I said okay.
He smiled. “Don’t want to burn myself out with this warmin’ up,” he said. “Catch you later.” He slapped my hand and headed to the infield.
I’d never competed against anyone before who didn’t just want to beat my butt and go home. It’s funny; besides really wanting to win, I felt like I owed him a good race.
I jogged another easy mile and a half and went over to let Floyd massage my legs, wondering how this all was going to turn out. Floyd was sort of getting to be my personal trainer. All the time we rode to meets he never said a word about any of the crap I pulled all year long. We just talked track and a little about my future. He was pretty sure there were some small colleges around that would give me a partial scholarship to run cross-country and track. He wished he’d done that. It’s a little late, but I’m looking into it.
Washington won the hundred and the two-twenty going away, and Carter just slapped him on the butt after each race and shook his head. Boomer sneered. When the first call was given for the two-mile, I trotted over to Madison and said, “Earn your pay. Coach me.”
“Run your race,” he said. “Run loose like always. You’ll have to run a fast first mile to wear him down. Your best bet is to be far enough ahead on the last lap that he can’t even make a run at you. He’s fast. Ask Sampson.” He rubbed my legs. “I don’t think he can go out ahead of you. He hasn’t run it enough to know what he can handle. If he does, you still run your race; he may be trying to psyche you. Just don’t panic, no matter what. You have the advantage of knowing your limit.”
The gun sounded. Washington was smart. He wasn’t about to kill himself off by taking the lead. He figured if he could stay within a reasonable distance for seven laps, he could outdo me with sheer speed on the last one. I knew he’d do exactly that unless I broke him, so I set a good pace. Madison hollered out my times at the end of each quarter, and they were well under my usual; the first mile was my best ever, and I still had a lot left. Never once was Washington far enough back that I couldn’t hear his spikes pounding the track.
I opened up a little on the fifth lap, hoping to catch him in a midway slump and break him, but he hung in. The thought that he could stay with me no matter what pace I set crept into my mind, but I banished it and picked up.
So did he.
Since I couldn’t shake him, I decided I had to burn him out on laps six and seven so he wouldn’t have a final sprint. I mean, he had to have a limit. The old familiar burning deep in my bowels, a constant companion during most of my hard workouts, made its presence felt, and I welcomed it, knowing he had to be feeling it, too. I coped with it, as usual, by telling myself it didn’t hurt half as much as when Leo Frazier accidentally fouled me off with that baseball bat. I picked up more, concentrating on relaxing my upper body—especially my arms.
Starting into the eighth lap, I had about half a stride on him and poured it on. The first two-twenty we went stride for stride. Going into the final turn, I had the inside, so he stayed close right at my shoulder. I could almost see him out of the corner of my eye but refused to look, to break my concentration. I knew he was hurting. He’d have taken me by now if he wasn’t.
My legs ached. My lungs wanted to explode. He reached for his kick, but it wasn’t quite there. I strode out and counted to myself, increasing the speed of the cadence to fight him off. I couldn’t shake him, but he couldn’t kick it in. I saw the tape, and out of the corner of my eye I saw his hand. Blackness closed in from the sides as I lunged for the tape and felt its casual pressure across my chest. I stumbled to the track, vaguely aware of the asphalt scraping my hands, knees, and shoulders as I tumbled over and over.
I heard myself screaming and moaning as my legs cramped into a million bizarre knots, and then, “Relax, man. Relax,” as Carter slowly straightened them and worked at the knots while talking me down. Madison was there, too, and Floyd was coming with his car and a stretcher. I looked over and saw Washington lying back flat on the grass just off the track. His coach was telling him to jog it off, but he just smiled and waved him away.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I just need to walk around a little.”
Blood oozed from the abrasions on my knees and left shoulder. My hands felt like I’d grabbed a fistful of bumblebees. I tried to stand, but my legs knotted immediately with the first movement.
“Relax, man,” Washington said, looking over at me from his spot on the infield. “They comin’ to get you.”
I started to laugh. “What the hell are you doing alive?” I said.
“I didn’t have it, man. If I could’ve pushed myself like you, I’da beat your butt by six blocks.” He got up, came over, and put his palm out flat, and I slapped it. Instant pain filled mine.
“Incredible,” Carter said from behind me as he helped lift me onto the stretcher.
When I was secure on it, Madison said, “We just want to take you over to the hospital and let a doctor have a look. Floyd’ll drive you over, and I’ll get someone to ride in back with you.”
“Let me go, man,” Washington said. “I got no relay today.” He shook his head. “Ain’t got nothin’ after that.”
