The Front Runner (32 page)

Billy's first reaction was cold fury.

"I'll be damned if I'll go in front of them humbly and plead," he said. "I'll call a press conference and tell them off in public."

Most of the Olympic team reacted angrily too. Only the handful who really disliked Billy were pleased. Mike Stella and the other activists went around raising the athletes' consciousness. They all saw it as just another hassle—if it could happen to Billy, it could happen to them. Mike on the men's team, and sprinter Vera Larris on the women's team, circulated a petition to collect protesting signatures. About seventy-five percent of the track team members signed it. Mike, and a number of others, said that if the IOC declared Billy ineligible, they would not go to the Games.

"I have no intention of participating in an affair where this kind of thing can be done to a person," said Mike to the press.

The USOC was a little rattled by the team's reaction. Clearly they had not expected this. They saw

themselves going to Montreal denuded of a number of medal prospects, and with a skeleton team.

Angrier still were the gays. The activists front in New York City organized a huge protest demonstration in front of Olympic House on Park Avenue. Finally even the Canadian government spoke up—homosexuality had been open and legal in Canada for many years.

But when Billy calmed down, he was ready to go to Lausanne. He, Vince, John, Aldo and I climbed on a jet and we went.

When we arrived at the modern glass-walled building in Lausanne where the IOC had its headquarters, John and I had already decided we would not actually go into the meeting. It would look too threatening to have the lawyer father and the angry lover stalking in there. A little bit of last-minute diplomacy still might swing things our way. The only one who would go in with Billy would be Aldo.

We were shown to a reception room. The meeting was already underway, and British miler David Walker was already in there being interrogated. And then, from one of the sofas in the reception room rose a man whom we had not expected to see there at all. It was Armas Sepponan.

He came toward us with his light, quick step, dressed in a plain baggy black suit and white shirt, looking like the village fireman that he was. He shook hands with all of us.

"I am reading the news about it in the newspapers," he said. "I am deeply distressed."

"Well," said Billy, "if they won't let me run, I guess I can't run. I'll be joining Vince on the pro tour, maybe." He looked at Vince and smiled a little.

We sat down.

"I am distressed for selfish reasons," said Armas. "I am being very honest with you. I am now twenty-eight. It is my second Olympics. I shall probably not go to a third. If you are not in the 5,000 and 10,000, my performance will have no value."

We sat silent. Billy and Armas sat with their eyes fixed on each other.

"There is no other man who is testing me as you test me," said Armas. "You understand." Billy nodded. "And I think that you would feel the same way. Or no?"

"That's right, I would," said Billy.

Armas smiled. "You and I, we are not running for medals. We are not running for glory. We could run the same race some other place. Or no?"

"I don't follow you," said Billy.

Armas kept smiling his crinkled, simple, village smile. "These gentlemen make politics. But you and I make better politics. I think that after they consider, they are letting you run."

"What do you want to do?"

"It is only if you say yes."

Billy nodded.

"So ... I am walking in there with you. I am saying that I also am ineligible. My government is giving me stipends. Therefore neither of us are running. Then I am saying that you and I are going to some other place, Helsinki, New York, wherever we decide. There we are having our own world championship in these events. It can be in the week after the Games, when we are still . . . how you say . . . peaking. I think we are having no problem while finding a promoter who will hold such a meet. It can be invitational, we are bringing together all the best men. You understand? I am sorry my English is being so bad..."

We all sat there flabbergasted.

Billy laughed his slow, chortling laugh, as he always did when some new idea beguiled him. "Sure," he said. "But, my God, you might be giving up a lot."

Armas shook his head. "I am generous, a little, but not so generous. I think I give up nothing. These men are not letting us have our little championship. If they do—" he spread his hands in one of those piquant European gestures "—they lose very much face. Or no?"

Now we were all beguiled. John grinned. Vince leaned back and laughed out loud. Aldo cackled and slapped his knee.

"It's a gamble," I said.

"I like the gamble," said Armas. "In Montreal, Billy and I are gambling also."

