Racing the Rain (10 page)

“Are you sure?” Trapper tried to yell. This time the first word came out in his normal voice, but the other two words were squeaks. Cassidy wiped water from his eyes and face.

“By what? By what? What's the . . .” he sputtered.

Trapper pulled him up on the bank and began searching up and down his legs and feet for the two dreaded puncture holes. He saw none, and at last took a deep breath and let it out slowly, looking dourly at Cassidy. He pulled him close and gave him a hug.
Good grief, he's never done that before
, Cassidy thought.

“What's going on, Trap?”

Trapper Nelson, panting, hung his head between his knees, exhausted. He looked up at Cassidy, then gestured with his chin at the canoe, almost half full of water now, where it had drifted into some reeds at the edge of the river. As Cassidy watched, a four-foot-long cottonmouth moccasin made his way up and over the gunnel and into the river, carrying one of Cassidy's mangrove snappers in his mouth. Paying them not the slightest attention, the snake turned downriver and swam past them, his fat, buoyant body riding high in the water, the fish held up triumphantly in front of him.

Cassidy looked at Trapper Nelson and burst out laughing.

“It's . . . not . . . funny,” Trapper said, fighting for air. “The hospital in Citrus City. Good
forty-five minutes
from here.
If
my Jeep started. Martin Memorial almost as far.”

Cassidy sighed. “I would have
given
him a fish,” he said.

Trapper Nelson, still panting, looked at his feet for the first time. He slipped them into the cool water and watched as the current carried the muck and blood away. Finally, he looked over at Cassidy with a sheepish grin.

“Hope we didn't lose any oysters,” he said.

T
he needlelike pains in the tops of Cassidy's quadriceps never completely went away. When he took a weekend off from training, they were much better by the next Monday. But Coach Bickerstaff always started off the week with hard intervals, and by Tuesday he was limping. He complained to Bickerstaff again, to no avail. The man had ears of stone when it came to the aches and pains of thirteen-year-olds.

To survive the afternoons, Cassidy adopted a strange running style that involved the barest minimum of knee lift and a big back kick. He looked like a man running while carrying a large box in front of him. Demski had a field day teasing him about his “flamingo gallop,” but it was the only way he could get through the workout.

Their first competition was at home, a dual meet with Pompano, a junior high farther down the coast. Cassidy was put in the half mile, along with Demski and Lenny Lindstrom. Pompano had a runner named Mizner, tall, dark complected, and reed thin. He was all business, too, jumping out to the lead at the gun. Demski fell in behind, with Cassidy behind him. Everyone else just let them go.

They ran that way for a sixty-nine-second first lap. As they came by the starting post, Demski tried to make a move to pass Mizner, but the taller runner was having none of it. Demski fell back in behind again before the first turn. Cassidy's frustration grew with every step. He had no trouble with the pace, but his ridiculous man-carrying-a-box running style all but hamstrung him. Every time he tried to bring his knees up a little bit higher to produce some speed, his rebellious thighs screamed.

Throughout the second lap, he watched with increasing misery as Mizner and Demski battled it out up ahead. It wasn't just that he was behind, but more from the knowledge that he wasn't at all tired. He knew that without this handicap he would be right up there mixing it up with Demski and Mizner.

As it was, Demski finally got around Mizner before the last turn, and they battled all the way down the final straightaway, with Demski winning by a yard in 2:21. Cassidy galloped in awkwardly, fifteen yards back, but ahead of Lindstrom and the two Pompano runners.

Walking around in circles, trying to catch his breath, Cassidy was muttering and trying to spit, but failing at even that. He had so little saliva that his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. His invective was therefore unintelligible.

Coach Bickerstaff seemed annoyingly jubilant.

“That's hanging in there, Quenton! You got us a point!”

“Craff!”

“Beg pardon?”

But Bickerstaff was off to congratulate Demski on his great kick, leaving Cassidy bent over, grabbing his knees, and sucking air. The frustration boiled over again when Demski gave him a big grin and a high sign. Cassidy gave him a wave then bent back over, pounding on his inflamed thighs with his fists.

It didn't help.

