He watched with pleasant indifference the first events of the track meet, the padded ten-pound shot thudding on the Armory floor, the high jump competition in mid-Armory, the running broadjump, watched with almost euphoric lack of partisanship the race over the low hurdles, the 440-yard run — won by a mature black student from DeWitt Clinton, Ira noted, with prodigiously developed thighs; the mile run, won by somebody with a Greek name and a pedestrian stride, whom Ira remembered from the last track meet. And then came the trials for the 100-yard dash. At the remote starting line, Ira saw no sign of Farley. The heat was won easily by Le Vine, the gold medalist who had bested Farley the last time they competed. He might have been Jewish, though his name was spelled as if it were French, or altered to look French. Slender, dark, graceful, he walked with triumphant, springy step from under the balcony where he and the other sprinters disappeared into the end zone after crossing the finish line.
It was in the fourth and penultimate heat that Ira thought he descried Farley: that firm gait, sturdy figure without tension, dull-blond hair — and the big S on the shirt of his track suit. A cheer went up while the distant runners crouched, leaned forward. The far-off pistol cracked. Up the sprinters reared, and running. And how swiftly they neared, looming forward out of a hundred yards away, swiftly! In mid-distance, one runner took the lead: Farley. Through the din and cry and yell of the crowd he sped, so controlled his stride, his feet hammering out long paces on the boards, his small bony fists clenched, his blue eyes burning fixedly. He won his heat — lra’s best friend once! — he won as handily as did Le Vine, perhaps more handily. In silence Ira beheld him emerge from under the balcony: into a great swell of cheering; and smiling a little, open lips in deep breath, chest rising, he walked back on springy track shoes to the starting line.
The high hurdles were run, and the finals of the 220-yard dash. Ira watched idly. Till once again, Le Vine, with the conspicuous orange U on his chest, Farley, with the S on his, and others, finalists in the 100-yard dash, were warming up at the far end of the Armory, practicing starts, exploding from a crouch into a swift tattoo of feet. They were summoned to the starting line. There they crouched, as if all their weight rested on, was perched on, not their feet, but only their fingertips. The crowd hushed, became a nap of faces, pennants, figures, a tapestry covering the long oval of the balcony. The starter raised his pistol — and one of the finalists broke away. He returned. Once more the line of runners stood up, jigged tensely, drummed toes on the boards. Once again called to their marks, and set — the pistol cracked.
Five sprinters, all hammering the wooden boards with precise, disciplined, superhuman stride. They seemed abreast midway, then strewn apart. Then clearly in the van Le Vine, leading with smooth, even stride; he seemed to glide. And at his heels, trailing obliquely: Farley. And then they looked abreast in the same plane, Le Vine and Farley. They were abreast. As though the dynamism of the heart drove, not mere training, or inculcation, but the inherited stamina of ages that would not be denied, Farley took the lead. Five, four, three strides from the finish line Le Vine contended, in agony and in vain striving against those pistons of flesh and bone of his rival pounding the floor a stride ahead of him. In vain Le Vine hurled himself writhing at the tape. Farley had swept it away.
The Armory reverberated to the roar of the crowd. Ira felt his eyes fill with tears. Farley came out from under the balcony, breathing hard, with unassuming smile. The other runners filed after him, Le Vine, panting, unable to mask the frown of the bitterness of defeat.
“Farley!” Ira could no longer contain himself, his finger swiping like a sickle at the tear under his eyeglasses. “Hey, Farley!”
Farley looked over his shoulder, stopped in stride: “Hey, Irey!” He took a step back toward the balcony. No mistaking the gladness of his mien, his voice. “Hey, where you been?”
“No place.” Suddenly the focus of curiosity of those about him, Ira felt as if he had been snapped out of obscurity into fame. Farley was his friend, after all, his pal for all to see, his pal was the fleetest runner in all the high schools of New York. Acknowledgment of his status by those about him condensed into fixed appraisal.
“Come on down,” Farley called.
“Nah.”
“C’mon!”
“Now?”
“Sure. Right now.”
“They don’t let you, till it’s over.”
“Who said so? Come on.”
Farley disappeared under the balcony. Hastily and depreciating, cynosure of fellow spectators, Ira made his way up the stairs to the exit midway of the aisle, and then, uncertain with trepidation, with confusion of feelings, he descended the stairs leading to the Armory floor. A uniformed policeman waited — permissively.
“Hey, Moran, that’s him,” said Farley.
Just being addressed by Farley brought a flush of pleasure to the middle-aged cop’s face. Bits of perceptions, notions, swirled through Ira’s mind: contrast, heavy wool blue uniform, scant track suit; unity of the Irish; pride of the Irish; avuncular admiration — the freedom, the sheer naturalness of the deep-breathing sixteen-year-old victor.
“Hey, why didn’t you come around!” And an instant later, “Come on. Let’s go. I gotta get my sweat suit on.”
“Where?”
“Over to the other end.”
They had been clinging to each other’s hands.
“I can’t go.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t. You know why.”
Farley understood. “Listen.” He jogged in place. “Soon as I can I’ll meet you outside this door. It’s right near Broadway. Okay? I’ll get my medal, and scoot out. Gimme about half an hour. Okay?” He was already trotting toward the starting line.
“Do you want to go back up or do you want to go out now?” the cop asked Ira.
“No, I’ll go out.”
The cop swung open the heavy side door of the Armory, held it open on the sunlit throb of the street, surveyed the outdoors until Ira passed, then swung the door to. Isolated, happy, glowing with reprieve, Ira waited next to the building. Waited. . For all his happiness — the realization grew as the minutes went by — it would never be again the viable friendship it once had been. That was a thing of the past, but still rich with affection, rich with reminiscent bloom. And what joy to see Farley, to see him run and win, to share in his triumph.
And now, there he was! To see him in person come out of a door at the other end of the building, see him and hear him, stride up, blue-eyed, bareheaded, his light voice raised in familiar greeting, small canvas duffel bag hoisted in breezy approach.
“Boy, didn’t I beat it outta there? They wanted me to hang around for more pictures of me and the coach. But I said I couldn’t. I had to skiddoo.”
“Yeah?” Ira could feel the glow of his own happiness.
“Let’s mope home, all right?”
“Oh, sure. That was wonderful. Boy. Watching you.”
“I knew I’d beat him this time.”
“They give you the medal already?” Ira asked. “It’s real gold?”
“Yeah. Wanna see it?”
“Do I?”
Farley opened the bag as they walked, found the small, neatly wrought box among his track togs, opened it, displayed the colored ribbon and the rich gold disk with its raised athletic figure reaching out for a laurel wreath.
“Boy!”
“Nifty, huh? I did it in eleven two.”