Racing the Rain (40 page)

Cassidy suddenly felt very alone. He had no idea what he was supposed to do, so he gathered up his stuff and staggered into the front vestibule. Classes weren't starting for another four days, but a lot of guys were apparently here already.

The first thing he noticed was a large board on the wall with columns of hand-printed Popsicle sticks displaying the names of the top ten varsity performances in each event. Cassidy was dismayed to see that his PR of 4:17.2, the time that he was so proud of, would not put him on the board at all.

Welcome to Division I track and field,
he thought.

In the living room, several athletes were watching TV or talking, others were playing cards at a table in the corner. Out on a screened-in porch Cassidy could see a raucous Ping-Pong game in progress. He stood in the doorway with his luggage, looking forlorn, until one of the guys from the card game took pity on him. He bounced over with his hand extended, an elfin-looking fellow with a sharp nose and chin and an altogether winning grin.

“Mahoney!” he said. “Ed. Quarter mile. Bradenton.”

“Quenton Cassidy.”

“Ah, the miler.”

Cassidy tended to think of himself as an athlete in general, or a runner, but usually not specifically a miler. Now in these strange new circumstances it seemed reassuring to know exactly what he was supposed to be. Mahoney, head cocked slightly, studied him closely.

“You play poker?” he said.

“For money? Not often. If I get the urge, I usually just take my cash and throw it in the street.”

Mahoney cracked up. He clapped Cassidy on the shoulder like they'd known each other for years.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's go look at the room assignments and get you fixed up. I'm sure you're on the third floor with the distance nerds.”

On the third floor, they passed an open door where five athletes lounged around inside, the apparent host a freckly-faced kid with a reddish-blond forelock drooping into his eyes and thick horn-rimmed glasses. He got up and introduced himself.

“Atkinson. Steve. You're Cassidy, right? The miler? Saw you win state.”

“Cool. Quenton. Or Cass. Whatever.”

“Anything but late to dinner? We get that a lot around here. Well, welcome aboard. With Lagotic gone we can use some help out there. In cross-country, too.”

“Joe Schiller, prelaw,” said a sturdy-looking blond guy in gold wire-rims, offering his hand.

“Godalmighty, Joe, I keep tellin' ya there's no such thing as prelaw!” said Atkinson. “And he's a damn hurdler, by the way. We let him hang around anyway. Over there is Spider Gordon.”

He motioned at a lanky, good-natured kid with a head full of tight curls. He was sitting casually with legs crossed Indian style on top of a desk.

“He looks like a runner,” said Atkinson, “but he's a damn high jumper. Cleared 6-9 as a freshman last year.”

“And a half,” said Jordan, with a little wave. “Don't be be-smalling my accomplishments now.”

There were two other distance runners in the room who were so shy that when Atkinson introduced them he could barely hear them say hello.

“Come on, Cass, you can hang out with these characters all you want later. Let's get you organized. Atkinson will take you down to your room. It's at the end of the hall. Won't be long until dinner,” said Mahoney.

This drew some affirmative rumbling from the group as they left, one saying, “About time, too!” Apparently no one was troubled by a faint appetite. With another handshake, Mahoney returned to his poker game while Atkinson helped Cassidy with his bags.

“Here's your room. Used to be Lagotic's,” said Atkinson, putting the duffels down in the hall.

“Lagotic?”

“Frank. Team cocaptain. School record holder, 4:07.2, SEC cross-country champion, other school records out the yingyang. He graduated summer trimester,” he said. “Great guy. Great runner, too.” Atkinson sounded distinctly wistful.

“Sounds like it,” said Cassidy, chagrined to be such a humble replacement.

Cassidy studied the yellowing index card thumbtacked to the outside of the battered oak door. It read:

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run—

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!

—Rudyard Kipling, 1892

“Closest thing to literature you're likely to see around here. Don't know who put it up originally, but Lagotic liked it, so he left it there all four years,” said Atkinson. “Anyway, here you are, home sweet home. Key's on the desk inside but nobody uses them. Let me know if you need anything, otherwise see you at chow.”

The corner room was clean and bare, with a metal bunk and an oak table with a straight-back chair. There was no closet, but a cheap metal wardrobe would easily hold his meager possessions. Cassidy left the lamp off and enjoyed the orange glow of the setting sun in the blackjack oaks outside his window. The breeze smelled pleasantly of peppery Spanish moss and earthy decaying leaves. He would unpack later.

He felt a pungent mixture of anticipation and nostalgia, with as many chapters in his life ending now as beginning. Maria was going to stay close to home for the time being, going to the same JC as Randleman. She had wept openly as he and Stiggs drove away, barely consoled by their confirmed date for the first football game.

