Racing the Rain (39 page)

He knew the computations would get harder as the race went along and his brain fogged up, so he concentrated on trying to keep his pace at an average of sixty-five or sixty-six seconds. If he hit sixty-sixes, it would mean a 4:24 mile, a PR, and a great triumph for him, win or lose. Something faster than that would be the stuff of his secret dreams, of course, but not something he would talk about or even allow himself to think about. There are some things you don't put your mouth on. Still, in the back of his head . . .

He was starting to feel it now, as he always did at the end of the second lap: that strained, almost panicky sense of dread of your body going into shock. It seemed impossible that they were only halfway through this, but the next lap would be by far the toughest one. The last lap was a thing apart.

This physical dread was not unfamiliar to him, this approaching gloom. That was what all the training, all those long miles, those searing intervals on the track were all about. They were to prepare him to deal with these few minutes of extreme duress.

But that was what Mr. San Romani had said, wasn't it? The important thing is how you feel halfway through the race. And in truth he felt way better than he could remember feeling at this point in previous races. He was running under control and he was thinking clearly. And his analysis had been accurate from the start: Nubbins had gone out way too fast for his ability. Mizner and Hosford, running in tandem, passed Nubbins in the middle of the back straight.

Cassidy fixed on the back of Nubbins's green-and-white singlet and prepared likewise to overtake the freshman. But he miscalculated. Nubbins tucked in and ran right along behind the other two all through the rest of the straightaway, maintaining a ten-yard lead on Cassidy.

Well, I'm feeling it now, but I'm not dying
, thought Cassidy.
Unless my math is off, I've run a lot more efficiently than those three, particularly Nubbins. I've run in the first lane the whole way. I haven't used any extra energy getting bumped or jostled or fighting my way out of a pack.

He could hear the crowd anticipating a close race, getting jittery and noisy as they came out of the turn. But no one was really pressing the pace now. Mizner on the inside and Hosford on his shoulder seemed content to gather themselves for the final lap, and Cassidy, maintaining the same pace, was surprised to find himself just five yards behind Nubbins as they went by the starting post at the end of lap three.

Now the crowd really was going nuts at the prospect of a four-way race, and Cassidy had a hard time hearing the splits as they swept past the post.

“Three
sixteen
, three
seventeen . . .
three
eighteen
,” the official yelled.

Despite the noise, Cassidy heard Trapper's voice booming out: “Three eighteen FIVE, Quenton!”

Cassidy knew that there was a point in every race when a runner senses he can win. It might even be on the starting line. Sometimes it would be in the middle laps when he gets a lead and realizes how strong he feels. But most of the time it is at some point going into the last lap.

With Cassidy, the feeling came as two distinct sensations. One was a sense that the finish line was a reality, that it was a goal he could actually attain. The other was a tingling sensation as the hair stood up on the back of his neck when he realized that he had a kick left, that he could win.

Cassidy was not the only one who felt that way. Hosford jumped ahead of Mizner before the first turn and cut back to the curb, clearly starting his kick and opening a five-yard gap. Mizner responded immediately and ran right back up to his heels. Nubbins began falling away at long last, his insane first lap dooming him. Cassidy stretched out his stride and blew by Nubbins in the middle of the turn. As he did so, it was obvious that Nubbins was finished. It was a three-way race now.

Cassidy was surprised to find himself very quickly coming up on Mizner as they hit the start of the back straight in single file. The crowd could be heard from across the field, and athletes on the infield began running up to the inside edge of the track. As they passed the high-jump area, Stiggs flashed by, screaming his head off, but Cassidy's head was roaring now and he couldn't make out what he was yelling.

Cassidy concentrated on his stride, those long ground-eaters that came from quarter-mile intervals: long, fast, efficient strides. A miler's stride.

Mizner was beginning to strain. He was a pace man, a two-miler at heart, and this kicking business was not his strong suit. He didn't struggle as Cassidy came up to his shoulder and then went around him right before the last turn. Hosford snuck a peek back and looked surprised to see Cassidy there. But he clearly was not flat out yet. He put his head down, dropped into another gear, and began pulling slowly away again.

