Fast Company (7 page)

“Had to get out of there,” Sherry said. She hesitated, then asked, “Do you think I’m too tough?”

“What do you mean? You have to be tough to be a runner.”

She tilted her head back and squinted from the glow of the streetlight. “Too tough for a girl, I mean.”

He looked at her for a moment. “Why should that matter?”

 

“I don’t know. Somebody like Jason ... I mean, what do guys think about a girl who ... you know what I mean. I can beat most of the guys on the team.”

“So?”

“Am I
girly
enough? I’ve been this tomboy all my life. And then I try to change my image a little, and Jason doesn’t even respond.”

Manny leaned against the building. Who was he to give advice to a girl? But he’d try.

“There’s plenty of female athletes,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Yeah, but even for the other girls on the team, it seems like more of a social event than a sport,” she said. “I mean, I want to kick
butt
when I’m racing. One reason I quit gymnastics was because I was
too
intense. I kept screwing up because I was trying too hard.”

“You
gotta
work hard at sports. That’s what I love about it.”

“But does it turn guys off if a girl is like that?” Sherry asked. “My mind-set is a lot more like you and DiMarco than it is like Mary or the others.”

Manny looked uptown at the digital clock by the bank. It was 8:18 and twenty-eight degrees. He buttoned the top two buttons of his coat and blew on his fist. “I don’t know,” he said. “All I know is when I’m in a race or a game or even in practice, I go all-out. I don’t care what anybody thinks.”

“Guys are supposed to be like that.”

“I suppose.”

“You’re right, though. I need to be who I am.” A few flakes of snow had started to fall. They appeared in the circle of light closest to the streetlight then disappeared. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re all right.”

“You, too.”

Sherry gently swung her arm until her fist smacked Manny’s shoulder. “Pow,” she said. She stuck out her tongue, then smiled, turned, and went back into the restaurant.

Manny exhaled, and his breath came out in a stream of vapor. He looked back up the Boulevard.

His legs were tired. He’d sleep like a rock tonight. Rest tomorrow.

And on Monday he’d get back to work.

O
n Monday, Coach Alvaro had Manny work on holding a steady pace, putting him through eight repeats of 200 meters at 33 seconds each with a 200-meter jog between.

On Tuesday, Manny ran four miles through the streets of town, concentrating on staying relaxed, especially going up the hills.

Wednesday’s workout featured longer intervals: a set of four 400-meter trials with DiMarco, Calvin, and Zero.

And on Friday after school, the team headed for the Jersey City Armory for a low-key development meet. Coach had Manny run the mile for a change of pace, and he triumphed at the longer distance by steadily pulling away from the field.

“Good one,” Coach said after Manny had recovered. “You’ve got one more shot at the 800 next weekend; then the Metropolitan championship is a week after that. I think you can win it, Manny.”

“We’ll see.”

Manny was still haunted by his collapse in the last 800-meter race, and he was eager to erase the memory. He’d badly wanted to compete at that distance today, but Coach was firm in his belief that a mile would serve him better.

“Your speed is great; it’s the endurance that you need to build,” Coach said. “Be patient. You’re just starting to peak. We’ll get one more fast race in next weekend, then set you loose at the championship.”

 

Manny walked over to Donald’s late Saturday morning. A light snow had fallen overnight, but it was already beginning to melt. The winter had been mostly dry—a big plus for the track team, since they trained entirely outside.

Today Manny didn’t want to think about training or racing. He needed a break.

Two days off,
he decided.
Nothing but relaxing and eating.

“What’s going on?” Donald said when he answered the door.

“You up for hanging out?” Manny said.

“Definitely.”

“You eat yet?”

“A little.” Donald ran his hand through his hair. It looked like he’d just gotten out of bed. “I could eat again.”

“Let’s get some pizza.”

“Sure. Then you want to go to the high school wrestling match?”

“Why not?” Manny had never been to one.

“I been to the last two matches,” Donald said. “It’s awesome.”

