Run, Billy, Run Page 4

  Billy hadn’t thought about what position he had finished in, because he didn’t think it mattered. But Coach Seavers apparently did.

  “Chekko! Quit dragging your ass! For a long bean you should be somewhere near the front, not last!”

  Billy’s neck turned beet red. Nobody laughed at the remark, but he saw some of them snicker, amused by their coach’s pungent outburst.

  “All right! Let’s go through it again!” barked the coach.

  A few grudging remarks dropped, but the coach either hadn’t heard them or was totally ignoring them. The guys lined up again, Billy about two-thirds from the left end of the line. They waited for the whistle, then took off when it shrilled. Billy’s legs churned as he tried to run faster than he had before, knowing now that the coach was watching him.

  “Pick up your legs, Chekko!” came his resounding yell.

  “Faster, man! Faster!”

  After Billy was sure they had covered at least a hundred yards he waited for the sound of the whistle again. He had reached the peak of his speed some ten or fifteen yards back, and he knew he had slowed down. Why didn’t the coach blow that damn whistle?

  Then he heard it slice the air, a rippling scream that pierced his eardrums as if the coach were standing much closer to him than he actually was. The boys as one stopped running. Some collapsed on the spot, dead tired. Billy felt like doing so, too, but stayed on his feet, waiting for the coach to single him out again with another raw remark.

  “Chekko! Come here!”

  Billy turned and headed toward him without looking up. Sweat drenched his hair and face, dripped into his eyes. His heart thundered in his ears.

  “Look at me, Chekko.”

  Billy was within seven or eight feet of him now, his eyes still looking down at the grass. At the coach’s order he glanced up, meeting the direct stare squarely.

  “You run like a stumble bum, Chekko. You’re not picking up your feet.” The coach paused, as if waiting for that morsel of information to sink in. He went on gruffly, “Lift those knees. Bring them up high. Touch the ground with the balls of your feet first. You’ve got the height to make it, Chekko. You’ve got the reach. All you’ve got to do is develop speed, and if you’ll listen to me you will. Do you hear me, Chekko?”

  “Every word, Coach,” said Billy, looking at the coach through the sweat that blurred his eyes.

  He was hurt, humiliated. Probably every ear there had heard that blistering chewing out.

  “It’s for the good of all of us that I’m telling you this, Chekko. And I want to tell you this now, before we get too far into this thing. I don’t want a communication gap between us. Understand? If you have anything to say, say it. If you don’t, just keep your ears open and do as I say. Do you hear me, Chekko?”

  “I hear you, Coach,” said Billy.

  “Fine. Okay, guys!” the coach turned and yelled to the athletes scattered on the field. “Tomorrow! Here! Same time! Any questions?”

  Nobody said a word.

  “Dismissed,” he said, and headed toward the school, his strides short and rapid. Billy wondered how the guy could have so much energy.

  He started to head for the school too, when he heard soft footsteps pounding on the turf behind him. “Hey, wait a minute!” a voice called.

  It was Wendy. Why do you have to be here? he thought angrily. Aren’t I humiliated enough without your being around to hear it all? He said, “Hi,” to her, but kept walking toward the school without slowing his gait. The faster he got away from her the better.

  “You don’t have to act so angry,” she said, hurrying to catch up with him. “He talks like that to most of the guys.”

  “How do you know?” he said. “Don’t you even miss one of these practices?”

  He sounded bitter, and he tried to tell himself that he was justified. Maybe the coach talks like that to most of the guys, he thought, but this is the first time he talked like that to me. The abuse and humiliation were new to him. He hadn’t had time to build up a resistance to them yet.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I guess I’m not wanted here.”

  He saw her stop and turn away. He stopped too and turned around, trying quickly to think of how to say that he was also sorry. There was only the one direct way. “Wendy, I’m sorry!”

  But she was running away from him.

  You boob, he said disgustedly to himself. You sure blew it this time.

