman had her clipboard in front of her, scribbling as fast as she could. Herb had Willie standing and was talking about his wrists when we came up.

“He's got the wrist of a fully grown man!” he was saying. “That's all going to translate into pure fucking power one of these days.”

“How's his joints?” the woman asked. “I had a kid from Iowa who ran a nine-nine and was out for the season the first time he was hit.”

“Tight as a drum!” Herb replied. “Tight as a drum.”

Willie was smiling all over himself, but I started thinking they were trying to sell my man, not get him a scholarship.

“He won!” Coach Day said, interrupting Herb's spiel. “Passed LeFebre in the last fifty and took the whole thing!”

Herb looked at Coach Day and then over at Twig. “He
won
the 3000?” he asked, as if he didn't believe it.

“It's going to be on the news this evening,” Coach said. “The newspeople were all over him. He ran the best race of his life.”

Willie grabbed Twig and started hugging him, and Herb was immediately on the phone. Then he was on two phones and telling one of the other guys who to call.

Twig was a hero.

Sean, the hurdler, had lost his race and was working hard to keep smiling.

Herb kept Willie in Delaware while he made more calls and Coach, me, and Twig got a cab back to the Amtrak station and headed home.

For the whole two hours we were on the train, Coach couldn't shut up, and Twig couldn't talk, but you could see how good he was feeling just by looking at his face. It was wonderful.

I got home and told Mom and Brian as much about the race as I could remember. I told them that Willie had done all right, too. When the phone rang, I almost knew it was going to be Twig.

“Yo, Darius, you know how happy I am and stuff?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said. “I really do.”

“Darius, I'm happy, but in a way I'm not happy,” Twig said. “It's like there's a different me than anybody sees that's happy. You know what I mean?”

“No.”

“Me neither, man, but it's almost the same thing so I'm not worried about it,” Twig said. “You know what my grandmother said? She said she was going to pray for me, but then she figured I didn't need it. What you think about that?”