WHEN DAD FINALLY EXITED the interstate to Fort Leonard Wood, we still had to drive another five miles past one dismal strip mall after another. At a brief stop at a traffic light, I surveyed the local businesses: a couple of gas stations, a Chinese restaurant, a few convenience stores, the usual assortment of fast-food choices, some pawnshops, and a whole bunch of flashing red signs advertising massage parlors.
“What’s up with all the massage parlors?” I whispered to Dad.
“There are about ten thousand young men on that military base. And very few women. Do I have to give you a lesson on the birds and the bees, Leo?”
“Please spare him, Niles,” Mom mumbled from the backseat.
“Never mind, Dad,” I assured him. “I think I get it.”
The Fort Leonard Wood entrance was heavily guarded by several uniformed soldiers. Dad rolled down the window, explained who we were and why we were there, and handed over some paperwork. The soldiers gave us a stamped pass, and we were allowed entry.
Caleb had arrived the day before by school bus. Kids like him were coming from all across the state to compete in the Special Olympics, and Fort Leonard Wood was providing the venue and lodging.
I’d never been on an army base before, but it was nothing like I had imagined. Most of the soldiers we saw didn’t look much older than me. They looked pretty pudgy and pasty, not exactly the prime specimens featured in those commercials that promised to sculpt your abs and sharpen your computer skills if you decided to become a member of the armed forces. And their uniforms weren’t the neat, crisp, shiny numbers you see on TV either.
“Is this it?” I was in disbelief.
“What were you expecting?” Dad said. “This isn’t exactly West Point.”
Dad, Mom, and I passed one identical building after another. Whoever painted this place clearly didn’t have too many colors to choose from. I’d never seen so much brown and beige in my life. “What was being in the army like, Dad?” I asked.
“Let’s just say I wasn’t cut out for the military,” he mumbled. “I doubt you are either,” he added.
We followed signs for the Special Olympics through a maze of roads to a large athletic field. There was a cinder track that had definitely seen better days and a set of tired-looking wooden bleachers in dire need of a coat of paint. The competition began in a half hour, and the place was starting to fill with spectators.
We took our seats as the athletes were herded into lines on the far side of the track. A small flag corps marched to midfield for the playing of the national anthem. The sound system malfunctioned, and the music got painfully loud and distorted, but everyone held their hands over their hearts and managed to keep their eyes fixed on the flag.
The athletes paraded down the track in front of the bleachers where my parents and I sat packed beside other families. They waved to the crowd while a military march piped through the sound system. Mom’s eyes got all misty when she spotted Caleb. “He’s come a long way,” she reminded me softly as she put her arm around me. “Trust me on that, Leo.”
I waved to Caleb and gave him a thumbs-up. His event started in an hour. He was running the 1600—the same event I ran, of course.
“Why don’t you go give your brother some encouraging words,” Dad told me. “He can use all the pointers he can get after that last fiasco.”
Dad was referring to Caleb’s qualification meet a couple of weeks back. He was running against another kid from his school named Kevin. The entire race, Caleb ran on Kevin’s heels. Every time he’d begin to run around Kevin, Caleb would suddenly slow back down and tuck himself back behind Kevin. Something was definitely up, because Caleb was running slower than usual and should have easily kicked Kevin’s ass.
“KEVIN SAY DON’T PASS! RIGHT!” he told us after the race. “STAY BEHIND KEVIN! MAKE KEVIN ANGRY! RIGHT!” Fortunately both Kevin and Caleb got to move on to this event.
I spotted Caleb on the infield, sitting next to Kevin. “I think we went over that with him, Dad. He knows he’s not supposed to let Kevin win.”
“It’s not going to hurt to remind him again, Leo. Just go warm him up,” Dad encouraged me.
I left the bleachers, walked out to the field, and asked Caleb to follow me beyond the track, toward some barracks. When I told him we were going to do a little warm-up, Caleb accelerated several strides and broke into a series of crazy hops, skips, and jumps like a wild bull that had just been released in a rodeo. I thought this might be the first time Caleb was actually nervous about something.
