Billy tried to avoid getting too close to Cody, who was hopping up and down with Luke and Rudy, preparing for the sixty-yard sprint.
The sight of Cody only reminded him of the bet he had lost, and that Wendy probably would never speak to him again. He had looked for her today, but hadn’t seen her. He wouldn’t be surprised if she never came to another meet. And he couldn’t blame her.
He noticed the absence of Pearl McCarthy and the skinny brunette, too. Either the weather was too cold for Pearl, or she had heard about the bet and it had made her angry with Cody.
Maybe Cody doesn’t care beans for Pearl, but the dumb bet has certainly ended things between Wendy and me, Billy thought dismally.
“Okay, Cody,” Coach Seavers piped up. “You, Rudy, and Seattle line up for the sixty-yard sprint.” He then ordered one of the other runners standing by to wait for his command to start, gave him the gun, and walked rapidly down to the finish line.
“Okay, start!” he yelled.
“On your mark! Get set!” Bang! went the gun.
Cody was ahead almost immediately, and came in first easily, two steps ahead of Seattle. The one hundred, two-twenty, and four-forty followed in order, with ten-minute rest periods between each race. Cody ran in all of them, and took the one hundred and two-twenty again with no surprise to anyone.
Chuck Schwinn beat him out in the four-forty. Schwinn also won the one-hundred-eighty-yard hurdle by four lengths, and squeezed into first place by a step in the two-hundred-yard hurdle. Koski led all the way in the eight-eighty, winning it easily.
Two other runners competed with him in the hurdles, neither of whom seemed fast enough to put a scare into any school.
The mile race was next, and Billy waited anxiously for the coach to announce his name.
“Joy! Maynard! Koski! Line up for the mile! Hustle, you guys! It’s getting late!” The coach clapped his hands hard as he called off the runners’ names and yelled the order. Billy stood like a statue, refusing to believe that the coach wouldn’t let him run. The coach asked another runner to give them the starting signal, then turned and headed toward the finish line behind him.
What’s the matter with me? Billy wanted to yell at him. I’m okay! And I can run! I can!
Without thinking about it another second he ran to the starting line and entered the number four lane next to Dick Koski. He saw Koski glance at him, surprised, but didn’t return his gaze.
The starter began calling, “On your mark! Get set!” Bang! went the gun.
They took off. After twenty yards Billy found himself four steps behind Koski, who had taken the lead. Soon Rudy moved ahead of him, arms and legs pumping hard. At the quarter-of-a-mile mark Rudy took the lead.
Billy maintained an even pace, not going any faster than he had when the race had started. But at the half-mile mark he picked up speed, and by the time he reached the three-quarters-of-a-mile mark he had overtaken Rudy and Koski. Rudy had fallen slightly behind again, trailing Koski by five yards.
Billy was in the lead now, and going strong. He was hardly tired. His legs felt fine.
When he came to the finish line, far ahead of Koski, he disregarded the surprised look the coach gave him. He ran on for twenty more yards or so down the track, slowing his pace down to nothing. Then he ran off to the side and rested.
He expected the coach to yell at him, to chew him out for running when he wasn’t asked to; or else to shower praise on him for beating the others. But the coach only glanced at him and said nothing.
Is Coach Seavers ignoring me on purpose? Billy wondered. Is he conserving his anger to hurl at me later?
Fifteen minutes later Koski and Maynard were called to the starting line for the two-mile race. There was a pause. Then Billy heard the coach call his name. “Chekko! Get in there!”
Billy grinned, and ran onto the track and got in the number three lane next to Koski.
The starter called the signals, fired the gun, and the runners took off. Maynard grabbed the lead and held it for half a mile. Koski kept a position almost side by side with Billy. It was all that Billy could do to keep from smiling. He knew what Dick’s strategy was. He’d keep even with Billy, then take off when Billy did, and toward the end of the race he’d fly off all by himself to the finish line.
But it didn’t work out that way, as Billy knew it wouldn’t.
