“Uh-uh-uh-oh,” said Demski. “The fl-fl-fl-fl-fl, waterbird is back.”
Cassidy was miserable. They were still jogging the warm-up and already his legs were excruciating. On Monday he was invincible, and now, on Friday, he was right back where he had been before. Maybe worse.
He knew Trapper Nelson and Mr. Kamrad had failed in their intervention attempt, and with that failure Cassidy saw his dreams of glory on the track blowing away like spindrift. He tried to assure Trapper that everything would be fine, that he appreciated his efforts, but Trapper was not to be consoled. He offered to talk to Cassidy’s parents, but Cassidy declined. He figured it would only complicate things further and Bickerstaff already had his back up. As Cassidy’s performance declined steadily during the week, Bickerstaff became convinced that he was putting on a show for his benefit, trying to convince him that Trapper Nelson’s diagnosis was correct. This seemed to anger him further, this battle of wills with one of his charges.
The workout of the day was twelve times 220 with a two-minute walk between. He wanted them to shoot for thirty-six seconds, which meant he expected Ed and Cassidy to duke it out at that speed and the rest of them to hang on as best they could.
“Y-y-you okay?” asked Ed as they lined up.
“Not really,” said Cassidy. After a horrible long run the day before, he was dreading this.
Ed finished the first one in thirty-five and Cassidy was five seconds back, his face twisted in pain. Lenny Lindstrom and Jarvis Parsley finished in front of him.
“All right, Ed, good going,” said Bickerstaff. “Len, Jarvis, thirty-eight. Good. Walk it off. Quenton, come here a second.”
Still gasping for air, Cassidy walked stiff-leggedly over to the coach.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said quietly, holding up his clipboard to the side of his face for privacy. “It’s not going to work. You might as well straighten up and fly right.”
Cassidy walked back to the runners assembling at the starting line. The others were surprised to see him almost in tears.
“All right, runners. Number two, still shooting for thirty-six. Set and go!” called Bickerstaff.
For Cassidy it just got worse. He finished the workout, coming in farther and farther behind. Bickerstaff didn’t say anything, but Cassidy could see the look of disgust on his face. By the time he finished the eighth repetition, there were real tears rolling down his cheeks. He couldn’t help it. While the others jogged the two-lap cooldown, he walked stiff-leggedly to the gym. When he got to the stairs to the second-floor locker room, he had to turn sideways and climb them by throwing one leg straight out in front of him and rotating it over to the stair, then standing up straight on it and repeating the process with the other leg, using his arms to haul himself up.
He was showered and nearly dressed by the time the others started wandering in. He sat for a few moments in front of his locker, staring at the clean white singlet folded neatly atop the matching shorts on the upper shelf. His racing uniform. It felt as if everyone was tiptoeing around him. He knew his face was still red, but he wasn’t even embarrassed about it.
Finally, he stood and retrieved the singlet, unfolding it and holding it in front of him. It was spotlessly white, with a red satin sash running diagonally across the chest and a small winged “G” for Glenridge over the left breast. He remembered the incredible pride that welled up in him the first time he put it on. And every time thereafter, for that matter.
He couldn’t believe what he had to do.
Bickerstaff had his reading glasses on, going over the numbers on his clipboard from the day’s workout.
“Come in,” he said.
Cassidy walked in, tears now falling freely from his eyes. He laid the singlet, red sash up, on the coach’s desk.
“All right,” said the coach.