Once a Runner (12 page)

"Hah." This last took Cassidy by surprise. He looked over and Denton smiled back sweedy, letting Cassidy know once more that there are some people you do not take for granted, even for a second.

Cross country had ended surprisingly. At the AAU National Championships in Chicago's Washington Park, Cassidy, to his own great surprise, kept the leaders in view almost the entire race, finishing with frozen slush halfway up his calves in 15th place, four ahead of Mizner. He had never beaten the younger runner at any distance over two miles. Denton won the race with such ease that the other top cross-country men, stacked up in the finish chute, simply shook their heads in discouragement even as they bent to their knees still gasping from the effort. Denton seemed more delighted with Cassidy's finish than he was to win yet another national title. He even did a little jig as Cassidy, sprinting through the mud to edge out an Oregon runner, sailed into the chute with a grimace. A few seconds later they were all standing around in the slush, laughing though still out of breath, kicking mud at each other. Even Mizner, disappointed as he was, seemed to have a good time, though Cassidy could see he was worried.

Cross country, to Cassidy's immense relief, was over for another year.

"In lane six, wearing number 278, from Southern California, the PAC champion..."

The announcer was going into the introduction for the two-mile, the longest running event in the Millrose Games in Madison Square Garden. Cassidy jogged out onto the track to take Denton's sweats from him. The other two-milers milled around with incredible nervousness; some trotted back and forth in their lanes, some bounced up and down. It was a time of cruel stress. One race represented months of training; each step the product of many miles of preparation. They would have thought of this race countless times, some of them running it in bits and pieces during interval training or overdistance. They would have thought of creeping up to Denton's shoulder with a lap to go; that sort of fantasy could get them through long hours on the roads at night. But with the starting gun only seconds away, their heads were roaring with anticipation and anguish. They wanted to be into it. They wanted to be
over
it. The race itself was bearable, for that they had trained. The waiting, however, was hell on square wheels. Denton handed Cassidy the navy blue sweat top with USA in red and white piping, a status symbol, the sign of a member of a national team. Two other runners in the field wore the same kind of sweats; this would not be a stroll.

"Hang in there," Cassidy said quietly.

"Yeah," Denton was glazed over in concentration, even for a race that he surely couldn't consider very important. He was not a classical indoor runner; both he and Cassidy were too tall to maneuver the banked turns as easily as the shorter runners. And Denton never, never took a race for granted. Though he said little to Cassidy, Cassidy knew he was appreciative of having someone there to offer small comforts.

"In lane three, two-time AAU six-mile champion, one-time three-mile champion, twice a member of our Olympic team ..."

They were getting into the heavies, now. Cassidy took the sweats, swatted Denton on the rear and jogged to the infield to watch.

"And in lane one..."

The crowd was already beginning to rumble.

"... representing Southeastern University Track Club and the United States
..." It was difficult to hear now...
.ladies and gentlemen, the Olympic Gold Medalist in the 5000-meter run..."
Bruce Denton trotted forward in his lane with a serene little wave even though he had not heard his name. No one had. This was what that one perfectly executed race and the thousands of miles of training it required had earned him: the right to have his name lost in the uncontrolled frenzy of this crowd. Denton thought:
I only won by three yards.

Such adulation had roared down for him many times since he first heard it sprinting down the straightaway in the Olympic stadium. He would surely hear it many times again in his life. But as Denton trotted out and wistfully accepted it once more, Quenton Cassidy thought his smile seemed sad indeed.

...and entering the final lap now ladies and gentlemen
The starter's gun went off with a loud crack: gun lap. "...
Gold Medalist Bruce Denton followed by
... "It was all meaningless. The pack was a full half lap behind, running for places. Denton cavorted. He ran wide up on the banked turn and zipped back down onto the straightaway, playing roller coaster. Cassidy shook his head. Here he was running some of the best distance men in the country, and he was playing around. When Denton crossed the finish line, Cassidy trotted up alongside and handed him the sweats. Denton, despite the ease with which be had won, was in no condition to talk; he took the sweats, grinned at Cassidy, and jogged on. He occasionally waved as a section of the audience stood to cheer when he passed beneath them. Cassidy shook his head, ran slowly to the outer hallway to complete his warmup; his race was in 35 minutes, according to the almost universally unreliable schedule.