  Chapter 6

  BILLY ADJUSTED THE SHOWER to a lukewarm spray, wetted and lathered himself with soap, then turned slowly round and round underneath the gushing water till he was thoroughly rinsed.

  Feeling fresh and clean, he toweled himself and dressed, refusing to become involved in the silly conversations that had sprung up among the other members of the track and field squad. He recognized Seattle’s voice addressing him, making some kind of remark about him and Wendy, and anger flared up inside him. But he fought to control himself, fearing that being intimidated now might result in something foolish.

  Something foolish? Like what? He didn’t like arguments. He could never think of things to say, not till much later when he had time to think. And he didn’t like fist fights. He was no Danny. He didn’t believe in settling an argument with fists.

  The door of the locker room closed behind him with a soft whoosh! The yellow bus was parked at the curb, the driver already in it, reading a paper.

  He greeted Billy as the boy climbed up into the bus.

  “Hi, Mr. Corey,” said Billy, and headed for a seat toward the back. He dropped his duffel bag on the floor and sat down, made himself comfortable in the corner, and closed his eyes.

  The kids started to pile in, and one of them sat down beside him and spoke to him. He just opened his eyes to identify his companion, said “Hi” to him, and closed his eyes again. He recalled nothing till the kid next to him shook him awake and said, “Hey, Billy. Wake up. You’re home.”

  “I didn’t know you were staying after school to practice track,” said his mother indignantly. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Billy shoved the duffel bag against the wall. “I thought I told you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You going to leave that bag there? Put it in the closet.”

  “The suit needs washing, Mom,” he said. “It’s pretty smelly.”

  “Then take it out and put it in the hamper.”

  “I need it again tomorrow,” he said.

  She looked at him. Her hair was slightly tousled, and her face sweaty. She was in the process of cooking supper for her family of six — he could smell the chicken — but sometime during the day she must have vacuumed the rugs or washed clothes or done something else that made her look so tired.

  “Never mind, Mom,” he said. “I’ll wash it myself. I’ll let it soak in the small tub for a while, then wash it good with soap and water.” He went and emptied the bag. “Where are the kids?” he asked.

  “I’m here!” said Christina, emerging from the dining room.

  “Hey,” said Billy, smiling, “you look pretty healthy to me. How did school go?”

  “Okay.” Her eyes sparkled. “I guess I’ll have to get sick again sometime.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I never realized how many friends I had. It was just great.” Her cheeks glowed, reflecting the joy that must have been bubbling inside her.

  “Listen, kid,” said Billy. “Anybody that doesn’t like you has a hole in his head. Take it from me, your big brother.”

  “Okay, big brother,” his mother cut in. “She’s taken it. Now you take that stuff you have there in your hands and start soaking it before it smells up this whole kitchen. You know where the tub is?”

  “In the closet?”

  “Right. Hanging on the wall. A box of detergent sets on the shelf above it. Fill the tub half full and just put a tablespoonful of the detergent into it. Think you can do that?”

  “Oh, Mom,” he said.

  He had the uniform soa
king in the tub on the back porch when he heard someone crying outside and realized it was his younger sister. He looked out of the window, saw her coming up the porch, and went and opened the door for her.

  “Sheri!” he exclaimed, looking her over for bruises in case she had fallen. “What happened to you?”

  “Danny slapped me!” she sobbed.

  “Danny did? Why?”

  “He took the trike from me!”

  One small fist rubbing an eye, the other trembling slightly at her side, she continued on through the next door into the kitchen. It wasn’t the first time that she and Dan had come to blows over something, and not the first time she lost out. The tire hanging by a rope from the gnarled old oak tree in the back yard had been the cause of trouble between them several times.

  “I don’t know about that Dan,” Billy grumbled, as he dried his hands on a towel and headed in long strides toward the door. “I’ve got a good notion to kick him in the fanny one of these days for picking on his little sister.”

