The Front Runner (34 page)

"Any cruising in there?" I said.

"Well," he said, "like, yesterday, this decathlete wanted to talk to me. Turned out he didn't want any gay counseling. He wanted my body. I told him to get off."

But despite all the excitement and the human distractions, Billy didn't forget for a moment why he was there.

Some of the other athletes were partying too much, going to bed late, eating crazy things. But Billy went to bed every night at the exact hour he was supposed to. He worked out scrupulously, and was following his pre-meet diet down to the last spoonful, for packing glycogen into the muscles. Distance coach Taplinger was taking good care of him, shepherding him through the red tape.

Under every grin, every twitch of his body in the discotheque, Billy was aware of the red track waiting for him there in the center of the monster stadium.

When the 10,000 meter was run on the first Sunday of the Games, I went to my stadium seat with a strange

mixture of peace and nervousness. We had done everything we could. All Billy had to do now was run.

What" can I say about his victory in the 10,000 meter? It isn't the 10,000 but the 5,000 a week later that I have to write the most about.

In the 10,000 he ran a perfect tactical race. It was his race from the gun. He took command, set a suicide pace, and ran away. Armas Sepponan was forced to set a faster early pace than he preferred, to stay within striking distance of Billy. In the last two laps, Billy eased off the pace, and Armas moved up strongly. But Billy had burned his kick to a cinder, and had just enough strength left to protect his lead.

They came balls-out down the final straight with Billy three yards in the lead, and the 70,000 spectators going berserk. Both of them were staggering. Billy was white with the pain of his liver cramps.

He hit the tape with both arms flung up in dizzy exultation. Sepponan crossed the line a half-second later.

I sat there so weak with relief that I could hardly react.

The times were up on the big scoreboard, but I already knew from my stopwatch. For the first time in history, the 27:30 barrier had been not merely broken, but smashed. Both of them had done it.

BILLY SIVE U.S. 27:28.9. ARMAS SEPPONAN FINLAND 27:29.4. JOHN FELTS AUSTRALIA 27:35.6...

Vince had shouted himself hoarse during the race, but neither John nor I had made a sound. Now Vince and John were both crying. They hugged me, and I was so stunned with joy that I hugged them back automatically. Betsy kissed me on the cheek, and I gave her a peck back.

The entire stadium was on its feet applauding, which always happens when a popular favorite wins.

Down on the track, Billy was going berserk with joy. Striding back to the finish line, his face alight, he jumped up and down and blew kisses at the crowd.

Obviously the pain of the liver cramps was forgotten. Mike Stella had come in sixth with a respectable 28:01.2,.and the two of them hugged. Then Billy and Armas hugged each other. The two of them walked drunkenly around, sweaty and disheveled, their arms across each other's shoulders.

Then Billy started his victory lap. He tugged Armas with him, and motioned the other exhausted runners to join them. Shortly most of the field were jogging with him around the track. Billy and Mike and Armas went along hand in hand. The ovation went on and on. The cold chills just kept going up and down my body as I listened to that mass of humanity pay its tribute. He had repaid their warmth and support by showing them something new of what a man was capable of.

"Come on," I said to Vince and John.

We scrambled down to the trackside gate where family were allowed to join with the athletes when they came off the track.

Billy was just finishing the victory lap. He saw us waiting there and came jogging over. His face was wet with tears. In another moment he was in my arms, smelling of wet hair and wet cloth and good sweat. He held me so hard that he hurt me. Everyone was staring, but we didn't give a damn. His whole body was shaking as he cried with happiness.

I touseled his damp hair and said, "Hey, Mr. Sive, you were pretty good out there."

Then Billy hugged his father and Vince. He wiped his eyes on the tail of his singlet and pulled on his sweats, and then he cried some more. He hugged Tap-linger and Tay Parker.

Even Gus Lindquist thawed to the point where he said grudgingly, "Dot vas nice running, Billy."