Billy's eyes sparkled wickedly. "All right. We'll do it just as you say."

"In the meeting already is my IOC delegate," said Armas. "The Olympic committee in my country is maybe not supporting me. But they are respecting me in this thing. They cannot force me to run. So . . . let us go in then."

We watched Billy, Aldo and Armas walk off toward the meeting room.

John was rocking with laughter and shaking his head.

"Armas should have been a lawyer," he said, "instead of a fireman."

Later Billy and Aldo would describe the meeting to me.

All but one of the eligibility committee was present. They looked a little taken aback when Sepponan walked in with Billy. None of them, of course, knew why he was there, but they were obviously uneasy. Sepponan sat down by his IOC delegate and didn't say a word.

Billy stood, with his hands casually in his pockets. He was wearing the brown plaid suit that he'd worn on the Dick Cavett Show. He had himself very much under control. He was pleasant and precise, and his voice was soft.

"I think I can set your minds at rest about my amateur status," he said.

He paused a moment, looking around at all of them. "I was a gay before I was a runner. Do all of you who aren't American understand the word gay? It's our word for homosexual."

A few heads nodded, a few grunts of assent.

"Okay," said Billy. "I was invited to help develop a gay studies course at Prescott because I was gay, and because I majored in political science. I was not invited to do it because I was a runner. We had two other gay athletes at Prescott. One of them, Vince Matti, was also hired to help with the course. He was a sociology major. The third gay, Jacques LaFont,

was
not
invited to help with the course. He was a biology major specializing in birds. So ..."

He paused to let the point sink in.

"The gay studies program is not an athletic program. Athletes have come to our counseling service, but so have many nonathletes. I am not connected with the college athletic program in any official way. Sure the college pays me for my teaching work. They pay all their professors. But they're paying me to teach, not to run. I'm sure you gentlemen wouldn't expect me to teach for free, after my father plowed about $40,000 into my education so that I could someday earn my own living."

The committeemen sat stone silent, Aldo said later, looking fixedly at Billy as he stood there making his sexual avowal, talking about being gay as casually as if he were talking about the weather.

"My salary as an untenured professor at Prescott is $10,000 a year," said Billy. He had a sheaf of mimeographs and handed them to the nearest committee man, making a motion to indicate that they should be distributed around the table. "I have listed all my expenses here for the single year I've been teaching. You can look at the trivia yourselves. All I'll say is that by the time I have paid my taxes and living expenses and all the expenses of being an amateur athlete, traveling to meets and stuff, right down to the last pair of shoes and $3.50 for my AAU card, I am about $535 into the hole."

He paused and the room was silent. "You gentlemen have accused me of making unethical profits from my sport. So ... I want to know, what profits are you talking about?"

They were all studying the sheets. The room was filled with the gentle sound of rustling.

"Unlike many athletes in my country, I have never taken under-the-table payments or free equipment from manufacturers, because I knew damn well that somebody would use that against me before all this was over. The figures on this sheet are the stark truth about my financial situation. You can take them or leave them."

He paused again, looking down for a few moments as if thinking, and then raised his head again. Aldo said later that everyone in the room was as if immobilized by the touch of those clear eyes of his.

"Then there's your charge that I have used my running as a podium for gay politics. All I can say is, if I am on a podium, it is because people like you have put me there against my will."

"Mr. Sive .. ." said the chairman.

"I'm not finished." Billy's voice cut like a whip. "Let me finish, and then you can say whatever you want. Let's go clear back to when this all started, to when I was on the team at Oregon U. I never once, in all this time, stood up and said, Look, everybody, I'm a gay. Gus Lindquist found out about it and he kicked me off the team, and I didn't say a word. Then word got around to everybody in track, and behind my back they were saying, Hey, the kid's a queer, and I didn't say a word. Finally a reporter asks me, Oh, hey, Billy, are you really a homosexual, and I said I was, because he asked me a question and I believe in answering questions."

His voice seared them like acid. It was shaking a little now.