“You need to calm down a bit,” I warned him. “Just jog slowly next to me.”
“JOG SLOW! RIGHT!” he repeated.
“Try not to skip or hop, Caleb,” I directed him. “Try to run like this,” I said, taking long strides and slightly exaggerating the pumping of my arms. Caleb ran beside me, his form still awkward, but with the skipping and hopping toned down.
“POKE LEO’S EYEBALLS OUT MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!” he yelled.
“Let’s not talk about that now, Caleb.”
“SORRY, LEO! WHAT SORRY MEAN?” he asked.
“Sorry means God not punish you,” I assured him.
The last thing I wanted right now was a major temper tantrum, Caleb chasing me around a military base trying to kill me. I tried to redirect him. “When that gun goes off, go fast, but not too fast,” I told him. “Stand beside me and do what I do,” I said to him. “We’re on the starting line, and the starter will say…,” I began.
Caleb loved this part. “MARK! SET! GO!” he screamed, and then began laughing.
“That’s right,” I said, and I was laughing too. “And you want to start about this fast,” I told him, grabbing his hand and pulling him along at what I thought was a manageable pace. We ran about a hundred meters, then stopped and headed back toward the track. “And remember, Caleb, don’t listen to Kevin. You run in front of Kevin. Not behind him.”
“DON’T LISTEN KEVIN. RIGHT!” he repeated.
“That’s right,” I said. “I think it’s almost time for your race.” I walked Caleb over to the starting area and checked him in.
The girls’ 1600 was before Caleb’s race. As it turned out there was only one girl in the entire race, and she was making it very clear to everyone present that she wanted no part of it.
“Margaret does not want to do this,” she said to herself.
Margaret wasn’t very tall, and she didn’t look particularly athletic. She had planted herself firmly on the ground, her arms crossed, shaking her head and repeating, “Margaret does not want to do this.”
A burly man in jeans and an auto mechanic’s shirt tried to convince Margaret otherwise. He tried to pull her up by her shoulders, but she wouldn’t budge. “C’mon, Margaret, honey,” he pleaded. “You said you wanted to do this. We drove you five hours to get here. We know you can do this, sweetheart! Your grandmother and auntie came clear across the state to come see this. You don’t want to let them down, do you?”
Margaret just kept shaking her head. “Margaret does not want to do this,” she said again and again.
Her father was clearly at a loss. I sensed he was about to lose his patience, so I stepped forward. “Margaret, do you want someone to run with you? Would that help?” I asked her.
It was like I cast a spell on her. Margaret got herself up off the ground and followed me to the starting line, still repeating in monotone, “Margaret does not want to do this. Margaret really does not want to do this.”
I explained the situation to the starter: if he wanted to keep the meet running on time and complete this event on schedule, it was in everyone’s best interest to let me run beside Margaret.
Then her father came over and put the matter in plainer words. “Our family traveled nearly five hours from Rutledge to get here, and her great aunties traveled three and a half hours from Kirksville. We’d really appreciate anything you all can do. For once in her life, I’d like for my girl to win, to increase her confidence. Even if she doesn’t have to beat anyone to do it.”
“I’ll run beside her and help her out,” I offered again. “It’s going to be a challenge for her to do this by herself.”
The officials agreed and we got Margaret on the starting line as she continued to chant her mantra: “Margaret does not want to do this.”
“Yes, Margaret,” I answered, “I’ve heard you, but I know you can do it. You’re just a little nervous, that’s all.”
That little encouragement perked something in Margaret. When the gun sounded, she actually started to run, albeit very slowly. It took us nearly fifteen minutes to run the four laps around the track, and the entire way she continually asserted, “Margaret does not want to do this.”
I ran beside her and tried to persuade her otherwise. “You can do this, Margaret.”