  He found his younger brother riding the tricycle on the path leading toward the garden beyond the grassless, lumpy yard. The vehicle was a model big enough for Sheri but hardly large enough to accommodate Dan. To pedal it he had to keep his knees bent outward so that they wouldn’t bang up against the handlebars. But he didn’t let this minor problem stop him from riding the tricycle around the place as fast as he could pedal it. It was a miracle, thought Billy, that Dan was able to maintain his balance.

  “Dan!” Billy shouted at him. “You big horse! Get off that trike before you ruin it!”

  “Who said I’ll ruin it?” said Dan, not showing any fear of his older brother.

  “I did!”

  Billy ran across the yard toward Dan, anger flashing in his eyes. But before he got within ten feet of Dan, the younger boy stopped the trike and looked directly into his brother’s eyes unflinchingly.

  “I heard her say I slapped her,” he said. “She’s a liar. I didn’t slap her.”

  “Okay. You didn’t slap her. I know she tells tall tales sometimes.” The anger dissipated. He was once again brother, not just big brother. “But that trike’s too small for you, Dan. You’ll really ruin it riding it the way you were. Talk to Dad about getting you a two-wheeler. Maybe he’ll get you a secondhand one.”

  “I have.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Someday.”

  “Well? He promised, didn’t he?”

  “Sure.” The tone of his voice suggested that “someday” could mean a hundred years from now.

  “Supper’s ready!” came a cry from the back-porch door.

  Billy laid an arm over his brother’s shoulders as they headed toward the house. He guessed that he would never be surprised at whatever Dan might do, whether it was a good thing or bad. One thing seemed certain about him: he was a fearless cuss.

  Before they reached the back porch a movement out of the corner of his eye caught Billy’s attention. He turned quickly and saw two boys in white trunks running on the road. He recognized them instantly. Luke Maynard and Rudy Joy.

  They exchanged greetings, and in a moment were out of sight as they passed behind the house.

  “That Maynard kid has a brother in my class,” said Dan. “He told me that Luke’s in the cross-country. Maybe you’d be better in that, Billy.”

  Billy stared at him. “What do you mean maybe I’d be better in that? Don’t you think I’m good in what I want to run?”

  Their eyes clinched, then Dan looked away, his mouth opening but not releasing any words.

  “You heard some of your friends talking about me? Is that it, Dan?” Billy asked.

  Dan shrugged. “Yeah.”

  They had reached the porch by now, and Billy paused to let Dan go ahead of him.

  “Dan.”

  Dan glanced up at his taller brother.

  Billy grinned. “Let ’em talk. This kid’s going to be a runner one of these days.” He jabbed his right thumb hard against his own chest as he spoke. “Before the season’s over they’ll be talking out of the other side of their mouths. You wait and see.”

  “Sure. I’ll wait,” said Dan.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “Sure I believe you. When I see it,” Dan said, and went up on the porch.

  Billy was silent during the meal. Chicken and dumplings was one of his favorites, but his appetite had been diminished by Dan’s honest and unbiased opinion of his potential as a runner. If Dan felt he had no chance in running races other than the cross-country, a lot of other kids might feel the same way.

  But what could running the cross-country prove? That a runner had plenty of endurance? Of stamina? So what? He had to have endurance and stamina in any kind of run.

  He had a second helping, nevertheless. Second helpings were almost always automatic for him, whether or not he had an upset stomach.

  “We’re going to the woods to cut down some trees for firewood,” his father announced at the table. “So don’t you boys plan on running off. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Billy. There was no comment from Dan. Cutting down trees, chopping off the branches, and sawing off pieces to carrying size didn’t appeal to him. That was work, not fun.

  Billy didn’t exactly love it either. But he had a different outlook on the hand-blistering, grueling task now. The hard work would help build up his body, condition his legs for the running he was going to do. The running he had to do to prove himself.

  Chapter 7

  BILLY WAS AT ONE END of the long saw, his father at the other. The tall pine they were cutting down was about a foot thick at the trunk, but the saw ate through it hungrily as father and son pushed and pulled at a slow, steady pace.