They got pizza at Luigi’s, a small place just off the Boulevard. “Better food here than Villa Roma,” Donald said.

“Not as much fun, though,” Manny said. Luigi’s didn’t have a jukebox or video games. Just four tables set tightly in the front of the room. Most of their business was take-outs and deliveries.

Donald crammed the last of his second piece of pizza into his mouth. “Take that with you,” he said, pointing to what was left of Manny’s second piece. “I don’t want to miss the first match.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Hudson City’s best wrestler is the smallest,” Donald said. “Hector Mateo at 103 pounds. He’s undefeated. Pins everybody.”

They hustled along the Boulevard to the high school and got into the gym just as Mateo was taking the mat against a wrestler from Bayonne. Both wrestlers were lean and not very tall. But Mateo had thick muscles and was quicker than his opponent. He shot in low and gained control.

“I saw him pin a guy in sixteen seconds last week,” Donald said.

The Bayonne wrestler managed to escape, but Mateo rapidly took him down again. This time, there was no escape. Mateo executed the pin in little more than a minute.

“The great thing about this sport is that you wrestle people your own size,” Donald said. “Not like football, where we had to tackle guys who outweighed us by sixty pounds.”

Manny nodded. His father had been a successful amateur boxer, and he had told Manny the same thing about that sport. He’d had his nose broken a couple of times, though.

“We could start wrestling when we get to seventh grade. You think you might?” Donald asked.

“I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

“You’d be good.”

“Maybe. You?”

“I think so,” Donald said. “I think I’d like it.”

“Yeah, it would suit you.” Manny pictured Donald out there, straining with all his might against another wrestler. “Hard work.”

“I can handle it.”

“Working out can be fun, believe it or not.”

“Yeah,” Donald said. “If you find the sport you like.”

“That’s the key.”

Bayonne was strong in the middle weight classes and wound up winning the match. Donald kept his eyes on the mat all afternoon. “Wrestling’s definitely the sport for me,” he said when it was over.

“That’s great,” Manny said. The wrestlers reminded him of runners, totally focused on the event, giving everything they had. And having to do it alone. No teammates could help you in a race or a match. Could Donald handle it? Why not? “You’d be a natural,” Manny said.

“Probably. I got no body fat, and I’m strong for my size. Like you.”

“Yeah. I don’t think I’ll be wrestling, though. I found my sport.”

M
anny sat in the bleachers at the Armory the following Saturday and stared up at the giant American flag hanging from the rafters. Zero and DiMarco were warming up for the 400-meter race, but Manny could barely watch. He was more than nervous this time. He was scared.

This meet was called the New York Road Runners Invitational. Everybody was using it as a tune-up for next week’s Metropolitan Championships. The bleachers were packed with athletes from New York City, New Jersey, and Long Island.

Manny had scanned the crowd and found most of his biggest rivals. Serrano was stretching with his teammates down behind the high-jump mat. Ryan Wu was seated in the bleachers directly across the track. Oscar Kamalu was in a corner of the arena, sitting against the wall with his eyes shut and headphones on.

He hadn’t spotted Patrick Bertone, but he did recognize several other quick runners. If he was ever going to run a fast 800, today would be the day. He needed that boost of confidence.

When the call came for the eleven-twelve 800-meter races, Manny and Sherry got out of their seats and headed down to the floor.

“Boys first again?” Sherry asked as they walked down the stairs.

“I think so,” Manny said.

Sherry gave him a mischievous smile. “Hope you survive to see me run this time.”

“Count on it,” he said. He was in no mood for joking.

The roundish official stood near the side of the track with his clipboard. “Listen up, people,” he said. “First section, boys’ 800. Let me know you’re here when I call your name. Lane one: Oscar Kamalu.”

Kamalu stood up and said, “Here.” Kamalu was muscular for a twelve year old. He filled out his purple jersey.

“Line up against the wall as I call you,” the official said. He was wearing a white USA TRACK AND FIELD cap. “Ryan Wu?” he said.

