The office was a fascinating hodgepodge of sporting paraphernalia and coachly miscellany.
There was a diploma on the wall from Eastern Kentucky State College, dated June 6, 1949, awarded to one Robert Leroy Bickerstaff, a bachelor of science degree in physical education. There was a basketball team photo with the legend “Maroons Basketball—1947.” In the photo, second from the far right, standing next to the slightly taller equipment manager, was a crew-cut sprite of a boy wearing number 13. If it hadn’t been for the Dumbo ears, Cassidy would not have recognized Coach Bickerstaff at all. The telltale red hair did not register in black and white. It was a strange thing to contemplate, that Coach Bickerstaff had played sports in his youth, that he had had an actual boyhood of his own.
Cassidy sat, hair damp, books in lap, taking it all in: the pair of nested low hurdles needing repair in the corner, the shelves filled with books on basketball, football, weight lifting, calisthenics. There was one called Doc Counsilman on Swimming and another called Modern Interval Training by someone named Mihály Iglói. There were stacks of correspondence from other coaches and athletic directors seeking to schedule games and meets. There were stopwatches and coaching whistles hanging from hooks on the side of the bookcase, along with baseball caps, clipboards, sunglasses, and windbreakers. There was a dusty glass-fronted case filled with trophies from days gone by.
He noticed one small black-and-white photograph on the wall, almost hidden among the rest. It showed a group of eight young boys squinting into the sun from the steps of an old-timey brick schoolhouse, accompanied by an older gentleman in a three-piece suit. Their names were listed below the photograph, along with the caption: “Cynthiana Junior High track team, 1940.” It didn’t take Cassidy long to spot the telltale ears of the elf-boy standing next to one Oley Fightmaster, a young brute holding a shot.
“We were undefeated that year,” said Coach Bickerstaff, hurrying through the door. Cassidy jumped back in his chair. The coach tossed his clipboard on top of the messy desk and sat down heavily in the ancient swivel chair.
“Of course, size of our school, everybody did practically every event. A couple of those boys were pretty fast, including yours truly,” said Bickerstaff, putting his ripple-soled coaching shoes up on the corner of the desk. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes with the momentary relief of a man who spent most of his day on his feet. “And Oley there was third in the state in the shot. But the competition wasn’t all that tough back then, at least not in north-central Kentucky.”
“Yes, sir,” Cassidy said. Coach Bickerstaff had played basketball in college! He was from Kentucky! It never occurred to Cassidy that coaches and teachers were from anywhere.
“It’s okay, Quenton, relax. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute. Coach Burke says you’ve tried out for the basketball team . . .”
“Yes, sir, I practice a lot. And I’m growing.”
Bickerstaff’s smile was sympathetic.
“Well, son, lots of boys are after those twelve spots. You’ve surely noticed that most of them are a lot bigger than you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Cassidy glumly. This was not new information. Stiggs and Randleman were constantly reminding him what a shrimp he was.
“Have you ever considered track?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Too slow, I guess.”
“Well, there’s more to track than the fifty and the hundred. It takes a lot of stamina to run a good quarter. And it takes even more to run the 880.”
Cassidy looked puzzled.
“Yes, that’s right. In track there are races longer than the one you ran this morning. The 880—a half mile—is two laps around. It’s a tough race.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, I don’t want to mislead you. You tied in a race with a very good sprinter today. But Chip’s no quarter-miler. In fact, he’s not as good in the 220 as he is in the 100 and the 50.”
Cassidy wondered what motive Bickerstaff could possibly have for downplaying the greatest near triumph of his life.
“But still, he’s no slouch,” Bickerstaff said, taking his feet off the desk and sitting up straight. “He’s full of fight and he wouldn’t have let you get anywhere near him if he could have helped it.”
“He ran pretty hard,” Cassidy said.
“You didn’t give him much choice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, Chip’s never run anything longer than a 220 in a meet, but a 60 flat quarter mile would win some of our dual meets. And if you can push beyond that a bit, you might just give Demski something to think about in the 880. He’s just getting started, but he’s getting to be pretty darned tough. I want you to think about that. If you came out for track at the end of March, I think you might do very well.”
Cassidy wasn’t sure what to think. He had always pinned his hopes for glory on basketball. Other than Chip Newspickle and Ed Demski, the track team was notorious for being a scut bucket of misfits and rejects.
“I really want to play basketball,” he said.
“I read you. Your prerogative entirely. But it’s not an either-or situation is all I’m saying. I just want you to think about it. Will you do that for me?” Then he actually smiled. Cassidy had never seen him smile before.
“Yes, sir! I will.”
“Okay, go ahead and take off. You’re going to be late to third period. If you get any grief, tell them you had a conference with me.”
Bickerstaff started taking papers off the top of the stack on his desk, reaching for his reading glasses.
“Yes?” he said, looking up. Cassidy was still by the door.
“What’s the school record for the 880?” Cassidy asked.
“You probably shouldn’t be too concerned about—”
“I just wanted to know,” Cassidy said.
“Son, it’s 2:07.3. That’s a tick under two sixty-four-second quarters back to back. I know that sounds awfully—”
“I can run faster than that,” Cassidy said, and left.
Bickerstaff stared at the door. What was it with this kid? He started reading the first letter but stopped after the first paragraph and took off his glasses.
What the hell, he thought, maybe he can at that. Bickerstaff looked over at the small black-and-white photograph of himself and his teammates from all those years ago. There was a fierce and familiar look of determination on the face of that strange-looking, Dumbo-eared child.