Racing the Rain (12 page)

“All right, Ed, good going,” said Bickerstaff. “Len, Jarvis, thirty-eight. Good. Walk it off. Quenton, come here a second.”

Still gasping for air, Cassidy walked stiff-leggedly over to the coach.

“I know what you're doing,” he said quietly, holding up his clipboard to the side of his face for privacy. “It's not going to work. You might as well straighten up and fly right.”

Cassidy walked back to the runners assembling at the starting line. The others were surprised to see him almost in tears.

“All right, runners. Number two, still shooting for thirty-six. Set and go!” called Bickerstaff.

For Cassidy it just got worse. He finished the workout, coming in farther and farther behind. Bickerstaff didn't say anything, but Cassidy could see the look of disgust on his face. By the time he finished the eighth repetition, there were real tears rolling down his cheeks. He couldn't help it. While the others jogged the two-lap cooldown, he walked stiff-leggedly to the gym. When he got to the stairs to the second-floor locker room, he had to turn sideways and climb them by throwing one leg straight out in front of him and rotating it over to the stair, then standing up straight on it and repeating the process with the other leg, using his arms to haul himself up.

He was showered and nearly dressed by the time the others started wandering in. He sat for a few moments in front of his locker, staring at the clean white singlet folded neatly atop the matching shorts on the upper shelf. His racing uniform. It felt as if everyone was tiptoeing around him. He knew his face was still red, but he wasn't even embarrassed about it.

Finally, he stood and retrieved the singlet, unfolding it and holding it in front of him. It was spotlessly white, with a red satin sash running diagonally across the chest and a small winged “G” for Glenridge over the left breast. He remembered the incredible pride that welled up in him the first time he put it on. And every time thereafter, for that matter.

He couldn't believe what he had to do.

Bickerstaff had his reading glasses on, going over the numbers on his clipboard from the day's workout.

“Come in,” he said.

Cassidy walked in, tears now falling freely from his eyes. He laid the singlet, red sash up, on the coach's desk.

“All right,” said the coach.

A
fter a few days of inactivity, Cassidy's legs were sufficiently healed that he could go out and shoot baskets, then jog around the court a little with very little pain. A few days after that, his legs were perfectly fine again. He could hardly believe he'd ever had the injury at all. Fixing it was so simple.

Stiggs was still high jumping, but Randleman had given up the shot put as too boring, so Cassidy was happy to have a basketball partner back. Randleman and Cassidy started working out together, doing drills and playing one-on-one. Cassidy wasn't nearly big enough to keep Randleman out of the key, so they had to make adjustments to the rules to make it more fair. That in itself was a little humiliating, but Cassidy got his revenge when they went running. He could tell he was still in terrific shape despite running hurt all those weeks.

He and Randleman were playing one-on-one at the public courts on Singer Island when Trapper Nelson's Jeep pulled up. Trapper sat on a courtside bench, watching them while drinking a huge Icee from the Dairy Queen.

“Hey, Trap, come on and play some. We'll get somebody else and go two-on-two,” Cassidy said.

“No thanks, I'll keep what little dignity I still have,” said Trapper, toasting them with his drink.

Randleman was taking the ball out.

“Okay, ten–nine me, win by two. You ready?” He checked the ball to Cassidy, who tapped it back.

Randleman drove powerfully down the left side of the lane, but Cassidy managed to get ahead of him and take a good thumping before stopping the big forward. Randleman immediately pivoted away from Cassidy and began backing him into the key.

“Three dribbles!” called Cassidy, jogging toward the backcourt and calling for the ball. That was the rule. To keep Randleman from posting up on every play, he was allowed only two dribbles with his back to the basket. With a sour look on his face, he flipped the ball to Cassidy and assumed a defensive position. Cassidy took a false step to his right and when Randleman responded he went straight up into a reasonable imitation of a jump shot. It hit the back of the rim and rattled in.

“Tie ball game!” he said.

Randleman was perturbed, but this time when he drove and turned his back to the rim, he was so distracted counting his dribbles that Cassidy slipped around him and snaked the ball away. He quickly returned the ball back to the top of the key, then turned before Randleman could get organized and shot the same jump shot from the foul line. Again it went in.