Cassidy had ripped the order of events out of the program and was careful to check his watch often. By listening to the announcer, he would be able to tell how far behind the meet was running and thus time his warmup accurately. The large cold hallway did not make a complete circuit, but it was roomy; brightly colored sweatsuits flashed by at various speeds. Cassidy had jogged the elliptical half-circle three times by the time Denton came out to find him. Even now his face was red, his voice hoarse from the harsh smokey air.

"Want company?" It was a rhetorical question. Here in this chilly, foreign environment, with so many talented athletes everywhere, it was easy to get psyched out. Cassidy knew no one here except Bruce. He was already beginning to ask himself the eternal self-doubt question: What Am I Doing Here? But now he wasn't just some nobody in a Southeastern University sweatsuit jogging back and forth, he was "the guy with Bruce Denton." His stride took on a proud bounce.

"Do you know any of these guys in the mile?" He asked Denton, The older runner took the list and studied it as they ran.

"Well, Marcel Phillipe you know. He's a Fordham guy, can't be in real good shape yet. O'Rork I'm sure you remember; Kerry Ellison, Texas El Paso: tough cookie. Those guys get in shape early like we do. I'd say he's the man to watch."

"I didn't think he ..."

"He doesn't run on the cross-country team, is why you didn't see him at nationals. They have a bunch of true six-milers, so he doesn't have to. No, he'll be in shape. Wouldn't be here otherwise."

"Yeah, but what about old ..."

"Liquori is scratched."

"Scratched? Jeez ..."

"Breaks your heart doesn't it? I talked to him a few minutes ago. He is in pretty good shape but he sprained his ankle a few days ago. I hate to say this, but it looks like you might have a chance to take all the marbles."

"Bruce, I ..." His forehead wrinkled with concern, "Bruce, the Wannamaker Mile ..."

"Look. This is the way it happens. You keep at it hard, just like you've been doing. You hang around the fringes waiting for your chance. When it comes you go for it, hard. You do good, that gets you psyched. You go back, work even harder ..." He stopped for a moment, reflected, then laughed. "Hell, I don't know. Who the hell knows?"

"The Milrose mile ..."

"All I know is that you could win the thing. Your best races are the ones where you just relax and let it flow. You've got great speed, Cass. Jeez, I wish I had it. All you have to do is keep from fretting it away early. It doesn't do any good anyway, indoors especially. Avoid hassles; when you make a move, go around the problems and stay around them. You can run behind just fine so long as you don't get lulled into a bad place late in the race. If you're in a good spot, don't panic even if you're a little crowded. Hang in there and hum a little tune, talk to yourself, look at the girls,
anything
...just stay in contact and get yourself to a good position with two laps to go. Don't wait until it's too late to get to your spot. You just don't make up really big gaps indoors, especially on this track."

"Yeah, it's a little slow, isn't it?"

"It's pretty bad for the sprinters, but okay for us. A little spongy is all. I don't think it will affect you that much, but since you push off strongly from your calves you might try to get a little more float out of your stride, instead of trying to get oomph from the track. It doesn't have it to give."

"Got it. Want to do some striders with me?"

"Striders? Striders? Hell, I just did an 8:32 deuce and you want me to do striders with you just to keep you company?" He took off down the concrete hallway in a sprint, scattering runners in all directions. Cassidy smiled; it was always a great feeling to have it over with.

...four laps to go and it's O'Rork of East Tennessee, Phillipe ofFordham, Ellison, Cassidy, Wheeler, and Hector Ortiz of Western Kentucky..."

