Ben Warren says not to outrun him on the hand-off of the relay. Ben Warren says he never has much juice left when he's finished 'cause he's a stupid runner, going flat out the way he does and Darren shouldn't outrun him because he's likely to fall flat on his face when he finishes. Ben Warren says he starts out like gangbusters and forgets he's got to pace himself. It's all I know how to do, he says. Ben Warren says not to make him look like a fool. There's people in the stands. Women.
The four of them prance around in the middle of the field, practicing hand-offs. Ben Warren says he doesn't want to drop the baton because there's a college coach in the bleachers, and it's not track he's gives two hoots about anyway, but football. The guy's from Stevens Point, he says, and he wants him to play football. He doesn't want to look like a turkey and mess up the whole relay, even though the race doesn't mean shit. That's what Ben Warren says.
"Just don't outrun me," he says. "And remember you don't have to look back, because I'll blast you with the baton. You'll feel it. I like to ram it home, you know," and then he laughs.
Those are the words he remembers when the gun sounds and Blake takes off in the lead, like always--when he watches him round the track, body low to the ground, arms pumping, that baton up there eye level when his hand reaches. What Ben says is in his mind when he sees the first hand-off, smooth as silk, and watches Ben Warren hold the lead, even gain for awhile--ten yards in front of the guy from Dickinson. What he's thinking is how Ben likes to ram it home.
And it's just like he told him--when he's coming up the stretch, Ben's juice is gone. So he doesn't take off too fast. He turns around to watch him coming, holding his body up too high the way Ben always runs, the baton out front in the wrong hand, and all the time he tells himself he hates this guy's absolute guts. The whole party was his idea, chicks from some other school--who cares anyway? And then he feels that baton slam into his hand, and he knows very well who it was. He knows it was Ben Warren.
His legs flow. His feet eat up the track, and he knows, too, that he has never run faster. He feels like the wind. He's riding on something on high, like the disc, and the whole time he's running, he feels as if he's leaving earth behind. It's all back there because he's leaving it, running, flying. He keeps reaching, his lungs big as the sky, and he's not fighting a thing as his legs come up beneath him like featherlites, the track disappearing. He feels like he wants to keep running right into eternity, right off the track and out of town to some new place--not Shorewood either, not Mallard, just keep running and put all way behind. He could run for miles, all the way to the Chicago, all the way to Atlanta.
Wilkerson breaks out ahead of him, and he knows that all he's got to do is deliver it, and he does, perfectly, in a way that makes him to go his knees when he's finished, not because he's tired--because he's not, but because he's got to cry, dammit--he's somehow got to cry. He's stoops right there, all the way across the track from the crowd in the bleachers, holds his jersey on his knees to hide the tears even though he doesn't even know the reason why.
When he looks up he sees Ben Warren and Wilkerson doing this big dance right in front of the crowd. High fives. Blake is already over there. Victory dance for a two-bit dual meet in some podunk town where they were going to build a new life. But he stays down as if he's beat, nauseous or something. Coach is there in the middle of it. And then they all come to the middle of the field, for him.
The first slap from Blake makes him wince. "Good night," Coach says to him, "and into the wind. I'm going to put you in more often. What a split."
"Hey, city boy," Ben says, and he comes at him, both hands raised.
He doesn't raise his hands, doesn't want to prance, doesn't want to make it this big thing, doesn't want to touch anybody. So Ben picks him up in a bear hug and lifts him off the ground. He wants to cuss and scream, but he can't. He can't, and he can't be stupid either. He can't be a jerk now, can't be someone who doesn't make a big deal so he does the thing he doesn't want to do, does the thing he hates himself for--he lifts his hands like this is Olympics. He lifts his hands in triumph so he doesn't look like a girl or something. He's in Ben Warren's arms and he acts like this stupid race is the really biggest deal of all.
He avoids Kristine when he leaves. He comes off the track at the far side, close to the road, swings the fence shut behind him, hurrying to get back and get showered. And that when he sees his mom standing beside her car.
"I don't know how you can do it," she says, because she knows every last thing. She knows it's Ben Warren. "I don't understand how my son can do what you did, knowing everything." Everything, she says, meaning not just the party. She's got her arms up over her chest, and she's leaning against the door of the car. "If anybody knows what's right, you should--after what we've been through, Darren."
She's crying. He's seen it before, too often this last year. She's bawling. And then she leaves. She doesn't say another word. She leaves him.
No comments:
Post a Comment