He was even with Maynard at the end of the first mile, then got into the lead and kept spreading the gap with almost every stride after that. Both Koski and Maynard made a last sprinting effort to catch up to him, but he let them come on, knowing that the effort would only take more energy out of them.
They fell back quickly, and he finished forty yards ahead of Koski, sixty ahead of Maynard.
He didn’t stop when it was over, but continued to run toward the school.
“Chekko!” he heard the coach’s voice yelling behind him.
Billy slowed to a stop, and turned around.
“See you Thursday!” said the coach.
“Yes, sir!” answered Billy.
He ran on to the school, showered, got dressed, and then ran all the way home.
The next morning he saw Wendy in the hall, walking with Pearl, and instantly he decided that he must talk to her. He had to do something to mend their torn friendship.
He started to run and caught up to her just before she turned into a classroom. “Wendy!” he called.
She stared over her shoulder at him, shot him a glazed look, and went on into the room. He followed her in, aware that there were already a dozen kids inside.
“Wendy, I’ve got to talk to you,” he insisted. “You’ve got to hear me out. Give me a minute, will you? Thirty seconds?”
She sat down, plopped a book on her desk, and flipped it open. Billy, feeling a dozen pairs of eyes centering on him, blushed with embarrassment and headed for his own desk.
Another round lost, he thought, as his spirits sank another notch.
Chapter 15
BILLY RODE the bus home after school, taking his duffel bag with him. Without wasting any time, he put on his trunks and shoes and ran to Ulster Road, up to the highway and south on it to Jay’s Soft Ice Cream Shop. The full distance was about five miles. He considered buying a soft ice cream cone to satisfy the thirst he had developed, but resisted the temptation and ran all the way back, sprinting the short distance home from Ulster Road. He still had time to shower before supper.
The big news at the supper table was his.
“I’m running in the mile and two-mile in Thursday’s meet against Hamlin,” he said happily, not afraid to show his excitement. “How about that? I think that the coach is finally convinced I can run.”
“What about your sore heel?” asked Dan, grabbing up a forkful of baked potato from his plate.
“It’s healed up fine. Anyway, it wasn’t only because of my heel that the coach didn’t ask me to run. He didn’t think I could compete.”
Dan smiled. “I guess it was a good thing you got on the track and proved yourself, showed that you could run,” he said. “Otherwise you’d probably still be on the sideline.”
“Right,” said Billy.
“Well, the coach has got a job to do,” said Billy’s father. “He’s there to develop a bunch of kids into good runners, jumpers, or whatever a kid wants to do. He’s also a father figure, a man who believes in discipline, but wants to make sure his kids don’t take unnecessary risks. He might’ve thought he was doing the right thing in not letting you run, Billy. Maybe you proved to him that he could be wrong once in a while.”
“I hope so,” smiled Billy.
The day of the meet against Hamlin High was typical for May. Clouds scudded across the sky, shielding the sun part of the time as a warm breeze kept moving them westward. The crowd attending was larger than usual, probably because word had gotten around that Cove Hill was meeting Hamlin, the only undefeated team in the league.
Billy watched the sixty-yard dash captured by a Hamlin sophom
ore, who won it by a step over Cody Jones.
The loss drew a moan from the Cove Hill fans. It was the first time they had seen their sprint idol lose the sixty-yarder.
“Beans,” said Rudy, standing near Billy’s right elbow. “If Cody lost that one, he’ll probably lose the hundred, too.”
“The kid got a head start on him,” said Luke. “He won’t do it again, I betcha.”
He was right. Cody won the one-hundred by a step and a half.
“What’d I tell you?” said Luke, grinning.
Billy saw some people coming up on his left side. Turning, he saw that it was Pearl McCarthy and her satellite, the skinny, dark-haired girl. And — he looked again to make sure — Wendy Thaler was there, too.
“Hi, Billy,” Pearl greeted him.
“Hi, Pearl,” he said.
“Hi,” said the girl next to her.
“Hi,” said Billy.
Wendy said nothing. Her attention seemed to be riveted on the track where hardly anything was going on at the moment.
She’s ignoring me, thought Billy. So what else is new?
