The Long Run (48 page)

Quidi Vidi Lake is barely a mile from the Mount, near the bottom of Kenna's Hill, behind Memorial Stadium. We run very slowly, warming up by sprinting and stretching as we go. The air feels wet and salty. Every now and then we backtrack to be with Oberstein, who's chugging along with us. Thousands of people are at the lake. The shores have been turned into a carnival. People with dreamy looks sit on the banks and watch the races or walk around lakeside buying treats and playing games of chance. There are hundreds of stands and bell tents with spin tickets and plush toys. The place is like a gigantic raffle. On the far side of the lake, at the boathouse, a man with a megaphone announces all the races.

All the Dare Klub members have been at the lake since nine o'clock. They're hanging out at the oily pole. The favorite stand of every boy at the Mount is Double Your Dole at the Oily Pole. It's just a greasy pole that you pay a quarter to climb to the top of. If you make it, you get fifty cents back. If you don't make it, you slide back down into a big pool of water. O'Grady's so good, they only let him do it twice.

It's not hard to spot a Mount Kildare boy. We always look like we belong in a Charlie Chaplin movie. We all dress the same, patchy ragamuffin clothes that are either too big or too small. And always the norph glasses and those black-and-white canvas sneakers. You could walk around Quidi Vidi Lake all day just looking at feet and you'd spot every Mount Kildare boy at the regatta.

The racing shells are in the water. They're six-oared boats with fixed seats. There are races all day long and into the night. The biggest trophy of the day is the Silver Cup. The course record is nine minutes and thirteen seconds, and it was set in 1901 by a crew from Outer Cove. Seventy-five years later, the record still stands. The marathon record is three hours and thirty-six minutes. It's broken almost every year. Richardson says he'll break it again today.

We sit on the yellowing grassy bank and watch the first women's race of the day. The women are wearing fiery red shorts and singlets. They all have their hair tied back. A man wearing a baseball cap sits in the coxswain's seat. A little girl is running along the shore screaming to her sister, “Row, Jackie, row. Row, row, row, Jackie, row.” And I want to stand and scream, until my head hurts: “Glow, Blackie, glow . . .”

The race is beautiful to watch, the boats lifting out of the water as if they're floating. I look at the way the rowers' bodies move. They move like dancers. And they're like us too, when we run. Together. And I think of all the hard work they must've done to get ready for today—the sores on their hands and bums and the buckets of sweat. And I think of how rowing must be harder than running in a way. All six rowers having to do exactly the same thing at exactly the same time for the whole race. I don't know if I could do that. When you're running, it's just you and the wind and the feel of your sneakers on the road. There's no one else in the whole world. No one to bother you, to tell you what to do. I could never trade that for anything.

Still, I envy them as I watch. I want to be out on the water. I think they must feel and know things only rowers can feel and know. And they remind me of our night running, all of us strung together, running along as one. And I wonder how the runners would do in a boat. I look at the coxswain and see Blackie rocking back and forth, urging us to victory, giving us his strength. And I close my eyes and see us practicing in the early morning, the way we ran, flashlights strapped to each oar, their light cutting into the murky water with every stroke. And for a moment we are all there. Water, boat, and crew are one.

“We could do that,” Murphy says. “If we practiced, we'd win a medal.”

After the race, we pry our way through the dense crowd and head toward the homemade track.

“Year of the penguin,” Oberstein says.

A special lane around the lake has been created for the runners to start and finish. As we approach, dressed in our green boxers, singlets, and new sneakers, the Doyle sisters scream and wave. They are wearing white headbands and colorful halter tops.

“Where's Blackie?” they yell. “Where's Blackie?”

Murphy bolts to tell them to shut up. Ruthie Peckford is with them. She waves to me and wiggles the fingers of her right hand. She is wearing a white blouse and khaki shorts. I wave my hand, the way the queen does on TV. She blows me a kiss. I pretend I'm talking to Oberstein.

