The 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.