Racing the Rain (32 page)

Randleman was shaking his head. Demski was jogging along with Lindstrom, patting him on the back as he took a victory lap, waving to the empty stands. A few other basketball players and track guys were standing around the infield, chuckling and calling out insults to Stiggs.

“So, what do you have to say for yourself now, hot shot?” Cassidy said.

Stiggs grinned. “Hey, Cassidy, I was the second-fastest guy on the track today!”

B
asketball finished with a whimper, though they did manage to win three more games. In the tournament, they lost the first game in their group, ignominious for essentially the same team that had been a hairsbreadth from winning the state title the previous year. Bickerstaff was in trouble and knew it. He was constantly being quoted in the paper on the subject of team unity, discipline, loyalty, and other nebulous concepts that coaches who are losing find paramount and those who are winning hardly ever bring up. Some people not only wanted him gone, they wanted him ridden out of town on a rail. Principal Fleming, however, claimed to support his coach “one hundred and ten percent,” a position that softened to one of “unwavering support” when the talk shifted to running Principal Fleming out of town on a rail, too.

Stiggs and Randleman's standing with the college coaches somehow survived, and they began fielding invitations to visit campuses. To his great surprise, Cassidy even heard from a few small basketball schools whose coaches had not forgotten him, but he was too focused on track to think about it.

Mr. Kamrad started coming to regular track practices at the beginning of March, though he also still coached the crew team. Their primary workout of the day was in the morning, however, so he began taking over for Trapper most days after school. Cassidy sensed that Trapper was more than a little relieved to get back to his snakes and turtles, or, as he put it, “I've enjoyed about as much track and field as I can stand.”

The first dual meet was at home against Vero Beach, which always had a good, well-balanced team. Cassidy was especially nervous because Mr. San Romani insisted that they “run through” their early meets, so the day before they did a five-mile run. What with the warm-up and striders, it was an eight-mile day altogether, hardly a “rest” day before a meet.

“How are you feeling?” Mr. Kamrad said, throwing his arm over Cassidy's shoulders.

“Good. Not exactly jumping up and down with energy, but not bad, considering,” said Cassidy.

“This Jim Lee kid ran under 4:40 last year,” Mr. Kamrad said. “He's their best. Ed has it tougher. They've got a 1:57 kid. He's not in the mile, though. He runs the quarter when he doubles. So Lee is your guy. You and Lenny might want to work together, help each other out if you can. Jarvis . . . Well, give Jarvis some encouragement.”

Lenny knew he didn't have a chance to win, so he was running for points. He was saving it for the two-mile, but he offered to help with the early pace.

“Thanks, Len,” Cassidy said. “But this Lee kid was pretty good last year. I bet he takes it right out himself.”

It was a good guess. Lee ran the first lap in sixty-three seconds.

Cassidy was fifteen yards back and worried. Mr. San Romani's only advice had been exactly what he had always said about racing: “Run as evenly as possible, then kick like hell.” Simple advice. It had worked for Cassidy before.

Cassidy had never run a mile all out before and was hoping to run 4:40 today, so he figured splits of seventy-one seconds would get him close enough to kick in a good final lap. But now just trying to stay close to Lee had brought him through the first lap in sixty-seven seconds, blowing up his whole plan. Lenny saw what was going on right away and dropped back to the second pack, saving himself for the two-mile.

“Sixty-seven, stay loose,” Trapper said as he went by him before the first turn. Lee began dropping back immediately, and Cassidy realized that the guy's first lap had simply been a mistake. Despite Lee's PR, he was clearly not an experienced miler.
Heck, I'm not either
, thought Cassidy,
but I know better than that.

Cassidy had slowed, too, but despite that Lee came all the way back to him by the 220 post in the second lap. He came back so fast that Cassidy almost ran up his backside. Fortunately, he roused himself out of his midrace torpor in time to see what was going on and pulled out into the second lane to go around the poor guy. Lee looked over at him, surprised, and actually picked it up. He wasn't going to let Cassidy pass!

