The Front Runner (20 page)

It was perfect weather, rainy and cool. All in all, it was one of those big, informal, long-distance races, and the five of us relaxed and were having a good time.

Finally they all massed at the start, with Billy one of those seeded in the long front line. At the gun, a multicolored sea of men poured off across the grass. Everybody was running balls-out to be as far up front as possible when the field funneled into the trail that led into the woods.

While the race was in progress, Vince, Jacques and I stood around chatting pleasantly with Aldo and a couple other officials and the meet director. As usual, we felt that odd, questioning atmosphere around us. We were waiting for the field to finish the first of the three loops they'd have to make, up through the hills.

When the leaders appeared far off, pouring down out of the hills onto the lawn again, Billy was with them, running in his usual just-in-front spot. As he went past, I shouted his split time at him. He was running easily, spattered with mud, and from the look on his face, he was enjoying himself.

What seemed like an unusual number of reporters Were present, plus an NBC-TV camera crew. Ordinarily the metropolitan media don't get very excited over these odd-distance open cross-country races up in the Van-nie, so I could only conclude that they were there because of Billy. They had all approached him before the race, but he wouldn't talk because he was psyching himself, so they were waiting till afterward.

When the leaders streamed in a second time, Billy

was still in front. He had opened his lead to about twenty yards. He came hurtling along the cinder path across the lawn, with the spectators cheering him pleasantly from both sides. He was more spattered with mud then ever, his legs black with it. His hair was sopping wet. A swift, soft gnashing of spikes, and he was past us. He made the rest of us seem so stationary and earthbound.

Then the long long line of the field started to pass us—the runners were all strung out now. I watched Billy's figure disappearing off across the lawn, starting the third and last loop.

"He looks like a racehorse," a guy behind me said.

"Jeez," said another guy, "the horse would die of embarrassment."

Vince and Jacques and I exchanged a glance.

We waited a little longer. A fine drizzle was coming down now, and the spectators and officials were all huddled under umbrellas. The officials' timesheets were so damp they were having a hard time writing on them.

Finally, off across the lawn, you could see a lone white figure springing down out of the woods. The words of the
Song of Solomon
came to my mind: "Behold, he comes, bounding over the hills—my beloved is like a young stag." Billy had really pulled away, increasing his lead to several hundred yards.

As he came flashing down the cinder path toward the tape, the crowd along it cheered and applauded. Photographers jumped out and squatted for photos as he bore down on them.

He breasted the tape with a little smile on his face. Everybody crowded around him to pat him on the back and shake his hand. He was covered with mud from head to foot, and still looked fresh. It was one of his easiest victories.

Billy still left the reporters hanging. He did his usual careful warmdown, striding and jogging in his warm-ups, and then he slipped away to the locker room at the nearby athletic field to get under the shower and scrape off the mud.

Everybody started drifting off to the awards cere-

mony. Originally they'd planned to hold it right there on the lawn. But because of the rain, the officials adjourned it to a nearby bar on Broadway.

So everybody packed into the bar. The runners were dry and clean and bundled into sweats or regular   clothes, their hair wet, their faces glowing. Hot coffee and tea were being served by the race committee. There were a couple of cardboard boxes of ham and bologna sandwiches, and the runners were all fishing into them hungrily. Everybody was relaxed, laughing, talking about their injuries and illnesses and how out of shape they were, and the usual bunch of lies.

Finally Billy came in, in his usual floppy bellbot-toms and his Prescott blazer, his hair clean and wet and somewhat combed. The reporters wouldn't even let him get close to the tea urn—they backed him into a corner and asked him their questions, and he was very affable and relaxed with them.

Finally the race director got up, the talking shushed, and the director made a pleasant little speech. The first three finishers came up, and he handed them the trophies, and everybody clapped. Billy was given a big, handsome, sterling silver bowl, while flash cameras went off, and the other two guys got smaller bowls. Billy came back to us lugging it, stopping to talk to a couple of people. The soft glowing expression on his face told me that he'd had a good time that afternoon, which was just what I'd wanted.

