This time it was different.
He spotted Mizner while they were warming up.
“Th-th-there he is,” said Demski
“Saw him,” said Cassidy. He had spotted the blue-and-gold uniform with the golden tornado on the chest among the sea of colors all around them. There was no mistaking that stride. He was warming up apart from his teammates, who were all jogging along together.
“Wh-what are you going to do?” asked Demski.
“I don’t know. But I know I’m not spotting him two hundred yards this time,” said Cassidy.
When Mizner bolted to the lead after the first quarter mile, Cassidy was no more than ten yards behind him. This time Cassidy wasn’t worried about what group he was in or who was in it. He only had eyes for Mizner out there sailing along in front. Everyone else could do whatever they wanted. Today he knew where the race was.
There must have been some mistake at the half-mile marker, where Mr. Kamrad was reading off the times: “Two twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . .”
That couldn’t be right. Cassidy was feeling the strain, but this time he was mentally ready for it and it didn’t seem as scary. Mizner, like before, ran with that silky stride and did not look back. The second half of the first lap went quickly. Cassidy could hear no runners behind him, nor could he see anyone close when they went around a sharp turn.
The mile splits also sounded crazy, but Cassidy now had to believe them: “Four fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two . . .”
Mizner must have thought it sounded too fast, because he eased up some as they headed down the first long straightaway again. As he reached the long row of pines, he looked back finally but did not seem surprised to see Cassidy ten yards back, running easily. Instead, Mizner motioned to him, as if he had been expecting him.
What’s this? Cassidy thought. But he poured it on a little and pulled up even.
Mizner didn’t look over, just said, “Work. Together.”
Cassidy thought about it. Some kind of trick, maybe? But he said, “Okay.”
And so they ran like that, stride for stride, for most of the last mile of the race. Gasping with effort but showing no signs of real fatigue, they went through the midpoint again, where Mr. Kamrad tried to hide his surprise at seeing them together. He read off the times: “Seven fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . .”
This time Cassidy was more prepared to interpret the in-between time. All he had to remember was that at 10 flat pace they would pass the one-and-a-half-mile point in 7:30. But they were way under that. Was it possible to keep this up?
Mizner ran so beautifully that running beside him seemed to make Cassidy’s stride smoother. And running side by side was mentally easier than hanging on from behind or trying to run from the front. Cassidy had not run many real distance races, so he was not sure how this whole thing was supposed to play out. Were they just going to run across the finish line together?
His answer came in another quarter of a mile as they turned for the home stretch. Mizner put on a sudden burst, and before he knew it, Cassidy was ten yards behind again. There must have been some Pompano supporters in the small crowd, because he heard a rousing cheer. But despite the strain and effort of the early going, Cassidy did not feel done in. In fact, he almost wished the race were longer.
On the rare occasions when he peeked back, Mizner always looked over his right shoulder, so Cassidy worked his way up to just behind his left shoulder, being careful not to expend too much energy. Cassidy held there and waited.
When they were two hundred yards from the finish chute, Mizner looked back over his right shoulder to see where Cassidy was. When he did, Cassidy instantly sprinted around his left side and went all out the rest of the way to the finish line. After he crossed it, he turned around and was surprised to see Mizner fifteen yards back.
The crowd had grown silent during that last sprint.
Cassidy had to grab his knees for only a few painful seconds. He straightened up to see Mizner stumbling toward him, hand extended.
“Nice. Race,” he said. “Didn’t see you. At all there. At the end.”
“You, too,” said Cassidy. “Guess that’s. My last time. Pulling that.”
Mizner laughed but stopped quickly, still needing the air.
Mr. Kamrad jogged over, holding his watch in front of him, huge smile on his face.
“Quenton Cassidy,” he said, “I hope Coach Bickerstaff doesn’t give you too much grief for this, but you are now the south Florida class 4-A regional cross-country champion. And you have run two miles in 9:42.”