Prior to the start of the race, during the registration and warm-up, O'Connor takes out his peashooter and whistles a direct hit at number 28's ear. Luckily, the runner doesn't find the source of the sting. He swats the air like he's been stung by a wasp. Number 29, a skinny guy with glasses, is a bit of a hotshot, showing off his sprinting power and stretching to beat the band. Oberstein orders Murphy to put the peashooters in line. The plan is to use the shooters during the race at important times, when they are hidden and sure to make a strike.

“I'm worried about number 29, Oberstein,” I say. “He looks really good.”

“He's a hot dog,” Oberstein says, as he registers Ryan and Richardson.

An old man with a double chin sits behind a wooden table, chewing on a cigar.

“Ye all in competition? Two dollars each if ye're in competition.” His cigar moves as he speaks.

“Only two in competition,” Oberstein says.

“That'll be four bucks,” the man says. “Only competitors do the first lap around the lake,” he says.

He hands them their numbers, 116 for Richardson, 117 for Ryan. We're dressed to run, but we're not in competition. We're riding shotgun, with a hundred plans and a dozen shortcuts to make sure that every plan succeeds. Richardson and Ryan are stretching and running on the spot. Every now and then, Ryan stops and looks around at the crowd. The man with the megaphone calls the competitive runners to the starting line.

The racing pistol sounds, and the moment is finally here. The two runners in green boxers and white singlets sprint to a huge lead. We're all so excited we're jumping and screaming and shouting. When the cheering dies down, Oberstein stands, like a statue, and stares at the figures of Shorty Richardson and Skinny Ryan moving past the still lake. He beams, and tears roll down his chubby cheeks as he booms in his loudest voice ever: “Give them wings, Lord . . .”

“That they may fly,” we all sing out.

O'Connor and the peashooters are ready. Ned Kelly, the spotter, is waiting with his stolen bike at the top of Kenna's Hill.

Ryan stays with Shorty and the lead runners for the first half of the race, but the second time he's heading up Kenna's Hill in the final miles he stops, hunches over, bites his lower lip and dry-heaves. His knees buckle, and we watch as his body topples to the pavement. Rowsell and Kelly, the two assigned spotters for that leg of the race, run to him and splash him with cold water. They help him up and walk a few yards with him. After he drinks from the water bottle, he tells Rowsell he's fine and starts running again. Kelly bikes ahead at full speed to the next station stop to inform the other spotters that Ryan's in trouble. Before we race back to help Ryan, Murphy tells the peashooters to storm the leads, which means they are to deliberately attempt to pick off anyone ahead of Shorty or Ryan during the last few miles. To knock them out of the race.

When the five of us reach Ryan, we try to lift his spirits. But he falls farther behind. As he slows, we fall back with him.

“C'mon, Ryan, keep up with us, for God's sakes,” Brookes says.

“You gotta push Richardson,” I tell him. “C'mon, he needs you.”

“Yeah, c'mon, Ryan, we're almost there. You can do it,” Murphy says. “Remember the day you took Kenna's Hill in a freezing storm.
C'mon
!”

Father Cross offers him a Crown Cola bottle filled with water, but he pushes it aside.

“C'mon, Ryan,” Murphy says. “Jesus, we didn't do all that training to finish in the middle of the pack.”

“Perk him up, Kavanagh,” I say.

“It's useless,” Murphy says. “He's out of it.”

Brookes starts to cry. “Jesus, all those night runs for nothin', all those laps around the soccer field . . .”

Father Cross offers Ryan a piece of hardtack, but he waves it off. “Leave me alone,” he says. “Just leave me alone.”

“C'mon, Ryan,” Kavanagh says.

“Fuck Bug . . . Fucken Brutus,” Ryan says, and starts crying. He looks pitiful, wiping his eyes as he runs. We're sure he'll stop crying soon, but he sobs and breathes heavily for half a mile. Murphy pulls beside him and puts his arm on his shoulder.

“Fuck off, I said. Get away from me. Leave me alone.” He stops and walks to a fence and leans against it with both hands, his shoulders rising and falling. We watch as he crouches there, shaking and hugging himself around his knees.

We all fall back and watch him jog along at a pace that is sure to give him a lousy finish.

“What's got into him?” Murphy asks.

“Dunno. Blackie leaving, I guess.” I stare at the lopsided 117 on his back.

“Or Bug squealing,” Kavanagh says.