Cassidy tried to make his mind work. Eleven laps to the mile, two and three quarters equals one regular lap. Unaccustomed to gauging fatigue-versus-distance-remaining on an indoor track, he had to make conversions as he went along. A runner is a miser, spending the pennies of his energy with great stinginess, constantly wanting to know how much he has spent and how much longer he will be expected to pay. He wants to be broke at precisely the moment he no longer needs his coin.

He calculated: outdoors it would be the third lap. For the time being he was content to tuck in with the middle of the pack and wait for something to happen. The pace had not been impressive; Cassidy felt comfortable with it. They had gone through the half in 2:02 in a bunch. Each time he went by the far turn, Bruce Denton, arch-fan, was one voice among 15,000 who called just for him. Denton yelled things that were not in the least irritating like most of the things you hear during a race (things like "pick it up, pick it up" or "faster, faster, don't let them get away"), things that make the runner think: If you think it's so damn slow, why don't you godamn well get out here and "pick it up" yourself.

Instead, Denton said: "Good pace, Cass, hang right there!" Or: "Good position, stay alert ..." To the runner, traveling at a dizzying 15 miles per hour around a tiny oval track, entranced by pace concentration, the idea of staying alert seemed positively brilliant.

With no warning and but two laps to go, Kerry Ellison surged powerfully. His brown legs flashed smoothly as he let out a burst of brutal speed. Cassidy responded immediately by pulling out, but he had to wait for a straightaway to pass the two runners in front of him. Damn! Then he realized with a sinking heart what Denton had said to him on each of the last two laps: "Move up now. Move up now."

But he had not heeded. Now he was just where he didn't want to be, in a bad position late in the race.

The gun went off as they banked into the penultimate turn. By now Cassidy had pulled back to within ten yards of the flying Texan. With growing confidence he crept steadily up to Ellison's shoulder, using the entire far straight to do it, but feeling—though fatigued from the pace—that he had spirit left. He had gotten out of the jam by responding immediately to Ellison's bid and he seemed to have something left to throw into it. He was excited and just as curious as the spectators to find out what was going to happen. The crowd, on its feet since the crack of the gun, didn't seem to care who won. They just wanted a race.

The excitement of the approaching finish yarn, as always, caused a little prickly feeling at the back of his neck. Cassidy started to pass on the final turn, but just as he pulled up and began the effort, he heard Denton through the din: "NOP That was all he said. This time Cassidy heard.

He hung on Ellison's shoulder all through the tiny turn and with a gasp flung himself out and into the final straight. Ellison was not finished either; he pumped smoothly and leaned into his final sprint. But Quenton Cassidy was by far the faster kicker. He easily gained seven yards on Ellison in the last straight. From the crowd came a subdued roar that signified the anti-climax. Denton jumped up onto the track and trotted up to where Cassidy was bent over in the familiar gasping position.

"Don't grab those knees, boy," he shouted above the din. "Here are your sweats, get 'em on. But don't you grab those knees though because you got to run a little of that off. You have just become the Wannamaker Mile champion and you got to let them
know ..."

Cassidy's face was the old fire engine color and his breathing still desperate.

"Know. What?" He tried to jog, but it felt as if his spine were made of bamboo. Nothing worked properly, lactic acid bound him into a solid block. He could not swing his arms.

"That it feels GOOOOD!" Denton seemed much happier at the moment than his young friend.

On the plane, Cassidy was a zombie again, smiling vaguely but apparently unable to assimilate what was going on around him. They had gone out to eat and hadn't gotten to bed until two in the morning. Denton insisted they take a token morning run, so they clomped around stiffly in the gray Manhattan morning. Denton assured him most muggers did not work early.

Cassidy barely made it to his seat. The stewardess woke him to ask if he wanted breakfast—he did—and woke him again a few minutes later when she brought it. When they arrived in Philadelphia, Denton woke him again.

"Hey champ, end of the line. All milers off." Cassidy mumbled something and then snoozed while the other passengers got off. He nodded off gently while Denton got a cab and then slept soundly all the way to the hotel as Denton sat in the front seat and chatted with the driver.