Cassidy let him go. He let him go even as the hair stood up again on the back of his neck. He let Hosford go because he was no longer worried about him.

All through the final lap, Cassidy had been increasing his speed. It had increased as he passed Nubbins, more as he passed Mizner, and more as he caught up to Hosford. And every time he increased his speed, he was surprised to find more left. It was a revelation. After all the struggles, the stress and frustration of the season, all the times he trained so hard he couldn't eat, when he'd thrashed himself through workouts all week and then run tired in the meets, sometimes being beaten in the process—this was what it was all for.

What was it Mr. Kamrad had said? No one can bench you in track. No one can decide they don't like your attitude, your skin color, the cut of your jib. No one can deny you your due on the track. All you have to do is win.

And Cassidy knew he was going to win.

That was when he felt the presence coming up on his shoulder twenty yards before coming out of the final turn. It was Mizner.

He was obviously flat out, and Cassidy wasn't worried about outkicking him in the final straightaway, but the problem was that Hosford was directly ahead of them and there wasn't enough room to pull in front of Mizner and pass him. Going into the final fifty-five yards, he was boxed in.

Cassidy tried to remain calm. He knew he had a surge left, but he didn't want to expend it by ducking out the back of the box and then sprinting around both runners, all in the space of half a straightaway. It was the worst possible alternative, perhaps doomed to failure, but it looked like his only option.

Hosford was not slowing and Mizner was not weakening. They were both flat out, and no matter how much run Cassidy had left in him, he could do nothing with it as long as they were locked in place like this.

Just as they were coming out of the turn, Hosford turned to get one more peek and Cassidy understood again why he had been coached to never look behind in a race. As Hosford turned to look over his outside shoulder, his feet had a natural tendency to follow his eyes. He drifted out to the middle of the inside lane, and by the time he turned back, Cassidy had accelerated past him. In his peripheral vision, Cassidy could see Hosford put his head down and dig in, but he had already been almost flat out.

Feeling something almost like elation through the horrific pain, Cassidy kept accelerating, telescoping away down the final fifty-five yards of straightaway, powering away with every stride, as the roar in his head and the roar of the crowd became indistinguishable.

The last few yards felt like slow motion, though he knew this was the fastest he had run in the entire race. If anyone came up on him now, he would certainly deserve to win. No one did. After an eternity of slow seconds over the last ten yards he felt the sweet tug of the yarn parting across his chest.

His hands went right to his knees, but he was at least able to lift his head up and look behind in time to see Mizner crossing the line ahead of Hosford. Nubbins was still struggling midway through the straight, and it looked as if one or two of the other runners might actually catch him before the finish. He had really paid for his foolhardiness.

Cassidy couldn't hold his head up long, so he went back to concentrating on the rubberized asphalt between his spiked feet, watching the sweat and saliva drip from his chin and puddle on the surface. He felt Mizner's presence, his body heat beside him. Neither of them could talk yet, but Mizner held out a hand weakly and Cassidy hooked pinkies with him, the best he could do at the moment. The crowd was still noisy, but Cassidy couldn't figure out why they started roaring again. He straightened up, looked around the field to see if someone had cleared an amazing height or thrown something a really long way. He didn't see anything.

Then, as he and Mizner started stumbling slowly, arm in arm, down the track, he saw the reason. They had posted the results on the electronic scoreboard at the south end of the stadium:

Mile Run—Div 4-A

Cassidy didn't know why, but at that point something inside him gave way. He would later think it was just the numbers themselves, the impossible, not-dared-to-be-dreamed-of numerals that did not lend themselves to interpretation. Numerals that couldn't be compromised or politicized or bargained away. Numerals that couldn't be questioned, belittled, or ignored. He had done the training every day without excuses, had run through all the races and had taken his losses and drubbings because of it. He had persevered and remained true to himself and come through it all. And now he had run one mile in 4:17.2, and he would never be the same.

