Split Decision (12 page)
Two-oh-nine—2:09. Two-zero-niner.
Cody let the various representations of his new 800-meter PR roll around in his head. It wasn’t a stellar time, especially not when compared to Gerber’s 1:58, Ward’s amazing 2:01, and Phelps’s school (and conference) freshman record of 2:05.
But it was a decent time for a skinny freshman from small-town Colorado, and it was good enough to have landed Cody Martin at the state track and field meet.
“Yo, Phelps,” Cody said, surveying the scene around him, “this is intense.”
Cody waited a moment for a reply, but none was forthcoming. His teammate was transfixed by the atmosphere of the gargantuan meet. The stands surrounding the Air Force Academy track were packed with people, and it seemed there were as many athletes as spectators, jogging along roads near the track, or lounging on the practice football field nearby. Still others huddled in makeshift yellow tents, marked with their school’s name.
“Yeah,” Drew mumbled finally. “State. Intense.”
“Check it out,” Cody said, stabbing his right forefinger just past Drew’s left ear. “The TV stations are here—some of the Denver stations, even! I had no idea track was this big of a deal.”
“At the state level,” Drew said softly, “it’s a really big deal. And just think—it’s just the smaller schools competing here. Imagine what a circus it would be if the huge schools like Cherry Creek were here.”
The conversation was interrupted by the public-address announcer, informing everyone that a new record had just been set in the girls’ high jump.
Drew and Cody clapped politely along with everyone else, then went to find Coach Clayton. Their race, the four by 800 meters, was less than an hour away.
“So this is what artificial turf feels like,” Cody said stooping down and stroking the stubby blades of fake grass.
“Yeah,” Craig Ward said with a laugh. “We played one game on it last year. You can really scoot on this stuff, but you don’t want to get tackled on it. The real ground gives, but you know what’s under this stuff … eventually?”
“What?” Cody asked.
“Concrete.”
Cody let a whistle escape from between his two front teeth. “Dude, I wouldn’t want to get tackled on this stuff!”
Ward clapped him across the back. “No,” he said, “you sure wouldn’t.”
As Cody stooped again, pressing down on the artificial surface, Coach Clayton arrived with Drew and Gerber.
“Men,” the coach said, “baton exchanges in the four by 800 ain’t exactly rocket science. We’ll use a visual exchange, just as we did last week at regionals, with the man handing off telling the other when to take off. Remember, baton receivers, your man is gonna be comin’ in tired, so don’t scoot off too quickly and leave him behind.”
“What’s the order gonna be, Coach?” Drew asked. “Same as last week?”
Coach Clayton tapped a long forefinger against his lower lip. “I’ve been thinking about that, Mr. Phelps. And I’m gonna change things up just a bit. Mr. Martin, you’re gonna lead off. Now, don’t gawk at me like that. I know what I’m doing. There’s a lot of shoving that goes on during the first leg, and the first baton exchange can be a fire drill. Because you’re our slowest guy, Martin, you’ll be out of the fray—but don’t you get too far out of it. You stay in contact with the other seven teams, you hear me? And, most important, don’t go takin’ off like a dadgum jackrabbit and burn yourself out after one lap! Understand?”
Cody nodded subserviently, all the while thinking,
Okay, reality check time. Why in the wide world o’ sports am I here? On a relay team with three distance studs? This is beyond foolish, beyond crazy!
“Now,” the coach continued, “the other thing my strategy will accomplish is that it will give the rest of you something to chase, and you’re all competitive runners who do
love
the chase.
“Ward, you’re second. If there’s a big gap between us and Clayton Hills, I want you to close it. You’ll probably be in a tight chase pack, but with your football experience, I know you won’t let anybody shove you outta position. One final thing, Mr. Ward, I know that in football you called your defensive-backfield territory the No-Passing Zone. I want the same attitude here; nobody passes you!”
Coach Clayton stopped for a moment and slid a stick of gum into his mouth. “Mr. Phelps, you’re next. You just focus hard and try to keep the position Ward gives you. Run smart. You hear? Now, in the unlikely event that we’re worse than second when you get the stick, you pick off anybody and everybody between you and Clayton Hills.”
Drew nodded solemnly.
“And that, fellas,” Coach Clayton said, smiling at Grant High’s best-ever middle-distance man, “brings us to Gerber. Now, listen, all ya’ll, I’m not going to pump any sunshine up your shorts; Clayton Hills has clocked a time five seconds faster than we have. They’re four-time defending champs in this event. They’re gonna be tough to beat. But this is state, gentlemen, and I’ve seen some crazy things happen at state meets.”
The coach paused for a moment, studying his foursome. “Only seven teams in the field, fellas, so it’s one and done. No prelims; no quarterfinals. We got only one shot. So run like you mean it.”
“Yeah,” Ward barked emphatically. “Let’s do this!”
