Ultimate Sports (2 page)

Peter
glanced at the clock on the bookshelf. It was quarter after four. “Fifteen minutes to freedom,” he said to himself. Fifteen minutes until he could turn off the metronome—
two, three, four
—and stop moving his fingers across the keys.

For Peter the best part of the day began at the moment he stopped practicing the piano. Beginning at four-thirty each day he had an entire hour to himself. He could read science fiction. He could play video games in the den. He just couldn’t leave the house.

This had never really bothered him until the afternoon three weeks earlier when he’d seen the runner gliding up Putnam Street hill. Something about the way the older boy looked, something about the way he moved, drew Peter away from his music and out onto the porch to watch the runner race by in his maroon and gold Darden High School sweat suit.

That night at dinner his mother had said, “Mrs. Kennedy
says she saw you on the porch this afternoon. I hope you weren’t neglecting your music.”

“I was just saying hello to a friend,” Peter lied. He didn’t even know the other boy’s name.

Intimidated by his mother’s intelligence network, Peter had not ventured back onto the porch for three weeks, content to watch from his bench as the older boy churned up the hill and off to the oval behind Peter’s junior high school. But the previous afternoon, as he’d watched the second hand on the parlor clock ticking away the final seconds of his captivity,
two, three, four
, Peter had decided to go back out on the porch. He thought he might wave as the runner strode by, but instead he studied the older boy in silence.

The runner was tall, lean, and broad-shouldered.
I am none of that stuff
, Peter thought.

The runner had sharp features. Peter’s nose looked like he had flattened it against a window and it had stayed that way. The runner had a clear, steady gaze. Peter was nearsighted and tended to squint. The runner had a shock of copper-colored hair. Peter had a frizz so fine it was hard to say what color it was.

In spite of these differences, Peter could have imagined himself in the other boy’s place were it not for the runner’s grace. The way the boy moved reminded him of music. His legs had the spring of a sprightly melody. His arms pumped a relentless rhythm. He ascended the hill almost effortlessly, as though gravity were no greater hindrance on this steep incline than it had been on the prairie-flat main street below.

He must never lose
, Peter thought.

That was another way in which they were different. Peter had just come in third in the piano competition sponsored
by the university, after coming in second in the contest sponsored by the orchestra and third in the contest sponsored by the bank.

“Peter,” his mother said, “you are a perpetual runner-up.” Then she decided that rather than practice for one hour every day, he should practice for two. Two hours!

But two hours were now up. And as Peter stopped the metronome, he spotted a familiar figure in a maroon sweat suit at the bottom of the hill.

•   •   •

Who is this kid?
Kevin asked himself.

Kevin McGrail had not yet reached the crest of Putnam Street when he noticed the pudgy boy in the orange T-shirt on the porch of the white stucco house.

At least he’s on the porch today
, Kevin thought. For three weeks the kid had watched him from his piano bench. Every day as he pounded up the hill Kevin would hear this weird tinkly music coming from the stucco house across the street. Then there would be a pause as he passed by, and he would see the little frizzy-headed kid looking at him through the window. Then the weird tinkly music would begin again.

At first Kevin felt kind of spooked when the music stopped, like maybe Freddy Krueger was going to jump out of the bushes or something. But after a while he just wondered why the kid was so interested in him.

It wasn’t like he was a big star or anything. Kevin was the number three man on the Darden cross-country team, a nice steady runner who could be counted on to come in ahead of the number three man on the opposing team. Coach Haggerty always told him he could be the number two man if he worked at it, but Kevin thought working at
something was the surest way to turn it from a pleasure into a chore.

Just look at what happened with Mark Fairbanks. He and Kevin used to hang out together, but that was before Haggerty had convinced Mark that if he devoted his entire life to cross-country he could be a star. Well, Markie was a star all right. He was the fastest guy on the team and one of the top runners in the district. But he was also the biggest drone in the school. Every day at the beginning of practice he would shout, “Okay, men, it’s time to go to
work!”

Kevin felt the strain on his legs lighten as he reached the top of the hill. He saw the road flatten before him and felt the crisp autumn air tingling pleasantly in his lungs.
As soon as this becomes work
, he said to himself,
I quit
.

•   •   •

“Mom,” Peter said at dinner, “I want to go out for the football team.”

His mother looked up from her Caesar salad with an expression of exaggerated horror. “Think of your hands!” she said.

Peter had known she would say that. “Well, maybe basketball then,” he replied.

“That is every bit as dangerous.”

Peter had kind of figured she would say that too. “Well, I want to do something,” he said. “Something where there’s people. Where there’s guys.”

His mother put down her fork, pressed her palms together in front of her face, hooked her thumbs under her chin, and regarded him from over her fingertips.
Now we are getting serious
, Peter thought.

“What about choir?” his mother proposed. “I haven’t
wanted you exposed to a lot of influences. Musically, I mean. But I am not insensitive to your need for companionship.”

Peter shook his head. “How about cross-country?” he asked. “It’s only running. How about that?”

“Sports are nothing but trouble,” his mother said. “Trouble and disappointment. I think you will agree it is much more satisfying to devote yourself to something at which you can really excel.”

“There is a boy on the high-school team who runs up at the oval every day,” Peter said. “He told me I could practice with him.”

His mother pursed her lips. If Peter could only have explained his plan to her, he was certain she would have said yes. But he wasn’t ready to try that. He could barely make sense of it himself.