“Or dying,” Brookes says.

“Dying,” Father Cross repeats.

“One thing's for sure,” Murphy says. “You can forget about a medal at that pace.”

Murphy roars ahead, with Brookes and Kavanagh on his heels, to one of our shortcuts to check with Kelly on how Richardson is doing. Father Cross and I stay with Ryan, jogging behind him.

“Look, Blackie's gonna be fine,” I blurt out. “He's gonna make it to the ferry. And he's gonna make it to New York. He'll find his mother too. I know it.”

That seems to perk him up a bit, and he picks up speed. But when Cross says he's gotta move faster because Bug is up above, rooting against us, he falls back to his slower pace. After a while, Father Cross and I give up and race on ahead.

The peashooters do their best the last few miles, but it's all for naught. Ryan fades far behind Shorty and the leads. With a mile to go, we know he'll be lucky to finish in the top ten. And we're right. He crosses the finish line in twelfth place, almost fifteen minutes behind Shorty, who runs toward him with his gold medal.

Ryan is dazed and exhausted. He limps past Shorty, ignoring him, and looks around for us. When he spots Oberstein, he starts to cry and lets out an ungodly yell and falls down on all fours, pounding the ground with both fists and cursing, “Jesus, Bug . . . Jesus, Blackie.” We run to him and stand him up and tell him it's okay, he did just fine. Shorty Richardson runs in our direction, dodging chanting peashooters jumping toward him: “Shorty won the gold . . .” But their words are hollow. Ryan feels he's let everyone down. He stumbles, bends double and sobs uncontrollably. After he stops crying, he shivers for a long time. Then he gathers strength and pushes us away and wanders off to the side of the road and throws up his guts.

When they split up at Kenmount Road, Blackie instructed Ryan to be at the pay phone outside Parkdale Pharmacy on Sunday at five o'clock. Everyone knew the spot. It was a ratty old phone booth we robbed quarters from every weekend. Once, on a dare from Blackie, the Klub packed fifteen guys inside it. Ryan was to be there at five o'clock to listen for three rings. Blackie told him not to answer, just to listen for three rings. That would be the signal that he'd made it to Nova Scotia. Three rings would mean that Blackie had performed the impossible trick.

I was with Ryan that Sunday outside Parkdale, waiting by the phone booth. Ryan waited for that phone to ring like a guy losing his mind. When the phone didn't ring at five, he started cursing. At five after five, he was karate-kicking the phone box, punching the walls and yelling and swearing. “Ring, you mother-fucken sonofabitch. Ring, you bastard.” People passing by thought he was crazy.

After twenty minutes of kicking and slamming and swearing, he fell to the phone booth floor, exhausted, and wept. His tiny face was as white as a sheet. “Don't come back, Blackie. Please don't come back . . . Please . . .” he cried over and over. “I can see McCann leading him through the cafeteria on a rope.” He looked up at me pathetically and cried, “Like they did with me. Only it'll be worse for Blackie. They'll crucify him. They'll shun him for a year.” He was beside himself. And the tears wouldn't stop rolling down his baby face. I tried to lift him up, but he just cursed at me and told me to get lost. He didn't move. I was so sad for him and for Blackie that I didn't even care if we made it back to the Mount in time to sign the Doomsday Book.

Then, suddenly, out of the blue, the telephone rang—three times. Ryan jumped to his feet. He listened to the three rings, then grabbed me by the wrist and stared at my Mickey: five-thirty. Then it dawned on us. The time zone. There's half an hour difference between Newfoundland and Nova Scotia time. Newfoundland's always half an hour ahead. Blackie's five o'clock was our five-thirty. Ryan raced out of the phone booth and ran inside Parkdale Pharmacy, screaming his foolish head off that Blackie had made it, that he'd performed the impossible trick. Crotchety old Mr. Noonan, the gray-haired pharmacist, thought he'd gone mad. And he had, in a way. Ryan
had
gone mad, mad with joy. He raced up and down the aisles, screaming and hooting and repeating over and over, “He did it. The impossible trick. He made it. He's New York–bound. The sonofabitch did it. The sonofabitch made it.”