That was fine with Cassidy. He dropped back behind again and followed all the way through the turn. They came by the post as the timer read off: “Two
eighteen
,
nineteen
, two
twenty
 . . .”

“Right on track,” said Trapper as they went by.

Cassidy did the math. He had slowed considerably but was still averaging seventy seconds a lap, a second faster than he had planned. Poor Lee, Cassidy calculated, had gone from sixty-three seconds to seventy-six.
No wonder he came back to me so fast!

But now Lee was flagging again, and this time when Cassidy went by him there was no fight. Cassidy concentrated on running smoothly and efficiently. And he noticed something for the first time. He didn't feel particularly fatigued. It was a strained feeling, a feeling of effort, but the desperation of running close to his red line wasn't there. It wasn't exactly fun, but it wasn't that hard, either. Most of their interval workouts were harder.

Cassidy had no idea how far ahead he was at the three-quarter mark, but the timer read off: “Three
thirty
, thirty-
one
 . . .” Then he went silent. The gun went off, causing Cassidy to jump despite himself. Cassidy listened . . . listened, and then he heard from a distance, “Three thirty-
six
 . . .” and he knew he had at least twenty yards on the poor kid.

He concentrated on his form. He was beginning to feel it now, but knowing it was the final lap made it easier to deal with.

Running away with a race like this was a satisfying experience he had never before had in competition. His races had all been such struggles, such long-shot, come-from-behind desperation efforts that he just assumed all races were like that.

It occurred to him that this was what all the training had been about. And this time it wasn't just so he could fly up and down a basketball court; it was to win races. He was doing exactly what he had been training to do.

Mr. Kamrad was at the 220 post, but he wasn't reading out times. He just yelled as Cassidy went by: “Fifty yards! You've got him by fifty!”

Cassidy stretched out and cruised the last 220, not kicking but keeping his stride fast, smooth, and efficient. Guys from other events were rushing to the edge of the track, excited by the size of the margin, urging him on. The handful of people in the concrete stands were making more noise than he would have thought possible as he came out of the turn and sprinted down the straightaway, opening up at last just for the fun of it.

He was sure he had a lot more, but he was still blown out by the effort. He bent over, grabbed his knees, and just stood gasping for several seconds before he could even see straight again. His vision was all hazy. Mr. Kamrad ran up, holding his stopwatch in front of him.

“Four thirty-seven flat! Your first race, Quenton, and you broke Neil Jenkins's school record!”

Cassidy tried to straighten up and smile. It felt more like a grimace. He went back to hands on knees, still sucking air.

Jenkins had been some kind of wunderkind two years ago, a weird combination of nerd and jock, who played in the band and also happened to be the best miler in the county. Cassidy remembered seeing his 4:37.1 on the school record board and thinking,
How can someone run that fast?

Now he knew.

D
emski had cruised to a 2:02 and killed the 1:57 guy, who was not in shape yet. Lenny ran a 10:48 to win as well as to set a PR.

Then they had an endless series of dual and three-way meets all through April, usually two a week. Cassidy managed to win most of his races, but only because the competition was weak. And he never felt as good as he had in that first meet. In fact, he began to feel pretty beaten up by the schedule.

“I want to sleep all the time. I fell asleep at dinner the other night. Just nodded off with my fork in my hand. My mom called Mr. Kamrad,” Cassidy said.

“I fell asleep on the b-bus this morning,” said Demski. “Do you know how hard that is to do?”

San Romani eased up a little on the intervals but insisted on “running through” all the small meets.

“I asked him again,” said Trapper, who drove his Jeep up to watch practice one Friday afternoon.

“Who?” said Cassidy. They had just finished a five-miler and were getting ready to do striders.

“Archie. I told him about your bitching.”

“What'd he say?”

“He laughed. He said everyone feels that way and that you'll thank him in the end.”

“I'll thank him right now if he wants,” said Cassidy. “I just want to run a race without carrying an anvil.”

“He says all of this is laying the groundwork for the big ones, for when it really counts.”

“Ugh,” said Cassidy. “I have to run against Mizner in the distance medley relay tomorrow night in Orlando, and we just finished a pretty hard five-mile run. I feel like I'm sabotaging my own race.”

