Fast-Pitch Love

by Clay Cormany

  Jace glared at his friend. "That’s not funny either."

  Stick returned the glare with a blank expression. "Who says I’m trying to be funny?"

  Chapter Thirty-five

  After Stick parked his car, he and Jace walked into the stadium. An eerie silence hung over the empty bleachers and padlocked doors. Metal gratings were pulled across the counters of concession stands where hot dogs, chips, and soft drinks were sold during home football games. The usually bright scoreboard stood in the distance like a huge dark window. Around them, the air was heavy with humidity, and close to the horizon, dark clouds threatened to bring rain — though not soon enough to interrupt the business that brought them here. The two friends stopped by the storage building and gazed about the track and football field.

  "Maybe he won’t show," said Jace.

  "He’ll show," countered Stick, shaking his head. "It’s just seven forty-five. He’s got fifteen minutes."

  "This place is weird when there’s nobody here," Jace said, running his eyes from one end of the stadium to the other.

  "We’re here," Stick answered glibly.

  "You know what I mean," Jace persisted. "It’s like a ghost town. No students, no band, no cheerleaders, no players."

  "What did you expect? It’s a Sunday morning in July."

  "Yeah, I know. It’s just that when you come to this place, it’s full of people and there’s music and noise and everything."

  "Yes, but the whole idea of coming here now…" Stick stopped mid-sentence. Perhaps he realized that Jace was just talking to keep his mind occupied while he waited for his enemy to show up.

  "Come on," Stick said. "Let’s check out the track."

  The two friends stepped onto the rust-colored track with its neat white lines. Aside from a few puddles it was in good shape.

  "I’m going to take some warm-up laps while we’re waiting," Jace announced.

  "Good idea."

  Jace peeled off his warm-up jacket, took a drink of water, and began stretching his legs, just as he did before cross-country meets and practice runs. Once he finished, he took off down the track and began to think. Why go through all of this? Why risk a severe beating from Carson when Stephanie wasn’t even his first choice as a girlfriend? Then he thought back to his quarrel with Sylvia, to her nasty words and cold stare before storming away from him. Maybe he didn’t have a choice anymore. Maybe it was Stephanie or no one for now.

  Jace was almost halfway through his second lap when a banged-up orange rust bucket with a cloud of exhaust billowing from its muffler rumbled into the school parking lot. It stopped at a right angle to Stick’s car, as if preparing to ram it. Three large figures emerged.

  Jace recognized Carson and Ned, but the identity of the third guy couldn’t be determined at this distance. They paused for a moment and then, catching sight of Stick, began walking toward him. By now, Jace was less than two hundred yards from completing his second lap and — seeing the chance to strike a psychological blow at his adversary—he launched himself into a sprint. He saw Stick point at him, as if confirming that he was more than ready to begin the race. Jace completed the lap, and never breaking stride, ran right up to Carson and his two friends.

  "Hi, Carson," he said with mock cheerfulness. "Just getting warmed up. Do you want to take a practice lap or two?"

  A scowl crossed Carson’s face, but a smug smile soon replaced it.

  "Nah, I won’t need it."

  Jace studied the fellow who accompanied Carson and Ned. He didn’t know him. The stranger matched Carson’s height but had a leaner build. Beneath his buzz-cut was an unfriendly face spotted with acne. Unlike Ned, who wore blue jeans and a t-shirt, this kid had on a sweat suit and running shoes, just as Carson did. Jace sensed this guy meant trouble — but in what way? No point being polite.

  "Who are you?" Jace asked the stranger. The pimply-faced teenager gave him a sullen stare but no answer. Then Carson spoke up.

  "This is my cousin Ron. He’s going to be helping me this morning."

  Jace opened his mouth to protest, but Stick came faster with his words.

  "What’re you talking about?" Stick almost shouted. "You can’t have anyone run this race for you."

  "Oh, Ron’s not going to run this stupid race for me," Carson said. "I can handle that on my own." He paused and put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. "But he is going to pace me, aren’t you, my man?"

  Ron nodded and pulled a stopwatch from the pocket of his not-recently-cleaned sweatpants.