He didn’t speak to her, either. He wanted to. He wanted to desperately. But why waste his breath if all she might do was answer him with a cold stare?
The one-hundred-eighty-yard hurdle was next. A tall, high-jumping youth for Hamlin won it by half a dozen steps. Cove Hill came in second, and the second Hamlin runner third. Each school was represented by two runners.
“We’ve got to do something,” urged Rudy, prancing around like a nervous colt. “A kid just came from the high jumps and said that Ham won that, too.”
Scores were rated on the place won by a competitor. First place was rated five, second place three, third place one. Unless Cove Hill scored enough first place wins Hamlin would go home undefeated again.
Billy saw Coach Seavers talking with Vice Principal Keating and two teachers. He was standing with his hands clasped behind him, nervously scrubbing the palm of one hand with the fist of the other. There was no doubt how he was feeling about the results of the races so far. He had been sure that Cody would take the shorter races, but Cody had already lost the sixty-yarder. The second place finish in the one-hundred-eighty-yard hurdles was hardly enough to build up any confidence.
The two-hundred-twenty-yard dash came up. Yale and Mackey represented Hamlin, Seattle and Cody, Cove Hill.
Right from the sound of the starting shot Yale took the lead. Seattle and Cody passed him and ran neck and neck. Near the fifty-yard mark Yale crept up and surged ahead. Gradually Seattle left Cody behind him and closed the gap between himself and Yale. Both runners puffed hard as they swiftly approached the finish line. There was a roar from the fans of both Cove Hill and Hamlin as the two runners crossed it, Yale the winner by a step.
“Seattle waited too long for that final fast sprint,” Rudy said, disgruntled. “He could’ve beaten the kid.”
Maybe, thought Billy. But maybe the Hamlin runner would have started his final sprint earlier, too.
A hand grabbed his left arm. “Chekko.”
Billy turned, surprised, and saw that it was Coach Seavers.
“How would you like to run in the eight-eighty?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Be ready for it. Rudy’s running with you. The four-forty is next, and I’m having Schwinn and Cody run it. I’m looking for Schwinn to take it. How you feeling?”
“Okay.”
The coach guessed right. Schwinn won the four-forty by half a dozen steps. Cody came in third.
Hamlin won first place in the medley relay. Cove Hill came in second and third. Word came that Colloni had won the discus-throwing event. The points were piling up.
The eight-eighty was ready to start.
The gunshot. The start. Rudy took the lead and held it for a third of the distance, Billy trailing behind him by five steps. Hamlin crept up and took the lead and Billy stepped up his pace. He ran smoothly, a liquid, graceful rhythm to his long, easy strides. He kept his knees high, landing on the balls of his feet, then pushing himself forward for the next step.
He thought of nothing except the run. Concentration was the all-important thing now. Everything else was of no consequence.
He was third at the halfway marker, still third at the six-sixty. Rudy was second, a Hamlin runner first.
With about sixty yards yet to go, Billy felt it was time to put on steam. Just as if he had garnered a fresh supply of energy, he flew ahead, racing past Rudy and then the Hamlin runner, who came in second four yards behind him.
From the Cove Hill fans came a roar that was the loudest Billy had heard in a long time. He was congratulated from all directions, patted on the back, praised. He was stunned. He couldn’t believe it himself.
Even Pearl and her skinny friend offered their congratulations. Where is Wendy? he asked himself. He looked for her, and finally saw her standing alone just beyond the girls.
He went over to her. “Wendy,” he said, “will you listen to me a minute? I don’t care if you never speak to me again. But I’ve got to tell you this. I’m sorry about that stupid bet.”
A voice interrupted him. “Chekko! Come here!”
He turned, saw the coach waving to him, and ran off.
“Yes, Coach?”
“I want to see your heel,” said the coach.
“My heel? Why? It’s okay. It’s been okay.”
“Sit down. Take off your shoe. I want to see it, Chekko.”
Tightening his lips, Billy sat down, took off the shoe and the sock. The coach bent down, grabbed the foot and twisted it to get a good look at the heel.