Wu nodded from his seat on the floor, but the official didn’t see him. “Ryan Wu?” he said again.

“Right here,” Wu said. He looked deadly serious.

“When I call your name, let me know that you heard it. And smile, Ryan. It’s only a race.”

Wu shrugged and gave an embarrassed grin. He stepped over to stand next to Kamalu.

“In lane three, the famous Kester Serrano,” said the official. “Then Manny Ramos. Daniel Singh. Elliott Carballo ... Carballo?”

There was no response.

“Last chance, Carballo. There you are. Were you sleeping? Let’s move.”

When the eight runners had gathered, Manny took a look around. He’d beaten a couple of these guys before, and he knew he could stick with the others if he ran a perfect race.

“No sign of Bertone,” Serrano whispered to Manny. “He knows we’re thinking about him. Wants to let us wear each other down this week, then surprise us in the championships.”

“The big psyche job, huh?”

“Whatever. Good luck.”

“You, too.”

They lined up on the track and Manny shut his eyes, goading himself to hang in there, no matter how much it hurt. When the gun went off, he took the lead, making his way to the inside lane.

Relax and push,
he thought as he pounded down the backstretch. He had no intention of leading for long, but he wanted to make sure he didn’t get boxed in toward the back.

Manny eased the pace as he headed into the second turn, and Ryan Wu moved past him. So Manny was second as they finished the first lap in 34 seconds. That was only a little slower than he’d run the last time, but it made a big difference. He felt much stronger.

Manny held that position through most of the second lap, but Kamalu raced forward and took the lead as they reached the midpoint in 68 seconds. The runners were tightly bunched. The buzz from the bleachers grew louder.

Manny was tempted to glance back and check out the others as he rounded the turn. Instead, he kept his eyes on the leaders. Besides, he knew who was sitting just off his shoulder. Serrano. The only one who could be breathing that easily at this pace.

Nearly everyone in the Armory was standing and yelling now as the leaders moved toward the end of the third lap. Kamalu held the lead, with Wu right on his shoulder. Manny and Serrano were less than a stride behind. The others had begun to fall back.

The bell sounded and Serrano sprinted past Manny. The pain was nothing compared to last time; Manny still felt strong. It was a matter of speed now. He wasn’t going to die.

Down the backstretch, Manny stayed with the leaders. Coming off the final turn, Kamalu, Serrano, and Wu were fanned out over the first three lanes of the track, with Manny inches behind. He was tying up, but so were the others. He dug deep, churning his arms. Serrano and Kamalu pulled away, but Manny nearly caught Wu at the finish.

He stepped off the track and bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for air. He shut his eyes again and felt the warmth spreading over his face and ears. What an effort. He felt all right. He opened his eyes and stood tall.

Serrano was next to him, shaking his head and frowning. Oscar Kamalu had his arms raised toward a section of the bleachers where his teammates were standing and applauding.

“Better this week than next, I suppose,” Serrano said. “If you’re going to lose, don’t lose the big one.”

The runners turned toward the giant score-board at the far end of the Armory, where the times of the leaders were already being posted.

Kamalu had run the fastest time of the winter, but Manny’s 2:16 was also impressive. He shook his fist and said, “Yeah.” He could go another second or two faster. He’d definitely be in contention at the championships.

By the time Sherry raced ten minutes later, Manny had recovered. He found a spot along the backstretch and kneeled at the side of the track, yelling for his teammate each time she ran past.

Sherry’s hard work was paying off, too. Like Manny, she stayed near the leaders for most of the race. But she didn’t quite have the finishing speed of the others and wound up fifth.

Manny hustled across the track, scooted around the high-jump mat, and picked up Sherry’s T-shirt. He caught up to her and handed her the shirt. She kept walking and wiped her face with it.

“My legs feel like spaghetti,” she said. She dropped to her knees. “I’m dizzy.”

“It goes away,” Manny said, gripping her arm. “You should keep moving.”

“Okay,” she said, getting to her feet. “Stay with me.”