Jacques clapped him on the shoulder, and Vince inspected the bowl. "Silver . . . they must have known you'd win," Vince said. Silver is for Virgos. We all laughed.

The metropolitan media left, but there were still quite a number of people around us, when another reporter stepped up, followed by his photographer. "I'm Ken McGill of the
National Intelligencer,"
he said pleasantly. "Could I ask you a few questions?"

"Sure," said Billy. He was squatting on the floor, trying to fit the trophy into his gear bag, but it was too big.

A little warning buzzer at the back of my mind

sounded. The
Intelligencer
was a tabloid, and not overly interested in sports.

"There's been a lot of rumors going around about you," said McGill.

"Oh yeah?" said Billy, still holding the bowl. He must have picked up my thought, because he suddenly looked watchful.

"You have a reputation for answering questions very frankly," said McGill.

Billy now knew what was coming, and so did I. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Jacques' and Vince's smiles had disappeared.

"Like ... what do you want to know?" said Billy.

"The rumor mill says you're a queer," said McGill.

The group around us went dead silent. Elsewhere in the bar, the talking and laughing and milling around seemed suddenly loud by contrast. A number of runners were still bent around the officials, getting their official times off the long long list of damp sheets.

Billy straightened up slowly, his face suddenly cold and set and defiant. He had gone white around the nostrils. He looked down at five-foot-seven McGill from his five-foot-eleven with his terrible clear eyes for several long moments. McGill met his gaze boldly, earnestly.

In all fairness to McGill, he was not obnoxious. He had been sent to get a story, and he was getting it.

"The right word is gay," said Billy.

"Let's compromise and call it homosexual," said McGill.

I felt a slow, sad sinking of my stomach. A fine tremor started to spread along my arms and legs.

Billy smiled a little. "I think you're funny," he said. "I really haven't made any secret about being gay. What's the big deal?"

McGill looked at Vince and Jacques. "I understand you two are homosexuals also. Is that true?"

"That's right," said Vince. Jacques nodded his head slowly, looking down.

The group around us were frozen, mouths open. More and more people were getting up and coming over. Then McGill's eyes came to rest on me.

"Harlan," he said, "the rumor mill says ..."

In my anger and my pain at the way he'd questioned the boys, I cut him off short. The words came so easily that I hardly thought about them.

"Save your fucking breath," I said. "I'm as gay as they are."

Betsy thrust forward, her chin out. "You forgot me," she blazed at McGill. "I'm a gay woman."

Aldo pushed through the group, and was about to grab the reporter by the lapel. "It's none of your goddamn business," he said. Vince was also moving toward McGill in a very threatening manner.

I grabbed both Vince's and Aldo's arms. "Leave him alone," I said. "He's just trying to do his job." I looked at McGill. "Maybe you've got some more questions," I said in my best Parris Island voice.

"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact," said McGill. "The rumor mill says that you and Billy are having a sexual relationship. Is that true?"

A number of people gasped softly around us. By now nearly everybody in the bar was packed around us. Even the officials got up from their rain-soaked time list to take in the spectacle.

Billy seemed to get even whiter around the nostrils, and his eyes narrowed. As for me, I was doing a job on my face, hoping that it showed nothing of my feelings.

"Hey, uh, your thing about the rumor mill is kind of tiresome," said Billy.

"Is it true?" asked McGill.

"I don't like that phrase 'sexual relationship,'" I said. "Why don't you say that Billy and I are in love? You can quote me on that."

McGill was writing it all down. You could have heard a pin drop in that bar. "How long has this relationship been going on?"

Billy stood at bay, the animal against the wall, the silver bowl held forgotten in the crook of his arm. He smiled a little. "Since April. Right after the Drake Relays. April 27, if you want the date."

McGill was really warming up now. He looked at me. "How do you feel about the fact that many people

feel you, as the coach, are doing a very improper thing by having a sexual relationship with the boy?"

"What's so improper about it?" I said. "I can name you half a dozen straight coaches who are married or engaged to their female runners. I could also name you another half a dozen who are just sleeping with their female runners."