An hour later, showered and somewhat combed, wearing the U.S. team's fancy blue warmups, he was on the victory stand.. The gold medal was glinting on his chest. He pulled Armas and John Felts up on the top step with him. The three stood straight and un-moving while the American flag went up and the an-

them played, Billy was seen to shift his feet a little— he had bad blisters. He had himself under control now. He looked, simply, very happy and a little tired.

He had felt a lifetime's release. I envied him that release. It would have been nice to cry a little. But tears were not in my education. However deep my happiness and pride, my eyes stayed dry.

Not long after that, Billy, Armas and I were in the ABC-TV quarters. We were interviewed live for the edification and information of the folks back home. The three of us sat with commentator Frank Hayes holding the mike to our faces. We had one of those beautiful banal postmortems on a race, and homosexuality was not mentioned once.

HAYES
(to Armas): Do you feel that you made any mistakes?

ARMAS
(shaking his head): No. I am running smart race. I am starting my kick at just right time. But Billy is the more strong this time. That is all.

HAYES:
Are you disappointed, Armas?

ARMAS
(shaking his head again, with his elfin smile): In 1972 I am winning the golds in this double. Now Billy is winning them. It is fair. You must understand, I am not caring about the medals. I am running always against clock. My goal in this race is breaking the 27:30. So I am having the new personal record, and I am pleased. If Billy is not being in the race, maybe I am not running so good. Another time, possibly, I am being the more strong.

HAYES
(grinning): Do you feel that maybe that time is coming in the 5,000 next Sunday?

Billy and Armas looked at each other, grinning savagely.

ARMAS:
Billy is knowing that the 5,000 is my race.

BILLY
(to Armas): Trying to psych me, huh?

We all laughed.

HAYES:
Well, let's hope that we can look forward to some more brilliant competition between you two.

BILLY:
We're an ideal combination, really. The way

we work at breaking each other, who knows how far we'll knock those 10,000 and 5,000 times down.

HAYES
: You don't feel that you've reached your ultimate?

BILLY:
No. And I don't think Armas feels that way either.

HAYES:
How do you feel about owning a world record, Billy?

BILLY
(with Virgo candidness): Good.

HAYES:
Y
OU
feeling the pressure of owning a record?

BILL
Y
:
Oh yeah, already. The race is over just a couple of hours, and already the pressure about the 5,000 is incredible. But I don't really put that pressure on myself.

HAYES:
What are your plans for after the Games, both of you?

ARMAS
: I am competing in Europe. I am peaking maybe two, three weeks more, maybe I am breaking Billy's record. (He grinned at Billy.) Then I am going home and being fireman.

BILLY:
This guy is trying to do a psych job on me here.

We all laughed.

BILLY:
I'm gonna go home to New York and teach. (He looked at me.) We both are. We have to earn a living. I plan to take a nice, long rest, an easy crosscountry season, have some fun. Then hit the boards.

HAYES:
H
OW
about you, Harlan? You were an Olympic prospect in your day. Are you maybe living in this a little vicariously?

ME:
Well, if somebody had given me the choice of winning a medal myself back in '56 or '60, or of helping Billy win it today, the choice would be pretty clear. This medal means so much more.

BILLY:
A lot of people don't realize how much Harlan's coaching did for me. When I came to Prescott, I was doing nearly everything wrong. If Harlan hadn't twisted my arm so that I'd train in a way that was right for me, I'd still be messing around there over 28 minutes. Maybe I'd be off the track altogether with injuries ...

HAYES:
Twisted your arm?

BILLY
(laughing): I'm very stubborn.

HAYES:
Armas, what about you? Are you feeling the pressure about the 5,000?

ARMAS:
From my countrymen, yes. (He was alluding delicately to the fact that straight Finnish track fans felt that the national masculinity was at stake. But he then slid over his own allusion by adding diplomatically): You see, my countrymen are feeling that the 10,000 and the 5,000 are Finnish property, and our country it is very small, so ...

We all laughed. I sat there feeling very smug that the folks back home were being forced to watch this on their tubes.

BILLY
(drawling): You mean that I'm an American colonial imperialist who is taking over Finnish territory ...

We all laughed harder.