  Billy liked the tart smell of the pine, the beauty of the cones, and everything else about the woods. There was no name that he knew of for the hundreds of acres of wooded land. All he knew was what his father knew, that it was owned by the cement company where his father worked and that the company permitted their tenants to cut down the trees for firewood. Two rules prevailed: that the woods be kept clean, and that the cut wood be used on the tenants’ premises. Selling it was forbidden.

  Billy felt his arms tiring. Now and then he glanced at his father, noticing his sweating face and his attentive eyes riveted upon the gnawing saw. The muscles bulged in his short, hairy arms. Billy wished he had even one half of his father’s strength.

  When there were two to three inches left to saw, Mr. Chekko said, “Okay. Enough. I’ll use the axe to fell her. Stand back, both of you.”

  Billy and Dan went and stood behind their father. When they were a safe distance away Mr. Chekko wielded the axe, the sharp edge cutting deep into the bark opposite the sawed side. First a slant from the top, then from the bottom, while the chips flew. Then he gave a yell, “There it goes!” and jumped back a couple of steps. Other trees had been felled in the area, so this fresh one crashed down unhindered upon the dead leaves on the earth.

  Now the chore fell upon Billy and Dan to saw short pieces from the main trunk while their father chopped off the branches. It took only a few minutes of work before Dan was sweating too. Billy forced frequent rests when he saw that the effort was tiring Dan. He didn’t want his brother to become so discouraged with the job that he’d carry a grudge the rest of the evening, even though he was amply sure that Dan wouldn’t quit no matter how tired he became. He was too proud to ever throw in the towel.

  The boys and their father made two trips each to their back yard, Billy and Dan carrying a log between them while their father carried one himself. Billy figured that the one his father carried weighed about as much as the one he and Dan carried together.

  “Okay. That’ll be enough for today,” said Mr. Chekko. “We’ll fetch some more home tomorrow.”

  Billy felt his hands burn, looked at his palms, and saw the opened blisters.

  “Look at mine,” said Dan. Billy did, and saw the small, husky hands red as his own, with o
pened blisters, too.

  “How do you expect to run if Dad keeps us working every day after he gets home from work?” asked Dan as the brothers headed toward the house from the yard where they had piled up the logs.

  “I’ve got to manage it somehow,” replied Billy.

  “You’ll never make a runner, Billy,” Dan said seriously. “Never.”

  “Dan!” Billy stared at his brother incredulously. “I — I can’t believe you said that!”

  “Dad doesn’t want you to run,” said Dan. “You know what he told Mom?”

  “What?”

  “Good athletes don’t go in for running. They play tougher sports, like football, baseball, basketball —”

  “Baloney!”

  “Tell that to Dad,” said Dan.

  He opened the door of the back porch and they walked in. Billy turned briefly to look back at his father who had remained behind to clean up the area where additional logs were to be placed.

  A bitter light entered his eyes. So good athletes don’t go in for running, huh, Dad? That’s how much you know about it. Nothing. All athletes run, Dad. Did you ever hear of the International Amateur Athletic Federation? World track and field competition is governed by it.

  Did you know that there’s been professional track and field in the United States since the early 1970s?

  Billy agreed with his father that running wasn’t like football, baseball, or basketball. Nor was it even like hockey or tennis. But it was still what he wanted to do, because he enjoyed it. It was going to help build up his skinny body, put meat on his skinny bones, develop some of that meat into hard muscle. It was going to make him into something else, too. A somebody. Just like it made Jim Ryun somebody. And John Walker somebody. Jim Ryun won the one-mile race in 3 minutes 51.1 seconds for the United States in 1967. John Walker won it in 3 minutes 49.4 for New Zealand in 1975. They competed for world titles, just like Muhammad Ali did. Just like the Yankees and the Dodgers did.

  That’s the star he was shooting for. To be somebody. Maybe later on, when he graduated from high school and maybe college, he’d change his sights to a different star. But today it was to be a great runner.