Trapper had held a cookout for them at the river. He was still the Tarzan of the Loxahatchee, but he was now also an acknowledged public hero. Cassidy ceremoniously presented him with his state mile medal, which Trapper wore proudly for a while before handing it back.

“Archie San Romani deserves this more than I do,” he said. “But you were the one who earned it. You keep it. I can tell you that he's as proud of you as I am. We'll call him this weekend. He wants to hear all about it.”

Cassidy and Trapper sat on the dock, talking about old adventures—some of which actually happened—until everyone else had left. Finally, Cassidy jumped up and swung out on the rope swing and dropped into the chilly Loxahatchee “one last time.” It was silly sentimentalism, of course. Cassidy knew he would be back on holidays or during summers to swing on that rope again. But he also knew it wouldn't be the same. Trapper knew it, too.

And now here he was, a scholarship athlete at Southeastern University, sitting quietly in his new room in the gathering dusk, feeling that he was perched at the very edge of something. He tried to sense—however opaquely—what these next few years might bring. Was it possible that he, Quenton Cassidy, might enjoy some moments of glad grace like this room's previous occupant? That he might learn wondrous things here far more revelatory than the exports of South American countries? That the performance ladder in the vestibule downstairs might someday proclaim his name and deeds? Perhaps even that when he himself left this place they would say the name “Cassidy” the way they now said “Lagotic”?

He had no idea. But the prospect alone filled him with an unconstrained joy.

His revelry was interrupted by a deep rumbling in the distance. From the west window he could see a dark storm gathering on the horizon. He had heard that they often rolled in off the Gulf of Mexico up here. Most of the room was now in shadows.

He turned on the desk lamp and rummaged through his duffel bag until he found some running gear and changed into shorts and running shoes. It was still too hot and sticky for even a T-shirt. Atkinson would know of some good five-mile loops from here. An idea struck him suddenly and he double-knotted his Adidas and opened up his most prized possession, the brand-new Smith-Corona portable typewriter his parents had given him for graduation.

He rolled an index card into the platen and typed a few lines, enjoying the snap of the keys, the crisp black pica letters jumping onto the white card stock. No doubt about it, typing had been the most useful course he had taken in high school. Smiling, he pulled the card out of the machine and read it over carefully.

One way or another
, he promised himself with a chuckle,
I will leave my name on this place.

The hall was empty and quiet as he pulled the door closed and thumbtacked his card directly beneath the older one. It said:

Rudyard Kipling was a 4:30 miler.

—Quenton Cassidy, 1965

From downstairs, over the distant thunder, he could hear the ravenous hordes gathering at the door of the dining room.

There are seven-foot-high jumpers down there
, he thought. There were also seventy-foot shot putters, 4.10 milers. There wasn't anyone in the building who wasn't a state champion, an all-American, a conference champion, a school record holder,
something impossible.

Yet they were all down there right now, jostling each other on their way to dinner.
What an amazing place I have landed in,
he thought.

Quenton Cassidy would have to hurry to get his five miles in and get back in time to get something to eat.

Maybe if he ran fast enough he could even beat the rain.

I
am most grateful to my old friends and teammates, Harry Winkler and Frank Saier, for allowing me to plunder their recollections of growing up wild and free in Palm Beach County, Florida, in the long lost 1950s and '60s—while becoming great athletes themselves.

My fellow ink-stained wretch, Ron Wiggins, was there for me again, as he has been so often in the past, with gentle advice and an occasional wittily rewritten line that was far better than my own.

My old friend Tom Raynor, as always, was a source of encouragement, inspiration, and advice, not to mention the occasional glass of a carefully selected vintage.

Profound thanks to my prescient and tireless agent and friend, Byrd Leavell, and my former editor and friend, Brant Rumble, who ran with this story right from the starting gun.

For years of inspiration, a shout-out to Ray Allen, late of the Miami Heat and the Boston Celtics. In my opinion he is possibly the greatest jump shooter the game of professional basketball has ever seen, and strangely enough, he reads novels about distance runners.

Finally, I am deeply indebted to James D. Snyder for his well-researched and gracefully written
Life and Death on the Loxahatchee: The Story of Trapper Nelson
. I would heartily recommend that little gem of a book to any reader interested in knowing more about the force of nature that was the real Vincent Natulkiewicz, also known as Trapper Nelson, the Tarzan of the Loxahatchee.

ALSO BY JOHN L. PARKER, JR.

Once a Runner

Again to Carthage

Runners & Other Dreamers

Uncommon Heart
(with Anne Audain)

Marty Liquori's Guide for the Elite Runner
(with Marty Liquori)

Run Down Fired Up and Teed Off

And Then the Vulture Eats You
(editor)

Heart Monitor Training for the Compleat Idiot