One of the timers walked over, looking at his watch, and whispered, “Your last lap was 59.3. I thought you'd like to know.”

Cassidy leaned on Jerry Mizner's scarecrow frame in the middle of the track in front of the scoreboard and just bawled like an infant.

* * *

Maria had seen his face and thought maybe he was hurt or ill, and despite his assurances, she wouldn't let him go. This was a maternal side of her he had never seen and he found it mostly comforting. Stiggs had won the high jump and had run out onto the track and lifted Cassidy off the ground. He put him down when he saw the tears, and Cassidy had to make himself smile and insist that he was just happy.

Cassidy thought Trapper would crush him before he let go, and was fairly sure he saw some welling in the corners of his eyes, too. Randleman, shaking his head in admiration, sheepishly bumped shoulders and gave him multiple hand slaps.

Mr. Kamrad was not in the stands when Cassidy got there, and when he finally did show up, he motioned for Cassidy to come down.

He shook Cassidy's hand as they walked.

“I don't need to say anything right now,” he said, “except that you did everything I asked you to and that, incidentally, that was the greatest race I have ever seen in my life. We can talk about all that later. Right now there is someone that wants to meet you.”

“Who . . .”

“You'll see.”

Mr. Kamrad took him to some kind of training room under the stands. It was cordoned off from the other competitors and Mr. Kamrad held up the pass around his neck and indicated Cassidy was with him.

Inside the room, trainers were working on athletes, taping, applying balm to muscles, running whirlpools and ultrasound. But these men clearly were not high school athletes. The big ones were huge, the lanky ones lankier; they were all just somehow more of whatever it is that they were than anyone else he'd ever seen. Cassidy realized with a start: these were varsity university athletes.

Some of them looked up when he walked in, but then they saw his high school singlet and immediately lost interest.

“Hang on a second. I'll be right back,” said Mr. Kamrad.

Cassidy sat on the end of an unused training table and tried to make himself inconspicuous. His white singlet with the red diagonal sash and the flying eagle on the breast, the singlet he'd always been so proud of, now seemed paltry.

It was obvious this was just another training day for these athletes. Some of them were maybe a little put out, what with a bunch of high school kids monopolizing their facilities.

Mr. Kamrad returned with a boyish-looking man in a bright blue blazer with a Southeastern University Swamp Dog logo over the breast pocket. Some of the varsity athletes looked up and smiled or greeted him as he walked across the room.

He grinned broadly at Cassidy, and as he approached, hand extended, Cassidy couldn't help being charmed by the guy.

“Quenton Cassidy,” said Mr. Kamrad, “I'd like you to meet Ben Cornwall, the head track coach of Southeastern University.”

T
he hot breath of summer held forth in Kernsville, though it was early September.

Stiggs helped Cassidy with his brand-new suitcase, his brand-new typewriter, and his two army surplus duffel bags. They stood on the sidewalk admiring Doobey Hall, an off-campus dorm that housed scholarship track athletes. Stiggs had two more hours to drive to Tallahassee, where—a legitimate two-sport star now—he would play basketball and high jump for Florida State. He had won the state meet on his last jump at 6-6
¹
/
₂
. He claimed Cassidy inspired him. Cassidy said it was more likely the three-hundred-pound half-squats.

Somewhat at loose ends, they tried to say their goodbyes while half listening to strange noises coming from the dorm. Finally, someone leaned out a side window and yodeled. They took that as some kind of sign and embraced awkwardly. Then Stiggs drove away.

Cassidy stood watching the ramshackle Nash Rambler disappear up University Avenue, taking with it the last echoes of his earlier life. Randleman was going to play junior college ball back home; Demski, third at state, would be running for Tennessee. So it was also the end of a quartet that Cassidy had been a member of since his earliest memories, since the days when he and Stiggs and Randleman played pickup basketball in Joe Augenblick's backyard, the days when he and Demski raced summer rainstorms down Rosedale Street.