The last lap took an eternity. When we hit the homestretch and I saw the tape stretched across the finish line, I told Margaret, “All you have to do is get across that finish line and you’re done.”
The crowd was now standing and urging Margaret along. Margaret responded to the situation by changing her mantra. “Way to go, Margaret. Way to go,” she repeated to herself in the same monotone.
I stopped ten meters from the finish line when I was sure Margaret was going to stay on course. She came to a halt for a moment and looked at the crowd and realized the ovation was for her. Her father was standing on the other side of the finish line with his arms open. Finally, Margaret smiled and ran toward him.
He put up his hand for a high five, and she slapped his open palm with delight. Her father lifted her up in a giant bear hug. He looked over his shoulder at me and silently mouthed, “Thank you.”
Caleb had already been marshaled to the starting line and was standing with Kevin and five other boys. I walked over to him and asked him if he was ready.
“YES!” he shouted.
“Do you remember what we talked about?”
“DON’T LISTEN KEVIN!”
“Good luck, Caleb,” I told him, and I made my way back to the bleachers and my parents. It was now dusk. The field lights came on and gave the atmosphere an eerie glow.
“How’s your brother doing?” Dad asked. I think Dad was more nervous than Caleb.
“I think he’s okay,” I told him. “A little wound up at the moment. I gave him a plan, and I think he gets it.”
The soldiers in camouflage arranged Caleb and his competitors on the starting line like horses at the gate. When the gun fired, Caleb took off in a full sprint—only he added a skip into every few strides and held his arms flush against the side of his body. He was running like he urgently needed a toilet.
“What the hell is he doing?” Dad said in confusion.
“That was not the plan,” I assured Dad.
We watched Caleb take an enormous lead on the rest of the field. When he came through the first lap, I estimated he had two hundred meters on the other runners.
Mom grabbed my hand and squeezed tightly. “I’m worried he’s going to collapse if he continues at this rate,” she said. Midway through the second lap, that was exactly what happened.
Dad didn’t say anything. We just watched as Caleb slowly began to implode. First his shoulders tightened, then he no longer lifted his knees, and finally he slowed almost to a crawl.
“Oh, no,” Dad whispered.
“He might be all right,” I tried reassuring them. “I’ve been there. If he doesn’t stop, he might recover and be able to pull it off.”
Caleb struggled, but he continued running and held his lead up until midway through the third lap. Then one boy who started at a sensible pace eventually caught him. They completed the third lap together and then Caleb simply had nothing left in the tank. The boy took over the lead for good and won the race easily. The rest of the pack was too far back, so Caleb was able to hold on for second place.
We made our way down to the track to take some up-close pictures of Caleb receiving his medal on the podium.
“DAD VERY PROUD OF YOU!” he shouted. “MOM PROUD OF YOU!”
“Hell, yes! I’m very proud of you, Caleb,” Dad said.
“LEO PROUD OF CALEB!” he yelled.
“I’m proud of you too,” I told him.
“TAKE LEO TO SIX FLAGS!” he yelled. “MY MONEY! I PAY!”
“You don’t have to do that, Caleb,” I answered, suddenly having a flashback of the tantrum he had last time we went to Six Flags when he found out that the water park wasn’t open yet.
“TAKE LEO TO SIX FLAGS!” he repeated.
I glanced at Dad and Mom. Dad shrugged his shoulders at me like it was my call, but Mom’s eyebrows were raised with hope.
“That sounds great, Caleb,” I told him.
Caleb then turned to Dad. “DAD TAKE CALEB OUT TO DINNER!”
“Your wish is my command,” Dad said. “Where to?”
“FISH-AND-CHIPS! Long John Silver’s!” Caleb yelled.
“You bet!” Dad assured him.
As Caleb climbed into the car, Dad glanced over at Mom and me. “I’ll drive. You two start praying that damn restaurant is still open.”
“Aye-aye, captain,” I joked, but I started praying.