“My ad,” he said.

Randleman tried a jump shot of his own, but it was way off, slamming against the backboard and coming right to Cassidy, who had the bigger boy boxed out.

Cassidy took it out, turned, saw that Randleman was right on top of him, gave a little pause that brought Randleman up on his toes to stop the jump shot, then blew by him in a flash and put up the easy layup.

“The crowd goes wild!” Cassidy raised his arms in triumph. Trapper was clapping. Even Randleman was grinning. This happened once in a blue moon, the skinny kid prevailing like that with a little luck. He was entitled to his fun.

Randleman had to take off, so he secured the ball in a net bag on his rear luggage rack and pedaled off toward the mainland. Cassidy sat next to Trapper Nelson, still breathing hard, shiny with sweat.

“Pretty impressive, boy-o,” said Trapper. “Teaching some tricks to the big boy.”

“Nah, he usually kills me,” said Cassidy.

“Still, that was pretty good shooting from where I sit.”

“I've been back practicing most afternoons. Since . . . well, since I don't have . . .”

“I know. I've been thinking about that. I probably shouldn't have stuck my big nose into the middle of it.”

“No, Trap, don't say that. It was worth a try. You were right about everything. I got completely over those pains in just a few days. I even thought about going to talk to Bickerstaff about it, but . . .”

“Why don't you? Might be worth a try. Heck, he might even admit he made a mistake.”

“I don't think so. I saw him in the hallway one day and he just looked at me and shook his head,” Cassidy said.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah . . .”

“So, want to hear my plan?”

“Plan?” said Cassidy.

Trapper pulled a sheath of notebook papers from his back pocket. It was his notes from talking to Archie San Romani. He smoothed them out on his knee, where Cassidy stared at the strange notations:

1 m warm-up

10 x 100 striders

1 x 110 goal pace

1 x 220

1 x 330

1 x 440

1 x 880

jog 440

repeat

warm-down 880 jog

“What's all this?” Cassidy tapped the paper.

“It's called a ladder. He gave me some others called ‘stepladders.' Archie said it's a good way to do intervals without getting hurt. You sort of ease into them. It builds slowly, and then either backs down or repeats. He swears by them.”

“Yeah, but, Trap, I'm not on the track team anymore,” Cassidy said. Just saying it made him sad.

“I know that, Youngblood. That's what the plan is about. ‘You have to have a plan, even if it's wrong.' Isn't that what you say?” He cracked up.

Cassidy hadn't heard Trapper's laugh in a while. It startled him.

* * *

The county track meet was held three weeks later on a balmy Friday evening at Twin Lakes High School in West Palm Beach. Cassidy sat in the stands with Stiggs, Randleman, and Trapper Nelson, watching the officials setting up the high hurdles for the first event.

“Gotta go warm up,” said Stiggs. He was a co-favorite in the high jump.

“Go get 'em, Stiggs!” said Cassidy.

“Yeah, you too, man. Give 'em hell out there.” And Stiggs was gone. Cassidy looked at Trapper Nelson.

“Are you sure they're having this?” he asked.

“Positive. What do you think we've been doing all this for? Now, right before they run the high hurdles off, I want you to start warming up. Archie said it's almost impossible to warm up too hard for a distance event, so don't leave anything out. How do you feel?”

“Fine, I told you. Have you seen Bickerstaff?”

“No, but don't worry about him. He doesn't have anything to do with this.”

“Okay.”

Sure enough, just as Cassidy was starting to jog around the outside of the track before the first heat of the hurdles, the announcer came on the PA system:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome again to the Tri-County Junior High School track meet, featuring the best track athletes from every school in the three-county area. We're also pleased tonight to welcome athletes in several open events, including the 100-yard dash, the 180-yard low hurdles, the pole vault, and the 880-yard run. These athletes will compete immediately after each regular championship event. These are athletes who are out of school or otherwise ineligible to compete officially, but they're here tonight to do their absolute best. So let's hear a big hand for all of our all-comers athletes tonight!”