  "We’ve been checking on you, Waldron," Carson continued. "Found out your best time in a five-K is eighteen thirty-two. So we did a little calculating and figured you can’t do two miles in less than eleven minutes. That means all I need to do is finish in fifteen minutes. Ron can run a seven-thirty mile with no sweat. He used to play tight end for Lorain Whitfield. So if I can keep up with him, I’ll be fine."

  "But your boy here won’t be," chimed in Ned, pointing at Jace.

  Jace’s heart sank. He didn’t think Carson would bother developing a strategy for running the race. It never paid to underestimate an enemy. The three goons standing there, grinning and gloating, reminded Jace of a photo he once saw of Hitler and his generals congratulating one another after France fell to the Nazis in World War II. Focusing on Ron, in particular, Jace realized that although he didn’t know this guy, he did know something about him. In the meantime, Stick objected to Ron being involved in the race in any way.

  "This wasn’t part of the deal, Ealy," he exclaimed. "If you can’t do two miles in fifteen minutes without someone to pace you, then maybe you should forfeit right now."

  "Shove it, Macklin," Carson retorted. "You’re just trying to save your weenie friend here from getting the crap beat out of him."

  Stick opened his mouth to continue the argument, but Jace held up a restraining hand.

  "Just a second, Stick. Maybe it’ll be okay if Ron here gives Carson a hand."

  "Huh?"

  "Hey, Ron, can I ask you something?" Jace continued.

  Ron hesitated before speaking. "What?"

  "I remember a couple of years ago when Lorain Whitfield played against Akron Firestone in the regional state football championship."

  "So?"

  "If I remember, Whitfield would’ve won that game if their tight end hadn’t dropped a pass in the end zone on the final play of the game." Jace waited just a second to let his words sink in. "You’re the one who dropped that pass, aren’t you, Ronnie?"

  Ron’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open, revealing a row of crooked teeth. Seeing his cousin’s reaction, Carson rushed to his defense.

  "So what if it was, dill-weed? So what if it was?" He took a menacing step toward Jace and clenched both hands into fists.

  "Easy, Carson," Jace replied, folding his arms. "I’m just saying that it’s fine with me if your cousin wants to help you keep pace. If he runs as well as he catches passes, he’ll do me more good than he does you."

  Carson kept his fists clenched, and the snarl on his lips would have made a pit bull quiver. Perhaps fearing that the boxing match would precede rather than follow the foot race, Stick jumped in.

  "Why don’t we get this thing started? Jace is warmed up. Do you want to run a warm-up lap, Ealy?"

  "Screw it," Carson snapped. He pulled off his sweatshirt, revealing a Ridgeview High football jersey with the sleeves torn out. He tossed the sweatshirt to Ned and then jogged onto the track with his cousin close behind.

  "Get out here, weenie!" Carson yelled. He pointed his finger at Jace as if to identify a criminal in a police line-up. Then the expression on his face changed from anger to surprise. At the same time, Stick made an exaggerated throat-clearing sound behind him — not because of a dry throat but because he wanted Jace to turn around and see something. Taking the cue, Jace did an about face and saw that someone new had joined the group. A girl this time. Sylvia. Her hair hung in swirls down both shoulders, and she wore a light-yellow blouse and a p
ink scarf around her neck, while a pair of tight-fitting white shorts took the place of her usual cut-off blue jeans.

  "Syl… Sylvia," Jace stammered.

  "Hi, cowboy," she said. The worried look in her eyes overshadowed the little smile that she managed to force onto her lips.

  As she stood there, Jace fell captive to a swarm of confused feelings. He felt glad to see Sylvia, yet puzzled, too. How had she found out about this fight, and why had she come to watch it? To see him get beat up? Jace dismissed that thought. Sylvia would be in his corner just as she had been throughout the softball season, and her presence would make a difference. Men fought harder in battle and accepted more punishment when women were watching. They made victory sweeter, defeat more bitter.

  "If you don’t get out on this track, I’m going to beat you up right now."