One thing he was sure of: That boy who ran past the house every day was a champion. He would know what separates winners from perpetual runners-up. And if Peter could learn that, well then, his mother would be happy, and if his mother was happy, well then, everything would be okay again. All she had to do was say yes.

“You still owe me two hours at that piano every day,” she said.

•   •   •

Kevin was surprised to see the little piano player up at the oval the next day. The kid was dressed in one of those shapeless sweat suits they wore in junior-high-school gym class.

Looks like he’s already winded
, Kevin thought as he watched the kid struggle through about a dozen jumping jacks.
I hope he doesn’t hurt himself
.

Kevin was beginning his second lap when the kid fell in beside him.

“Hi,” the boy said.

“Hey,” said Kevin without slowing down.

“I’m getting in shape for next season,” said the boy, who was already breathing heavily and losing ground.

“It’s good to give yourself a lot of time,” Kevin said, not meaning to sound quite so smart-ass.

“See you around,” the boy called as Kevin opened up the space between them.

Every day for the next three weeks the routine was the same: The kid was always waiting when Kevin arrived. He would puff along beside Kevin for a few strides, try to start a gasping conversation, and then fall hopelessly behind. The kid was obviously never going to be a runner, Kevin thought, and he sure didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. Yet there he was, grinding away, just like Fairbanks only without the talent.

You’re a better man than I am
, Kevin thought.
Or a sicker one
.

That Friday when Kevin got to the oval the chubby kid took one look at him and started to run. It was as though he were giving himself a head start in some kind of private race. The thought of some competition between the two of them made Kevin laugh, because he generally lapped the kid at least five or six times each session.

He put the little piano player out of his mind and tried to focus on the rhythm of his own footfalls. The following weekend he and the rest of the Darden team would be competing in the district championships, and Kevin had begun to think it might be a good time to answer a question that had been nagging at him for the last month. He wanted to know how good he was—not how good he
could be if he devoted his entire life to cross-country, but how good he was at that moment. What would happen, he wondered, if he ran one race as hard as he could?

Part of him did not want to know. Suppose he beat out Billy Kovacs, the number two man on the Darden team? That would mean Coach Haggerty would be all over him. He’d expect Kevin to have a big season in his senior year, maybe even make it to the state championships. Just thinking about the way Haggerty put his gaunt face up next to yours and shouted “Go for the goal!” was enough to stop Kevin in his tracks.

On the other hand he might not beat Billy Kovacs, and that would be depressing too. Kevin liked to think of himself as somebody who
could
run faster if he
wanted
to run faster. But if he went all out and still finished in the middle of the pack, it would mean he was just another mediocre high-school runner.

Maybe I should just run a nice easy race and forget about this
, Kevin thought.
It would be less complicated
.

As he began the seventh of his eight laps, Kevin noticed that the chubby kid was still running—puffing and panting and lurching from one foot to another. “This is my bell lap,” he gasped as Kevin trotted by.

Kevin chuckled at the idea of the little piano player in a race, but when he finished his workout he stopped to watch the other boy circle the track one last time. This was the kid’s fourth lap. Kevin had never seen him run a mile before, and he felt a sneaky sense of pride in his training partner’s accomplishment.

The kid came chugging down the track, gulping huge bites of air and clutching his right side. But when he reached his imaginary finish line, he threw both hands into the air and held that pose for a moment before collapsing
onto the grass. Kevin was about to jog over when he heard a voice in the stands announce: “And the winner in the Pudge Ball Olympics: Peter Whitney.”

Kevin turned quickly and recognized three kids from the freshman class at school. “Hey, why don’t you bozos take off,” he said sharply, and looked at them long enough for the kids to understand that he meant it.

The piano player was still lying flat on his back when Kevin reached him and extended a hand to help him to his feet.

“Thanks,” the boy said, in a barely audible voice.

•   •   •

Hours after he had gotten home, Peter kept replaying the details in his head to see if there was something he had missed. First the fudge-brains from the ninth grade had made fun of him and the runner had taken his side. Next the older boy had waited around while Peter caught his breath. Then they’d walked down the hill together all the way to Peter’s house. It was almost like they were friends.

But things had begun to go wrong as soon as Peter tried to ask him his secret. The trouble was he couldn’t figure out how to put the question in his own words, and so he began talking like the books his mother read to help her get ahead at her office.

“Do you visualize your goals?” he blurted.

The boy looked at him quizzically.

“Some people do that,” Peter continued, eager to fill the silence. “But other people, they say that you should concentrate on developing the habits of a highly effective person.”

The runner didn’t respond, so Peter felt compelled to keep talking. “Do you think your habits are effective? I
mean, are they consistent with your aspirations? You know?”

The other boy shrugged. “You still play the piano?” he asked.

“Two hours a day,” Peter said.

“You like it?”

“No,” Peter said. “I mean, yes. I used to.”

“But now you don’t?”

Peter did not want to waste time talking about himself, but the older boy seemed genuinely interested. “Before we came here I had a different teacher,” he said, and as he did every time he sat down at the piano, he began to think of Mickey Ray.

Mickey was his teacher back in Rochester. He taught part-time at the university and at night he played in clubs. Peter’s mother didn’t like him because he wore a ponytail. But everybody told her that he was the best teacher in town. She let Peter take lessons from him on one condition: that they play only “performance pieces”—compositions Peter might later play in a competition.