Cassidy heard a few whistles and catcalls. No one cared a fig about a handful of rejects and losers out for a few moments of secondhand glory. He left the track and jogged a full mile around the outside of the stadium, keeping an eye out for Coach Bickerstaff, whom he really didn't want to run into.

He took off his dowdy gray cotton sweat suit after the first mile, feeling that he was more than warmed up already. He could hear them lining up the sprinters for the hundred-yard dash inside the stadium as he started the first of the many striders he had agreed to do.

It was a strange feeling, warming up all alone out here in the dark, no teammates around, no lights or crowd to distract him. Upon reflection, he realized that he preferred being by himself.
I've done most of the running alone,
he thought,
so why not get ready to race alone?

He was shiny with sweat as he put his sweat suit back on and climbed up in the stands to sit with Trapper.

“What did I miss?”

“Chip Newspickle ran away with the one hundred. Ten eight, I think. Stiggs cleared the first two heights. I think they're up to 4-10 now, don't quote me,” said Trapper.

“How long until the 880?”

Trapper looked at his mimeographed program. “Right after the sprint medley, which is coming up. Don't sit here too long and get stiff. Go down to the infield and keep jogging while they run off the regular heat of the 880.”

“But Bickerstaff is . . .”

“I told you, he has nothing to do with this. You are officially entered as an open athlete in the all-comers 880 event. You are not in his jurisdiction.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

Cassidy couldn't help the way his heart was pounding as Demski jumped out to the lead in the 880, just a step ahead and inside of Mizner, who looked even fitter today than he did the last time.

“All right, ED!” yelled Cassidy as they swept by him on the far straightaway. The other five runners were already hopelessly strung out.

Cassidy was startled to look up and see Coach Bickerstaff, clipboard in hand, Red Sox baseball cap on his orange crew cut, staring straight at him. Cassidy thought he detected a scowl from the coach as he went back to writing Demski's splits on his clipboard.

Just before the starting post at the end of the first lap, Mizner jumped Demski and was leading as they went into the final lap. The gun went off and Cassidy jumped as he usually did. Mizner expanded his lead all the way around the first turn and had seven yards on Demski by the time they got to Cassidy on the back straight.

“Hang in there with him, Ed,” called Cassidy. He thought he got just a split second of eye contact from Ed, who looked amazingly calm going into the last 220.

Ed caught back up before going into the last curve, and Mizner seemed to be struggling. Demski didn't try to pass. He didn't even come up to Mizner's shoulder. He ran directly behind him in the first lane, biding his time. When they came out of the turn, Demski went into overdrive and just ran away from the taller runner. Cassidy had forgotten about his own race and was jumping up and down in excitement. He looked up in the stands to Trapper Nelson and saw him looking back, sternly shaking his head. Cassidy got a grip. It wasn't good to lose focus like that. Cassidy jogged around on the infield, waiting for the official results.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the announcer. “We have the finish of the 880 finals: Fifth, from Glenridge, Parsley in 2:15.6; fourth, from Riviera Beach, Pearlman in 2:14 flat; third, from Palm Beach Gardens, Dulin in 2:13.8; second, from Pompano Beach, Jerome Mizner in 2:08.2; and the winner, from Glenridge Junior High School, Ed Demski in a new county record, 2:07 flat!”

Cassidy was so proud of Ed he was almost in tears. Grinning like a hyena, Ed jogged over to where Cassidy was stripping off his gray sweat bottoms.

“Way to go, Ed! Great race. Great kick. Just plain all-around great!” Cassidy was hopping on one foot, trying to get the bulky sweats off.

“H-h-hey, go get 'em,” said Ed, still grinning through the copious sweat on his face. They slapped hands. Bickerstaff, Cassidy noticed, was scowling at them.

“O-k-k-kay. Time to focus,” said Ed, taking Cassidy's sweats from him. “Hey, you want to borrow my spikes?”

Cassidy didn't have real track shoes. He was wearing black Converse track flats that Trapper had found in an equipment room at the base gym.

“You mean it?”

Ed sat down immediately and started peeling off the white kangaroo-skin Adidas, identical to the ones Chip Newspickle wore. They fit perfectly.