T
he torture continued through April, and Cassidy didn't know which was worse, the pain or the frustration. Or maybe the fact that Coach Bickerstaff was actually pleased with his piddling performances. The more fourth and fifth places he suffered through, the more Bickerstaff seemed to think he was the king bee!

But Cassidy now knew something was seriously wrong with him, and that if he could just stop training long enough for it to heal, he would have been fine. He begged Bickerstaff to let him try taking a few days off, and got a “nice try” chuckle in response. Bickerstaff had spent much of his ten coaching years listening to goldbricking kids.

The first week in May, a teachers' planning day on Monday gave them a long weekend. With no scheduled meets, Cassidy purposefully didn't run a step for three days in a row. Instead, he and Stiggs and Randleman hiked in to Trapper Nelson's camp on the rugged Jeep road, packing in supplies for a weenie roast. Trapper already had the fire going and the table set when they got there, so they spent a pleasant hour on the rope swing, dropping into the cool river and trying to splash Willie the parrot, who was far too smart to stay in range of teenagers.

They had brought two packages of hot dogs, one for them and one for Trapper. Trapper ate the whole package save a single hot dog. The boys had two hot dogs each, and thus two were left over. Trapper was eyeing the remaining three weenies on a paper plate at the end of the picnic table, but finally declared a truce.

“There was a time when I would have finished them off and been looking for more. I guess I'm slowing down a bit,” he said.

“I wish I could slow down like you,” said Randleman, flexing a biceps. He had lifted weights for years trying to develop a physique like Trapper's.

“Yeah, well, don't wish your life away, Youngblood. You've got plenty of time. Hey, looks like your ride's here. All day-campers to the dock!”

“To the dock!” cried Willie the parrot.

The twenty-two-foot Aquasport was just pulling in from downriver with Randleman's dad at the wheel. He was a retired Air Force officer who now sold insurance, and sold a lot of it, judging by the little tricked-out boat with its bimini top, outriggers, dive platform, and front canopy. There was another man on the boat sitting very erect in the back. It took Cassidy a moment to place the judge.

“All aboard!” Captain Randleman called out.

“How you doing, Pete?” Trapper called. “You guys do any good today?”

“Hey, Trap. Got one sail. The judge had another one on for half an hour but lost it at the gaff. Trolled the ledges a bit and picked up some rock hinds. Leave you a few if you want. Not a bad day for a late start.”

Trapper was helping Stiggs and Randleman get their gear down to the dock. Cassidy had gotten permission to spend the night and, stuffed from dinner, was content to watch the activity from the deck.

“You okay, Quenton?” someone called from the boat.

Cassidy peered out over the rail. It was Judge Chillingworth calling to him. He gave Cassidy a little wave.

“Hi, Judge. Doing fine, sir. Hello, Captain Randleman.”

“Coach Bickerstaff says you're tearing them up on the track,” said Captain Randleman. For some reason this made Cassidy's heart sink.

“I don't know about that,” he said, hoping his chuckle didn't sound forced.

* * *

After they'd cleared away the dinner things and cleaned the little groupers, Cassidy and Trapper sat on a homemade bench by the fire. It wasn't exactly chilly out, but the warmth felt good anyway. Trapper was slicing up a pair of lusciously ripe Hayden mangoes from his own tree, handing some pieces to Cassidy and some to Willie, who would fly down to the table, snatch a piece of fruit, then return to his limb to eat it.

“So, what's been going on with you, anyway? I can tell something's up,” said Trapper.

With only a little prodding, Cassidy told him about his wounded thighs and the misery they had been causing.

“This has been going on for how long?”

“Since the start of track, back in March.”

“Hmmm.”

“I've thought about asking my parents if I can go to the doctor.”

“Well, you could do that. In my experience, though, most regular doctors don't know a lot about sports injuries and it sounds like you have a sports injury.”

“Coach Bickerstaff thinks I'm just trying to get out of doing the workouts. He says I've got growing pains. But Trapper, I
like
to run.”

“I know you do. And this has gone on way too long for growing pains.”