A smile came to his face, disappeared as quickly. “Good,” he said, dropping the foot. “I had to be sure, Chekko. Come on. I want to talk to you, Rudy, and Luke about the mile and the two-mile runs. We’ve got to win them, Chekko. Somehow we’ve got to pull this thing off.”
* * *
Running the one-mile race were Billy and Rudy for Cove Hill, Scott Nichols and Tom Waters for Hamlin.
From the shot of the gun Waters took the lead and kept it most of the way, with Nichols trailing behind him about five yards. Billy remained behind Nichols for half a mile, then slowly moved ahead. Nichols, too, increased his pace, but Billy kept moving up closer and closer to him.
Near the three-quarter-mile mark Waters fell behind, overtaken by Nichols and Billy. As they entered the final quarter Nichols was in the lead by ten yards. Billy was second.
Now Billy put on his drive and began to fly. There were still twenty yards to go when he exerted all the power in his legs and sailed by Nichols. He kept putting distance between him and the Hamlin runner, and crossed the finish line by five yards.
Again the congratulations, the handshakes, the many praises.
“Nice running, Chekko,” said Coach Seavers with admiration. “Take the two-mile, and I’ll see that you’ll have your picture in the paper.”
The two-mile race, thought Billy, shouldn’t be any more difficult than the one-mile. He felt that, because he had beaten Nichols in the shorter distance, he should win easily in the longer.
But it wasn’t so.
Waters again took an early lead. Nichols was second, Billy third, Rudy last.
Suddenly Nichols started to sprint, and continued to for about fifty yards, leaving the remaining three runners trailing far behind him.
Billy thought he recognized the strategy in the move. Nichols wanted to maintain a good lead, then reserve his energy while running at a slower pace. After they had run about a quarter of a mile Nichols might repeat the strategy, and grab a lead that might make it impossible for anyone to catch up to him.
But, before Billy would let this happen, he picked up speed and came up to within a yard of Nichols before he settled down to an even, relaxed stride.
For a while he watched Nichols, and saw the tall youth land low on the ball of each foot, drop to his heel, then drive forward from his toes. It was the same technique that Billy had been taught. But t
here was more to running than that. A runner had to know how to distribute his energy evenly over the distance he had to cover. Billy was reasonably sure he had developed this knowledge. The runs he had made between his home and the grocery store and drugstore in New Court had built up the muscles in his legs and conditioned his lungs long before he had joined the track team. Joining the team had mainly cultivated his style of running, made him aware of various running speeds and different lengths of stride, and when to use them. Scott Nichols was probably aware of these facts as well.
It was at the three-quarters-of-a-mile mark that Nichols sprinted for about fifty yards, pulling himself far ahead of Billy. The other two runners had increased their speed, too, but were still trailing, Rudy by about ten yards, the Hamlin runner by fifteen.
Billy increased his speed, but not into a sprint. He felt that as long as he kept within ten yards or so of Nichols, at least for the first mile, Nichols wouldn’t pose a threat. And by running at a fast, even pace he could reserve his energy for the time that he would really need it.
They passed the mile mark, and Billy saw the gap widening again between himself and Nichols.
He felt he was forced now into running faster, too. He couldn’t let Nichols get too far ahead of him in order to be able to sail smoothly to the finish line. He sprinted for about sixty yards, then settled down again to a comfortable, relaxed stride.
With half a mile yet to go Billy could see that he was gaining on Nichols, who was now about seven or eight yards ahead of him. With a quarter of a mile left they were even, and Nichols began to sprint. Billy let him go. Nichols sprinted for about fifty yards, then slowed down. Billy could see he was beat.
They were neck and neck, with about fifty yards to go to the finish line, when Billy passed him. With twenty yards yet to go, Billy heard Nichols coming up fast behind him.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Billy saw Nichols beside him.
Oh, no, you won’t! he thought, and galvanized his legs into a sprint that carried him forward like a catapult. In just a few strides he crossed the finish line, five yards ahead of Nichols.
Run, Billy, Run Page 9