“Go get a few baton exchanges,” the coach ordered. “And remember, visual passes—left hand to right hand.”
“Phelps,” Cody whispered as he walked by his fellow freshman, “pray for me.”
Drew nodded. “Will do.”
“Is this your fourth trip to the bathroom in the past twenty minutes—or the fifth?” Ward called after Cody as he clambered down the bleachers near the start line for the dashes and short hurdle races.
“Sorry, C-Ward,” Cody called over his shoulder. “I’m nervous, and when I get nervous—”
Ward waved a hand in front of his face, as if shooing flies. “I don’t need a biology lesson, freshman,” he chuckled. “But listen, the race is coming up soon, and there was quite a line at that big bathroom right outside the stadium when I used it a little while ago. Head down that hill east of the track, and you’ll find a smaller one. No waitin’ at that one.”
Cody nodded and jogged away.
Inside the concrete “two-seater,” as Chop would have called it, Cody stopped to study his reflection in a greasy mirror.
I can’t believe I’m running at state
, he marveled.
I never thought I’d get here—even when I was a senior. But here I am—just a freshman. And the team is counting on me. Especially Gerber. He’s a senior; this is his last chance for a medal at state.
“Excuse me,” Cody said tentatively, as he tried to step by the three guys blocking the restroom door. The one in the middle, the tallest, at about six feet two inches, looked to his left, then his right, smirking at his companions. “What’s your hurry, little Eagle?” he asked, his voice dripping mock innocence.
Cody took two steps backward, his mind racing.
Do these guys wanna shake me down for some money,
he wondered,
or is something else up? They look too old to be high school guys; I don’t think they’re from one of the other teams. And why did they call me “little Eagle?” I mean, I am wearing Grant warm-ups, but still, the way he said it, that kinda creeped me out.
“Uh, guys,” he said finally, willing the words out of his mouth, “I don’t have any money or anything. Sorry.”
He waited a few seconds, gesturing helplessly at his pocketless warm-up pants. None of the threesome responded.
Okay, time for another approach,
he told himself. “Look,” he said, “I have a relay race really soon, and the other guys on my team are gonna freak if I don’t get to the track soon. They’ve already had first call for our event, so, uh—”
The man in the middle spoke again. “We’re not moving, little Eagle. Even if you say ‘pretty please.’ So, why don’t you just chill awhile. That way, you’ll get to walk outta here, not be carried out on a stretcher.”
“JD, check it out,” the leader said to the cohort on his left, “he’s closin’ his eyes—tryin’ to wish us away!”
Rowdy laughter followed.
I’m not wishing
, Cody corrected them, but only in his mind.
I’m praying. Praying that God will protect me. Praying that I won’t let the team down.
“Amen,” Cody whispered, as he opened his eyes and charged into the middle of the pack.
The force of the collision slammed the leader into the door, stunning him. But his two colleagues each grabbed a Cody Martin arm and pulled him back.
“That,” the leader said, balling both hands into tight fists, “was not smart.”
As Cody fought to wriggle free, he heard a knock at the door. “Cody,” he heard a voice call out, “you in there?”
“Don’t you dare answer,” the leader hissed.
“Help!” Cody screamed.
“You’re so dead now!” spat JD, tightening his grip on Cody’s right arm.
I really don’t think so
, Cody thought, as a realization hit him.
That voice out there? It’s Brendan Clark’s!
The door creaked open, and the leader threw his shoulder against it. “Maintenance going on in here,” he shouted. “Go away.”
“Oh, okay,” Clark’s voice sounded polite, innocent. “Sorry for interrupting.”
Cody felt fear clutch his heart and squeeze as Clark’s footfalls grew faint.
The leader rose from his bracing position against the door. He had just turned to Cody and smiled wickedly when the door exploded open, catapulting him across the room. He stumbled over one of his cohort’s feet and crashed to the concrete floor.
“Get to the track—now!” commanded Clark, standing in the doorway, muscles straining against the thin fabric of his track top.
Cody jerked his arms free and sprinted toward the doorway, where he froze abruptly. “Brendan,” he said, “it’s gonna be one on three!”
Brendan wagged his head slowly. “Oh ye of little faith,” he sighed. “Go!”
Cody sprinted toward the stadium, panic surging through his body like an electrical current.
If I mess things up for the guys
, he thought,
I’ll never forgive myself!
He whipped his head over his right shoulder when he heard footsteps. It was JD, the stockiest of the three attackers, bearing down fast.
Cody went into full sprint mode, willing himself not to look back. He heard the public address announcer boom, “Final call for the boys’ class AA–1 four by 800-meter relay!” as he arrived at the stadium’s main entrance. He risked one quick look back before he ducked inside. The stocky guy was gone.
The next thing Cody knew, Phelps was dragging him toward the starting line, screaming, “Where are your racing flats? Where are your flats!?”