  The threat came from Carson, who recovered from his surprise at seeing Sylvia and now stretched his legs. Even without the padding of his football outfit, he looked enormous like a Cyclops or some other fearsome creature from myths.

  "I’ll be right there," Jace answered, hoping that his voice didn’t betray his fear.

  "Good luck," Sylvia said. Her hand reached out, and Jace took it for just an instant. Then he let go and walked onto the track.

  "Ready when you are, Carson."

  Chapter Thirty-six

  "On your mark, get set, go!" Stick shouted much louder than needed.

  On the word "go," the three teenagers bolted away, and Stick and Ned punched the start buttons on their stopwatches. So did Ron, who wore his stopwatch on a string around his neck. It didn’t take long for Jace to put some distance between himself and the other two runners, but that didn’t matter. The real question was whether Carson could maintain the pace that Ron set for him. Jace thought about keeping an extra-fast pace — five-fifteen or even less but realized that would be unwise. Despite occasional practice runs, he wasn’t as well-conditioned as he was during cross-country season. Just holding a five-thirty pace would be a big enough challenge.

  After he completed his first quarter mile, Jace stole a glance at the other two runners. They were far behind, but they also ran nearly side-by-side. In the early going, at least, Carson was achieving his goal. So what? Jace thought to himself. This race has a long way to go. He tried to ignore his competitors and focus on other things. High above the stadium, lights stared down at him like the eyes of a giant insect. Outside the stadium, cars drove by perhaps carrying the passengers to a church service or to a breakfast with friends. On a sidewalk opposite from the football field, an elderly lady walked her dog while, at a nearby house, a man dug in his garden. People going about their normal Sunday business, unaware of the little drama that unfolded under their noses.

  When he completed his second lap, Jace looked toward Stick, who gave him the thumbs up sign. Next to him, Sylvia shouted words that he couldn’t quite make out. He quickened his pace a little. Dashing past the empty bleachers and looping behind the goal posts, he saw Carson and Ron just ahead. They barreled along like a couple of overloaded trucks. Just the same, Carson continued to run almost next to Ron. The gap between the three runners closed quickly, and by the time Jace completed his third lap he was breathing down the necks of Ron and Carson, who just finished their second. When he pulled even with them, Carson looked over and scowled.

  "I’m keeping up the pace, dill-weed," he huffed.

  Jace ignored the taunt and glided ahead of his opponents, not bothering to give them even an over-the-shoulder glance. A minute later, he finished his first mile, and as he did, Stick charged from Sylvia’s side and soon ran stride-for-stride next to him.

  "Better speed up some," Stick intoned.

  "What’s my time?"

  Stick peered at the stopwatch that he clutched in his left hand. "Five thirty-six."

  "I see what you mean. Is Carson keeping his seven-thirty pace?"

  Stick squinted at the two other runners, who were on the opposite side of the track.

  "Yeah, I think they’re close to it," Sick admitted. "But hey, they haven’t even done a mile yet, and I’m betting Carson won’t finish."

  "What gives you that idea?"

  "Just the look on his face and the way he’s running. He doesn’t look strong at all, even allowing he’s not a long-distance runner."

  Jace glanced at his friend. "Maybe I should slow down in case I’ll need the energy for a fistfight later, right?"

  "It’s your call, Slo-Mo, but if I were you, I’d play it safe and run faster."

  Play it safe? Stick had to be joking. It was much too late to play it safe. If he wanted to do that, he never would have volunteered to be a coach for the Valkyries, never would have taken Stephanie to Wilson's Bluff or the zoo or the carnival. He'd be home right now reading the Sunday paper instead of running a race in front of an empty stadium and hoping against hope he didn’t get his brains beaten out when it ended. The time to play it safe was ancient history. Still, Stick’s words made sense.

  "Okay, I’ll pick up the pace."

  By now, they had reached the starting line again. Stick gave him a quick slap on his shoulder and then broke away to rejoin Sylvia on the grass. Jace did run faster and soon came up behind Ron and Carson again. He reached them about halfway through his seventh lap.