Mr. Kamrad had just walked over and overheard them.

“Don't worry so much. Maybe Ed and Lenny can get you a little bit of a lead and take some of the pressure off,” he said.

Cassidy looked dubious.

He should have been. Mizner's teammates handed him a ten-yard lead despite Demski's great 2:00 flat half mile. Lenny just didn't have the speed for a good three-quarter leg, and he lost Demski's lead plus a little more.

Cassidy took the stick and slowly worked on Mizner's lead until he had caught up at the half-mile mark. But then Mizner just ran away from him. Though Cassidy's split, 4:36.5, was a PR, his legs had been dead. He watched helplessly as Mizner pulled steadily away over the last quarter with his silky stride. His split was 4:29. To add insult to injury, a runner from Maynard Evans pulled even with Cassidy and then outleaned him at the tape. He found out later it was a kid named Jack Nubbins and he was only a freshman!

“He's a damn
ninth grader,
Ed. We don't even
have
ninth grade in our school. Apparently they do out in the sticks,” said Cassidy.

“Sorry,” said Demski, trying to sleep.

It was a long, miserable bus ride back from Orlando.

“D
ammit,” said Lucky Holzapfel, who stopped untying the little boat from the dock.

“What is it, man?” Bobby was already nervous. He didn't need any more problems.

“Forgot something. Hang on a sec.” Lucky wrapped the line back around the dock post and jogged back over to his decrepit '48 Chevy pickup.

The drunken hubbub from the Crab Pot bar in the distance seemed surreal, as did the weird shadows cast in unlikely directions by the crazy bright summer moon.

Full moon
, Lucky thought.
Didn't think of that.
How many other details had he not anticipated?

A burst of laughter from the bar caused an outrageous surge of self-pity to well up from somewhere deep in Lucky's chest. At this moment he wanted nothing more in the world than to be in that bar with the fishermen, barflies, beachcombers, and ne'er-do-wells, all the postwar flotsam and jetsam that flowed in a steady stream from the Republic proper down A1A until it got hung up in Florida's tidal backwaters and mangrove roots.

Lucky, a transplanted Hoosier, was at home among them. He would lean back on his elbows, the small of his back braced against the worn copper-topped counter, soaking up whatever attention was available at the moment. He was athletic, not bad looking, an ex-paratrooper war hero, sunburned from his outdoorsy life, and glib with tales of skin diving and fishing exploits. Wannabe sportsmen and ladies of various ages schooled around him like curious fish.

Instead of having fun, he was out close to midnight in the steamy, rotten-crab-smelling funk with Bobby, plotting mayhem and sweating through his faded khaki Bermudas. He was so wet his salt-encrusted Docksiders made squishy sounds when he walked, and his dirty Walker's Cay T-shirt was sopping.

Where did I go wrong?
he asked himself.
I was Terre Haute's Jim Thorpe.

The driver's-side door had a broken hinge and was hard to close once it was opened, so he leaned in painfully over the sill, feet coming off the ground, grunting as he crunched most of the wind out of his lungs, finally getting his fingertips on the oblong brown paper bag under the seat. Light-headed from the maneuver, he walked back unsteadily to the boat, this time ignoring the gaiety coming from the bar. Some crazy jogger went by up on the Blue Heron Bridge, causing Lucky to shake his head at the lunacy people get up to in the middle of the night.

“Friggin'
joggers
,” Lucky said. He had been a sprinter and a halfback.

He handed the bottle down to Bobby Lincoln, who took it impatiently. If Lucky was an intimidating figure, Bobby was more so. He was a huge black man with a weight lifter's build and an intimidating scowl.

“What's this?” Bobby said, tucking the bottle into the top of the equipment bag behind him.

“Liquid courage,” Lucky said.

“I heard that.” Bobby frowned. “Good idea.”

Lucky loosened both dock lines and tossed them into the boat, hopping with surprising agility down into the little skiff and pushing it back from the pier. He sat behind the console and cranked the outboard as the boat drifted slowly in the black water. It was nothing doing.