That night, Billy and his bodyguards left the Olympic Village for about three hours. They came to the Cartier Hotel in downtown Montreal for a celebration. A group of about thirty-five of us had dinner, hosted by Billy's very proud father.

After dinner, Steve Goodnight threw a huge party in the hotel bar, the Petit Fleur. This bar, as it happened, was one of the leading gay bars in Montreal. All the others must have been empty that night—it seemed like every gay in town was crowding in there. Champagne, wine, whiskey and beer flowed like the river Jordan. A great number of straights, athletic people and sundry celebrities mingled with the gays, but finally they became a little intimidated by the heavy gay pride in the air. Only the Prescotts and Mike and Sue stuck it out, and finally the Prescotts got tired and went to their own hotel.

Billy, looking a little exhausted by now, was lionized, worshipped, cruised, felt up, kissed and hugged. Finally he couldn't take it any longer, and he hopped up and sat on the grand piano to be above the crowd. He sat there smiling wearily, answering

questions, sipping his mineral water. He was wearing a casual beige silk suit, another that his father had bought him a couple years ago, that everyone said was straight out of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Looking at him, I pondered on how this situation could drive me wild with jealousy if I didn't see the Virgo in him firmly refusing all advances.

Steve got up on a barstool and made an incredible fifteen-minute speech full of raunchy gay puns, that didn't mention Billy at all. He was so drunk that he could hardly stay on the stool. Everybody roared with laughter. The sharp smell of amyl nitrite got stronger and stronger in the air. Vince was wandering around, somewhat drunk also, with his arm around a wild depraved-looking young French Canadian of about eighteen. Vince was Wearing his leather cap tipped rakishly over one eye, and a black leather jerkin that left his arms and chest bare and displayed his tattoos; The jukebox blared endlessly.

The crowd begged Billy to get up on the bar and do the boogie.

He refused. "I did my boogie on the track," he said.

Finally I was trying to fight my way through the crush to Billy with another glass of mineral water for him, and somebody's hand started to unzip my fly. I put my free hand down there, and pushed the hand away, and zipped my fly back up. Leo is not next to Virgo in the zodiac for nothing.

Billy was looking a little gray. "Harlan, let's go back to the Village," he said. "I've had enough of this, and I'm falling apart."

We tried to find Vince, but he had disappeared with his friend, so we caught a cab to the Village alone.

The next morning late, Vince returned, hung-over and subdued. He must have purged some of the poison building up inside of him, because for the next few days he stayed right with us.

"I don't know what came over me," he said. "Last night I made a spectacle of myself. I don't understand myself any more."

Billy showed great concern for him, and he responded, and it seemed a little like old times. Every day the three of us sat in the stands with the rest of the group, and watched the track and field events of our choice. Billy and Vince yelled for their friends on the team.

Rita Hedley bombed out in the semifinals of the women's 1,500, and Billy said, "I hope it wasn't because I danced the legs off her."

Down in the States, Billy's victory was all over the media. Telegrams of congratulation poured in to him. One was from Jacques, sent from the small Michigan town near where he was doing his field work. It said:

THANK GOD FOR TV, IT WAS BEAUTIFUL, YOU MAKE ME WANT TO START RUNNING AGAIN, GOOD LUCK IN THE 5,000, LOVE, JACQUES.

As the Games ground on, I began to see a subtle change in Billy. His euphoria was wearing off, and he (like me) was beginning to find being a celebrity very wearing: the demands on his time and emotional energy, the loss of privacy, the feeling of being looked at by 100 million TV viewers via satellite every day.

"Are we going to live like this from now on?" he asked me.

"I hope not," I said.

"You know," he said, "I'm dying for that race on Sunday, but I'm also dying to go home."

Right there at the Games, he received two lucrative film offers. One was from M-G-M, to do a feature film about an athlete. The other was from European director Luigi Servi, to do a feature film about gays. The M-G-M offer he turned down immediately—he couldn't do it and stay an amateur., Two book publishers wanted to bid for his memoirs. He put all these people off, saying he needed time to think about it. And he and Armas Sepponan received a $100,000 offer each from the International Track Association to join the pro tour. Both he and Armas said flatly, "No."