  No sneer or insult came from Carson this time. The big football player struggled to keep up with his cousin, so much so that he didn’t seem to realize Jace was near. Sweat beaded over his brow, and his chest heaved as he panted for breath. Carson’s two hundred thirty-pound frame served him well on the line of scrimmage in a football game, but in a foot race it became a handicap. Jace breezed past him with the ease of a speedboat overtaking a barge.

  Nearing the end of his seventh lap, he saw that Sylvia had moved closer to the track, and when he passed her, he looked into her face. She smiled at him, but again her eyes revealed how worried she was. In that brief moment — no longer than it takes for an apple to fall from a tree Jace realized again that Sylvia was the right choice and not just because of their camaraderie from softball. Her beauty was also a big part of it.

  She didn’t have the high-popping outward beauty of her sister. Hers was more subtle, hidden. It hid behind a few extra pounds of weight or an unflattering hairstyle or clothes that were unattractive. But it was there to the guy who had the patience to seek it out. Sylvia’s beauty had a staying power that went beneath the flesh, and it promised a world of passion for the "right guy," whoever that might be. Jace sensed that beauty when he first met Sylvia at Addison Park, saw it many times on the softball field, but only understood it now as he raced past her into the final lap.

  The last quarter mile went by in a blur. The bleachers, the sky, the track, the football field, and the houses in the surrounding neighborhood seemed to mesh together in a kaleidoscope of motion and color. After he crossed the starting line, he remained on the track, slowing his pace to a fast walk. He wanted to keep running right out of the stadium and all the way home, but knew he couldn’t. The contest no longer had anything to do with Stephanie; it was all about honor.

  Honor! He almost spoke the word aloud. Over the centuries, men had spilled their blood for it millions of times from battlefields to back alleys. And if Carson somehow managed to finish the race within the next four minutes, Jace would be the next casualty. The thought of his adversary pulled him out of his introspection and re-directed his attention to the other racers. Carson and Ron approached the start line, preparing to complete their sixth lap. The big nose tackle hung close to his pacesetter, though that task appeared to become more difficult with every stride.

  Jace wiped some perspiration off his face before walking back toward the spot where Sylvia and Stick stood. Carson passed on his right, and Jace heard little grunts of pain coming from him, alternating with gulps for air.

  "I don’t think he’s going to make it," Stick said when Jace came up beside him.

  "Are you sure? He’s got less than half a mile t
o go."

  "Yeah, but did you hear him? He’s sucking air something fierce."

  Together they watched the two runners come around the curve at the opposite end of the field and head down the track on the visitors’ side of the stadium. A voice blared out behind them.

  "Hang in there, bro," shouted Ned. "Just one more lap." He peered at his stopwatch and then sneered at Jace. "Better get ready to fight, Waldron," he said.

  When Carson entered his bell lap, his stride was more like a stagger than anything else. His face was red; his hair was matted in sweat, and he sounded like a broken appliance as air wheezed in and out of his beleaguered lungs. Yet through it all, he stayed close to Ron, who looked pretty haggard himself.

  What drove Carson, anyway? Jace wondered. Could it be the fear of losing Stephanie? He doubted that. Plenty of other girls would be more than willing to take Stephanie's place. In the hierarchy of athletes at Ridgeview High, football players stood at the top. To a great extent, students measured their popularity by how many football players they knew and how well they knew them. If Carson lost Stephanie today, he’d have another girl on his arm by Friday at the latest.

  No, Stephanie was not the reason that Carson was here today. The football hero was here for the same reason Jace was — honor. He had been challenged by an adversary, one he considered inferior but who nonetheless had the power to take something away from him, and who therefore could not be ignored. That’s why Carson couldn’t back out of the race any more than Jace could back out of the fight that might follow.

  When the two runners reached the far end of the track, they appeared to be small, insignificant figures. They could have been two little boys playing tag. And then, while Jace watched, one of them fell. It was Carson. A cry of joy sprang from Stick’s lips, and he pumped a triumphant fist into the air.

  "What did I tell, you, huh?" he exclaimed, making no attempt to be modest. "What did I tell, you? I knew he couldn’t keep that pace up."