"Don't you think this is different?" said McGill.

"I'm sorry," I said, "it's my gay point of view. But I don't see it as different at all."

"The rumor mill says that you seduced him," said McGill. "Is that true?"

"I don't think you've been listening to the rumor mill very carefully," said Billy. "What it really said was that all three of us were gay when we were at Oregon. That was why Gus Lindquist kicked us off the team. And I had four other lovers before Harlan, so nobody was doing any seducing."

McGill was still looking at me. No, he really wasn't obnoxious. The whole group around us was beginning to stir with comments and rustlings. People were nudging, looking at each other, saying this is incredible, etc.

"Would you care to comment on your dismissal from Penn State in view of all this?"

"Yes, I will comment on that. I was innocent at Penn State. The kid was gay, and he sensed I was gay. He wanted to sleep with me, and I didn't want to sleep with him. I'm a discriminating guy, McGill, I don't screw just anybody. The kid made the charges out of pique, that's all."

"Have you been in the habit of sleeping with athletes through the years?"

Was it really possible that they were doing this to me? Was it really possible, right at this race, after the good race and the softly falling rain and that sea of runners on the wide lawn?

"No," I said. "I made it a habit of separating my love life and my profession, so to speak."

"Could you tell me how many?"

Billy was white with fury, his lips twitching.

"Only Billy," I said. "But I'm sure you don't believe me."

Jacques had turned away and had his hands over his face, sobbing. Betsy tried to comfort him.

"What do you feel is the future of your relationship?" McGill said.

I was ready to kill somebody. "Are you asking me if I think such a relationship
has
a future?"

"Well .. ." said McGill.

"If I didn't think it did, do you think I'd be in it? Would I stand here and answer idiotic questions like yours for a matinee with somebody?" I could hardly breathe. "Of course it has a future. As far as we're both concerned, it's forever."

Still holding the silver bowl, Billy reached to me with his free hand and closed it comfortingly around my arm. Anguished, we looked at each other. The sadistic photographer flashed a picture of us at that moment.

"Have you got everything you want?" Billy asked McGill savagely.

"Yes, I think so. Thanks," McGill said, closing his notepad.

"In that case," said Billy, "if you don't mind, I'm going to have some tea."

I had been ready to run out of that damned bar the minute McGill was done. But suddenly it occurred to me that Billy was instinctively doing the right thing. If we all left in a big hurry, it would look like shame and fear.

Billy gave the bowl to Vince and started toward the tea urn, dignified, controlled. Silently the group shifted aside to let him pass. "You guys want anything?" he said over his shoulder at us.

In a state of mild shock, the group started to break up. "I'll help you," Betsy said to Billy and went to the tea urn with him. People were leaving, discussing what they'd heard in low voices. Shakily I sat down on a bar stool. Vince had his hand on Jacques' shoulder. Jacques was white and silent. A number of people, runners and families, stayed, looking at us.

Billy and Betsy came slowly back, carrying four

Steaming cups of tea laced with honey and lemon. He slid onto a bar stool by me. Finally there were about twenty-five people left. I sensed they were sympathetic, and it made me feel a little better. If there were always these few around us, we would make it somehow.

Billy glanced at the others, sipping at his tea. "Well," he said, "you've just seen something that not many straights get to see. The gays call it coming out."

One runner said softly, "What you're doing takes a special kind of guts."

I managed to laugh a little. Billy's gay pride was buoying me. "Coming out on Christopher Street is one thing. Coming out at a cross-country meet is something else," I said.

"Somebody can have my sandwich," said Billy. For one awful moment I thought he might say that the only meat he ate was mine. But he didn't. He hauled a handful of walnuts out of his blazer pocket, gave me a couple and handed the rest around the little group of runners.

Moved, they responded to his firm attempt to put what had just happened in the context of normalcy. In a moment, everybody was dexterously cracking nuts between the palms of their hands, and talking about that subject so dear to runners' hearts: diet.