CHAPTER SIXTEEN SAM

"Was that him again?" Randy asked after the gun went off again for the second time to tell the runners there had been a second false start.

Stuart's family had wanted to stand beside me while Stuart ran. We were all at the finish line, as was the Best Buddies group with all their homemade signs. With a huge grin on her face, Gloria was waving hers in the air like it was a flag on a windy day. Willa had made one on black construction paper with white chalk, and looked like maybe there was a skull on it? Yeah, that was Willa, all right.

I looked at Randy and the rest of Stuart's family and held up my hands. "Stay here. I'll go down," I said.

His mother put her hand on her chest. "Oh, I hope it wasn't him."

"You sure you don't want us there?" His dad had this really loud, low voice. It was one thing to look like a linebacker, but he had the voice to go with his muscles. When I first met him, I was intimidated big time.

I didn't know how to respond to him. This was my fault. Mr. Rossi told me to tell him about the false start, but I didn't do a very good job of it.

"Mr. Williams," I said. "I'm okay to do this."

He gestured briefly with his head toward the start line. "Go."

I hustled down, knowing that, yes, it was Stuart who had false-started twice. Crap. Crap. Crap. I hadn't told him about false starts all because he'd been in a bad mood and I was afraid of getting in his head.

When I got to the start line, Stuart was already arguing with Mr. Rossi, telling him he wanted to run.

"It's not fair," he said.

I tried to get a hold of his elbow and remove him, but he jerked his arm away. "I can do this," he said, his voice shaking. "I can."

Mr. Rossi glanced at me and gave me the I'm so sorry headshake and the what can I do? shrug. Yes, competition was competition and there were rules. I got that. I did. In this situation we had no choice but to accept his disqualification.

What was I thinking? It had been my idea to have Stuart play in the big leagues, unlike Best Buddies where he got to cheat at dodgeball and do whatever he wanted. Half the time I let him cheat, just for fun. And now I'd neglected to tell him a crucial piece of information. I'd set him up for failure.

"Come on, Stuart," I said in as calm a voice as I could, "let's just walk away." All I could think was walk, walk walk, don't run. Please don't run.

Stuart turned to look at me and that's when I saw the tears, sliding down the side of his face. My heart felt like it had snapped in two. Seriously. I ached inside. Almost worse than when I physically had heart failure. I'd never seen Stuart cry before, even when kids were mean to him, or when he was in trouble, or when he tripped and fell in the hall from running too fast.

"I want to race," he whimpered.

"You will," I said. "Just not in this race."

"I'm good," he said, looking up at me. The pain in his eyes was real. "I'm fast," he said. "I can do this." His fists were clenched, and I knew they were not clenched because he was going to lose it and take off. They were actually clenched in frustration, and this was how any athlete would feel at being disqualified. Frustrated. Disappointed. And, as a first-time runner, confused.

I remembered the first time I fouled out in basketball, before the half was even up. I had to sit and watch the entire game from the bench. I had clenched my fists the entire time.

"I know you're fast," I said to him. "But you were disqualified, Little Man." I looked him right in the eyes. "But you've still got two races left." I held up two fingers. "Two. You are not disqualified from either the 200 or 400 metre races. So, let's walk it out. Forget about that race and move on to your next race."

"But why can't I run now?" He tilted his head and looked at the track and the other seven runners lining up again, getting ready to go. "I want to run in lane six. No one is running in lane six now. It's my lane."

"You can run later," I said. I put my hand on the middle of his back and tried to guide him away from the start line. "Just not in this race, okay? Let's talk as we walk."

A few steps later, I put my arm around his shoulder. At least his body didn't feel tensed, like he was going to make a mad dash back toward the start line and get into lane six. In fact, he felt the opposite: limp, like his muscles were mushy.

"You're not the only one to be disqualified in the history of the 100-metre dash," I said, hoping to lighten the situation. "It happens all the time. I bet Andre De Grasse has done it before. They sometimes do it in huge races, like in the World Championships."

He stared at me.

"I bet if we google it we will find out he did. Maybe we should think of something to keep you in the blocks and keep you still until the gun goes off."

He shrugged.

What could I do to help him? Something simple. Something he could remember. Nothing complicated.

I thought and thought as we walked away. In the distance, I heard Mr. Rossi shoot off the gun to restart the race, and I grabbed hold of Stuart's arm.

He shook me off. "Don't," he said. "I know it's not time to run."

I was almost taken aback by his understanding. Maybe I should try to get to the bottom of what had made him false start. "What made you go before the gun went off?" I asked.

"I dunno."

Maybe not. "Well, whatever it was, let's think about something else."

"Okay," he said.

"Why don't you just stare forward until you hear it. Wait for it instead of trying to go exactly when it's shot." I said to him. "That's simple. We'll practise. And a false start is when you go before the gun goes off and you can't do that."

"I know that now," he said.

