Racing the Rain by John L Parker Page A

But no one was paying much attention. They were still wandering around and gawking at the two red-faced, completely blown-out runners.
    Bickerstaff walked back to the infield where Cassidy and Chip Newspickle were still wobbling, bent over at the waist, hands on knees, elbows touching in a kind of sympathetic camaraderie, rasping in the air with a desperation that bordered on panic.
    â€œWhat’s your name, son?” he asked.
    â€œCass . . .” he said. “Cass . . . Cassidy.”
    â€œAfter you’ve changed, come on by my office.”

CHAPTER 11
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COACH BICKERSTAFF
    T he office was a fascinating hodgepodge of sporting paraphernalia and coachly miscellany.
    There was a diploma on the wall from Eastern Kentucky State College, dated June 6, 1949, awarded to one Robert Leroy Bickerstaff, a bachelor of science degree in physical education. There was a basketball team photo with the legend “Maroons Basketball—1947.” In the photo, second from the far right, standing next to the slightly taller equipment manager, was a crew-cut sprite of a boy wearing number 13. If it hadn’t been for the Dumbo ears, Cassidy would not have recognized Coach Bickerstaff at all. The telltale red hair did not register in black and white. It was a strange thing to contemplate, that Coach Bickerstaff had played sports in his youth, that he had had an actual boyhood of his own.
    Cassidy sat, hair damp, books in lap, taking it all in: the pair of nested low hurdles needing repair in the corner, the shelves filled with books on basketball, football, weight lifting, calisthenics. There was one called Doc Counsilman on Swimming and another called Modern Interval Training by someone named Mihály Iglói. There were stacks of correspondence from other coaches and athletic directors seeking to schedule games and meets. There were stopwatches and coaching whistles hanging from hooks on the side of the bookcase, along with baseball caps, clipboards, sunglasses, and windbreakers. There was a dusty glass-fronted case filled with trophies from days gone by.
    He noticed one small black-and-white photograph on the wall, almost hidden among the rest. It showed a group of eight young boys squinting into the sun from the steps of an old-timey brick schoolhouse, accompanied by an older gentleman in a three-piece suit. Their names were listed below the photograph, along with the caption: “Cynthiana Junior High track team, 1940.” It didn’t take Cassidy long to spot the telltale ears of the elf-boy standing next to one Oley Fightmaster, a young brute holding a shot.
    â€œWe were undefeated that year,” said Coach Bickerstaff, hurrying through the door. Cassidy jumped back in his chair. The coach tossed his clipboard on top of the messy desk and sat down heavily in the ancient swivel chair.
    â€œOf course, size of our school, everybody did practically every event. A couple of those boys were pretty fast, including yours truly,” said Bickerstaff, putting his ripple-soled coaching shoes up on the corner of the desk. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes with the momentary relief of a man who spent most of his day on his feet. “And Oley there was third in the state in the shot. But the competition wasn’t all that tough back then, at least not in north-central Kentucky.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Cassidy said. Coach Bickerstaff had played basketball in college! He was from Kentucky! It never occurred to Cassidy that coaches and teachers were from anywhere.
    â€œIt’s okay, Quenton, relax. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute. Coach Burke says you’ve tried out for the basketball team . . .”
    â€œYes, sir, I practice a lot. And I’m growing.”
    Bickerstaff’s smile was sympathetic.
    â€œWell, son, lots of boys are after those twelve spots. You’ve surely noticed that most of them are a lot bigger than you.”
    â€œYes,