“That's what I thought. But I don't know what to do. I'm so tired of running with this ridiculous stride like a waterbird just to get through the workouts. Then, on the weekends when we have meets, I barely hang on in races I think I could win! All I want to do is be able to run like I know I can.”

“I don't blame you for being upset, Quenton. Coach Bickerstaff is a good man, but he's pretty much overworked with all the different sports they have him doing, in addition to teaching phys ed and doing the administrative stuff. I believe he mostly played basketball in college, didn't he?”

“Yes, but he ran sprints in track. I think he was pretty fast. He has some trophies.”

“Okay, sprinters are a different breed. Tell you what, all I know about running is doing road work for boxing. Let me talk to Dennis Kamrad at the high school about this. They finally hired him over there to teach civics and coach the varsity crew full-time. Rowing is an endurance sport. He's a smart guy. I'll bet he'll have some ideas.”

“That would be terrific, if you would.”

“I've also got this friend out in Kansas, guy I worked with one summer when Charlie and I were on the road. He hurt his leg really bad as a kid, got run over by a truck. They wanted to amputate it, but the kid put up such a fuss they let him keep it. They were pretty sure he would never walk again. But he not only walked, he became a great
—
and I mean
great—
runner. We got to be pretty good friends that summer. I'll write to him. Better yet, I'll call him up, long distance, next time I get into Stuart to pick up my mail. If anybody can help, he can.”

“Trapper, that would be . . . I just . . . Thanks, Trap, thank you.”

“Save it till we see how it goes. May not pan out at all. But I'd put money on my guy. He was really a terrific athlete in his day.”

“What event did he do?”

“The mile.”

“What's his name?”

“Archie San Romani.”

“Never heard of him.”

“That's funny, he speaks highly of you.”

It took Cassidy a few seconds to get it.

W
hen Monday afternoon arrived hot and still, Cassidy was amazed to find that his thighs barely hurt at all. He jogged the warm-up mile like a normal human being and even had no trouble sprinting the straights and jogging the curves for another half mile.

“Wh-wh-where's the fl-fl-fl-flamingo today?” said Demski.

“Flew the coop,” said Cassidy. “Better watch out, Ed.”

Ed grinned.

“Okay, jumpers and throwers meet with Coach Burke at the high-jump pit, sprinters get with Mr. Ayers on the infield for stretching, the rest of you over here with me,” said Coach Bickerstaff. “All right, listen up,” he said, after he had the runners grouped up. “We've got more than a month under our belts and we're looking toward the
big
meets now. It's gettin' around to no-foolin' time around here, boys.”

Bickerstaff's Red Sox cap already had a dark sweat ring, and he was holding his clipboard out away from him to keep from dripping onto the mimeographed workout sheets.

“The workout today is eight times 440, with a—”

He was interrupted by the groans.

“All right, settle down. Eight quarters with a 220 in between, and, Demski, I want you to try to keep them as close to seventy-five as you can, the rest of you just do the best you can. Any questions? Yes, Lenny?”

“Who's going to notify our next of kin?”

“Hardee har har har. Any other wisenheimer comments? All right, let's do some striders back and forth on the straightaway. We'll start in about five.”

Cassidy couldn't believe how great it felt to be actually running again! He had a hard time restraining himself even on the little sprints they were doing.

“Whoa, hoss!” said Demski, as they finished a strider, barely able to keep up. Cassidy just grinned. This was what it was supposed to be like.

Demski had a very good sense of pace, and he finished the first quarter in seventy-four, with Cassidy and Lindstrom a step behind.

“Good, Ed!” said Bickerstaff. “Len and Quenton, way to hang in there. The rest of you were about eighty-two.”

Cassidy was thrilled. He barely felt the effort and didn't stop for even a second to grab his knees. He just jogged on toward the far starting post, waiting for everyone else to catch up. Bickerstaff walked to the middle of the infield to be closer to the next start.

Demski came up to Cassidy ten yards before the starting line, gave him a funny look, then raised his arm as they approached the white post. He dropped his arm as they took off and they ran side by side the whole way. Demski pushed it a little over the last fifty yards, but Cassidy matched him and they finished exactly even.