Both my time and place qualified me for regionals, and I trained like a madman for the next two weeks after the doctor found nothing wrong that a weekend’s rest wouldn’t heal. The first week I increased my distances by half and pressured myself to the brink of exhaustion. The second week I tapered off until, on Friday, I felt like I could beat the world. Unfortunately there were three other guys who could also beat the world—and me. I finished fourth; the world, fifth. Only the top three places go on to state, so that wrapped up my high school track career. Washington went on to finish first in state in the hundred and long jump and second in the two-twenty. He hadn’t even bothered to compete in the two-mile at regionals, though his time qualified him. That guy’s a star.
The week after regionals Jasper called me into his office again. He was actually pretty friendly at first, said maybe he had jumped to conclusions about me being the mad hammer man, and told me he was planning to replace the plaque, and maybe I could help him. He said even though I didn’t do it, was there some reason that I could think of that someone else might have?
I said maybe they were offended by what it said or maybe that he signed it. Maybe it should be from everybody. Or maybe the plaque should say “In Memoriam” with Becky’s name on it. You know, let the tree do the talking.
He nodded and said he understood. I think probably he did.
We had commencement tonight, so I guess it’s almost over. I hope so, it’s about time. Something happened up there that will probably stand out in my memory almost as much as Becky’s death. It’s hard to believe the highs and lows you go through. After the prayers were all said and Senator Hansen gave his speech and Carter gave the salutatory address and we had a minute’s silence for Becky, Jasper and the senator and Norm, as chairman of the school board, lined up to give out the diplomas. I was third, because I’m third in the alphabet, thanks to Jen and Dick Aardvarrsen, and when Jasper called my name, I stood up, walked over and shook his hand and Senator Hansen’s hand, and then moved in front of Norm. He handed me my diploma, and I moved my tassel from one side to the other. Then he put out his hand and said in a real quiet voice, “Son, I wish there were some way I could tell you how proud I am.”
I started to shake his hand, and then I just lost it. I threw my arms around his neck and burst into tears. I don’t know whether he was embarrassed or not, but I just couldn’t help it. Behind us the gym was dead quiet. I took a deep breath and turned around to see Carter, standing, giving me thumbs-up.
I learned a lot this year, in spite of the fact that I was going to school. I learned some about friendship and a whole lot about love and that there’s no use being honorable with dishonorable men. There’s nothing they can do to you when you don’t care anymore. I learned to accept myself even though I’m not Clint Eastwood or Joe Montana or Carter Sampson, and that
you can get through almost anything if you have people around you who care about you. And I learned that when all is said and done, you’re responsible for every damn thing you do. Most important, I learned how jacked up you can get just being alive, and what a vicious, miserable, ugly thing death is. I’m going to stay away from it if I can.
A few things I didn’t learn. I didn’t learn to like people who don’t like me, and I didn’t learn not to push my luck. About a week and a half ago they set a new plaque in concrete beside Becky’s tree. Jasper didn’t take my advice; it was a duplicate of the other one. What Jasper did do was camp out overnight in his office for about a week with a .22 loaded with birdshot, waiting for me to show. But I’ve learned patience. He’s tucked away at home in his own bed tonight, visions of beating me to death with a blunt instrument dancing in his head. In about five minutes I’m going down to the station to get the hammer.
About the Author
CHRIS CRUTCHER is the critically acclaimed author of seven young adult novels and a collection of short stories, all of which were selected as ALA Best Books for Young Adults. Drawing on his experience as a family therapist and child protection specialist, Crutcher writes honestly about real issues facing teenagers today: making it through school, competing in sports, handling rejection and failure, and dealing with parents. The Horn Book said of his novels, “Writing with vitality and authority that stems from personal experience…Chris Crutcher gives readers the inside story on young men, sports, and growing up.”
Chris Crutcher has won two lifetime achievement awards for his work: the Margaret A. Edwards Award for Outstanding Literature for Young Adults, and the ALAN Award for a Significant Contribution to Adolescent Literature. He lives in Spokane, Washington.
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ALSO BY CHRIS CRUTCHER
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THE CRAZY HORSE ELECTRIC GAME
CHINESE HANDCUFFS
ATHLETIC SHORTS: Six Short Stories
STAYING FAT FOR SARAH BYRNES
IRONMAN
WHALE TALK
Credits
Cover photograph © 2003 by Ali Smith
Cover design by Hilary Zarycky
Cover © 2003 by HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Copyright
RUNNING LOOSE. Copyright © 1983 by Chris Crutcher. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition August 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-196847-1
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Chris Crutcher, Running Loose
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