"Then all the uproar started, and not once did I say I was gay. People spat in my face and stabbed me in the back and reporters came around wanting to interview me. When the man I live with and I decided to, like, formalize our relationship, we didn't announce it to the press. It was everybody else who made the fuss. Every single step of the way, I've been on the defensive and saying as little as possible. It's everybody else who's having hysterics. All I want is to run and be left alone, and I'd be happy if the word gay weren't even mentioned. But as long as people like you keep fussing, then the issue is going to be there. Besides, if you think running can be a podium, then you must not know much about athletics. Being on a podium takes a lot of energy. Running the way I do takes a lot of energy. You can't do both, it's impossible, you'd go insane."

He stopped, breathing a little more quickly. Then

he shrugged a little and said softly, "If you want me off that podium, then you take me off it yourselves. The burden of this whole thing is yours, not mine."

He turned away, and sat down by Aldo Franconi.

"Gentlemen..."

It was Armas' voice. Armas stood up.

The head of the committee, Feit Oster of Germany, said, "Mr. Sepponan, this is not your affair."

"It is very much my affair, yes," said Armas. "I think that you will listen to me. If you do not listen here, then you will be reading my words in the papers." His voice was even, but the threat was there.

They listened. Armas said what he had to say. Subtle looks of consternation went around the table. When he had finished, Armas said, "Billy and I will await your decision. We are hoping that you are not forcing us to be so . . . how you say ... so dramatic."

He and Billy walked out of the room together.

We had dinner with Sepponan, and then he caught his plane back to Helsinki. "I think I am seeing you in Montreal," he said to us, smiling his small, northern smile.

Two days later, the IOC eligibility committee announced mildly that it was satisfied with Billy's explanation about his job, and cleared him for Montreal.

We were all a little limp.

All but Billy. He was peaking, and he was breathing fire. He could hardly wait to get to Montreal. He wanted to burn up the whole world.

SEVENTEEN

THE huge stadium was packed with its 70,000 crowd. The place was overflowing with flags and band music and tension. Scattered clouds blew over—the place darkened and brightened as the sun came and went. It was windy—the flags unfurled smartly.

It was the opening ceremonies of the Games.

The whole group of us were in our seats down close to the track, opposite the stretch of straight that led to the finish line. John Sive, Delphine, Vince, Steve and the Angel, Betsy Heden, the Prescotts, a number of gay activists and celebrities. The only one missing was Jacques—he was off in the field immersed in research, but he had sent Billy a good-luck telegram.

Everyone in the group was excited at all the color except me—I had been to the Games before. But I had to admit that the Canadians were putting on the most magnificent show ever.

All that British love of pageantry was pouring onto the track. Mounties in scarlet, regiments of kilted Scots, the Parliament Guards from Ottawa in their bearskin hats. Then all the minorities of Canada were marching past: Indians and Eskimos, French Canadians, Germans, Ukrainians, all in costume.

I sat there bemused, exhausted from the weeks of struggle shaky with nervous exhilaration. The band music and the skirl of bagpipes dizzied me.

Only one lone marcher was going to mean anything to me. And soon he came.

The teams started pouring onto the track. Each with its flagbearer in the lead. In my old age, I had come to disapprove of the Games as a vehicle of senseless nationalistic politics. And yet, when the American team stepped onto the track, and I caught the first glimpse

of the Stars and Stripes waving over the massed heads of the athletes, I got an incredible case of the chills.

I clutched John's arm. "There they are," I said.

Slowly" the U.S. team came striding—the team that so nearly was torn to pieces by Billy's persecution. They marched in two solid blocks—the 226 men and the 83 women. They were all in their smart red blazers, the men in white trousers and the women in white skirts. The men wore blue ties and the women had blue silk scarves fluttering at their necks.

In front of them, alone, walked Billy. He was proud, graceful, almost military, bearing the heavy flag slanting a little against the breeze. His glasses glinted in the sunlight and his curls ruffled. He had a happy grin on his face.