At this point, I just wanted him to race and feel the accomplishment of finishing. He was fast, so there was the chance that even if he was behind by a little off the start, he could catch up and place, maybe get on to the final. But did that matter? Being in the race and finishing was what was important now. I needed to change my focus.

He nodded.

"Let's go somewhere and practise," I said.

As we continued walking, I saw his parents coming toward us, and I waved. "There are your parents," I said.

"They might be mad at me."

"Not a chance," I said. "Look they're smiling." And they were. When they were close, Stuart said, "I can't run. I went before the gun. Two times."

"That's okay," said his mother. She slung her arm around him. "Lots of people get disqualified when they first start running."

"Even Olympians get disqualified, Stu," boomed his father's voice.

Stuart tilted his head and looked at his father. "Did Donny get shot by the police?"

His father blinked. So did I. Where had that come from? I mean, what did Dunn have to do with any of this? Stuart's thought processes always surprised me. I'd assumed that he'd been disqualified because of nerves. But maybe there was something about the gun and Donny that made him jumpy. Stuart sure could be complicated.

His mother gently lifted his chin with her finger. "No," she said. "He didn't shoot anyone and no one shot him. He sold drugs. And don't you be thinking of him now, you hear? You just concentrate on running."

"I checked the schedule and you still have some more races coming up," said his dad.

"And we've got a strategy we are going to practise," I said.

His mother patted his shoulder, followed by his father. "We'll leave you then and go find the others." His mother glanced at me. "Stuart," she said. "Dad wants to talk to you for a second."

Stuart went with his father and his mother said to me, "That Donatello character was arrested last night. Stuart knows about it. Find something else for him to focus on, if you can."

Once he finished talking to his dad, I took Stuart over to a private place by the swing set and had him pretend he was in the blocks.

"Just think about running between the lines," I said. "And nothing else. Stare at the lines and only think about being between them, got it?"

He got into place.

Now it was my turn to act like the race starter.

"On your marks!" I paused for a quick second. "Set!" I paused again.

"Bang!" I yelled.

He took off and I called him back.

"That was great," I said. "Good for you."

"So I wasn't disqualified that time?" he asked. "That's a big word."

"You were perfect that time! And it is a big word," I said. "You went on BANG and that's exactly what you have to do."

We did it another ten times and then when I thought it had sunk in, I told him we should go back to the track area to get some water and stretch and get ready for his race. As we were walking, we saw the Best Buddies group. Justin and Anna came over to us, still holding their signs.

When Anna saw him she rocked her sign back and forth. "Go, Stuart, go!" she said, grinning.

"You're going to kill the 200," said Justin. He gave him a thumbs-up.

"I was disqualified," said Stuart.

"Don't worry about that," said Anna. "You have another race." "We'll all still wait at the finish line," said Justin. "And we'll be cheering for you."

Stuart nodded.

When it was time for the 200-metre junior boys race, I took Stuart to the start line. Mr. Rossi looked at me and nodded. I listened as he called out the numbers and breathed a sigh of relief when I heard that Stuart was in lane six.

"Lane six, Little Man," I said. Thank you, Mr. Rossi!

Stuart nodded and grinned at me. I blew out a rush of air. Time to give this another shot.

"Remember what we practised?" I asked him.

He looked at me for a moment, head tilted and, I swear, my heart dropped right to the end of my big toe. Did he not remember what we practised? I knew he forgot math equations from one day to the next, but this was different. Plus, we had just gone over it.

Then he said, "Stare straight ahead and think about running between the lines. And wait until I hear the gun before I go."

"Yes!" Okay, I needed to calm down, take a breath, and not show him that my heart was pounding too.

Mr. Rossi's voice sounded from the start line. "Junior boys 200 metres, first heat, line up."

"Go, Stuart. Lane six."

I inhaled a deep breath and held it as I watched him walk toward lane six. Once the race started I would get my butt across the field so I could cheer him on at the finish line.

My stomach heaved up and down, like I was the one about to run the race, only worse because I wasn't the one running. It made no sense. My throat felt dry. I had the jitters too. All the nervousness I felt before my own athletic pursuits, I felt now times ten. This was insane. I wanted this so badly for him I could feel it in me, in my body.

My heart beat through my shirt. Come on, Stuart, you can do this. I watched as he got to his lane. Saw him look down the track. Was he looking at his lines?

Run straight, Little Man. Just run straight. Simple. I'd made it simple for him.

Mr. Rossi waited as the runners got into place. Then he held up his hand.

"Runners. On your marks," yelled Mr. Rossi. Stuart positioned his feet in his blocks.

"Set!"

Stuart put his hands on the ground and looked forward. I swallowed, my throat parched.

The gun went off.

And so did Stuart. I swear my heart leapt out of my body. He was off! I watched him run, unable to cheer for him, unable to say anything. I felt frozen as I stared at his legs striding forward. He picked up speed, passing two guys on the outside lanes. Then I heard the cheering by the finish line.

I jogged across the field.

"Go, Stuart!" I yelled.