Racing the Rain by John L Parker Page B

sir,” said Cassidy glumly. This was not new information. Stiggs and Randleman were constantly reminding him what a shrimp he was.
    â€œHave you ever considered track?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œToo slow, I guess.”
    â€œWell, there’s more to track than the fifty and the hundred. It takes a lot of stamina to run a good quarter. And it takes even more to run the 880.”
    Cassidy looked puzzled.
    â€œYes, that’s right. In track there are races longer than the one you ran this morning. The 880—a half mile—is two laps around. It’s a tough race.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œNow, I don’t want to mislead you. You tied in a race with a very good sprinter today. But Chip’s no quarter-miler. In fact, he’s not as good in the 220 as he is in the 100 and the 50.”
    Cassidy wondered what motive Bickerstaff could possibly have for downplaying the greatest near triumph of his life.
    â€œBut still, he’s no slouch,” Bickerstaff said, taking his feet off the desk and sitting up straight. “He’s full of fight and he wouldn’t have let you get anywhere near him if he could have helped it.”
    â€œHe ran pretty hard,” Cassidy said.
    â€œYou didn’t give him much choice.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œNow, Chip’s never run anything longer than a 220 in a meet, but a 60 flat quarter mile would win some of our dual meets. And if you can push beyond that a bit, you might just give Demski something to think about in the 880. He’s just getting started, but he’s getting to be pretty darned tough. I want you to think about that. If you came out for track at the end of March, I think you might do very well.”
    Cassidy wasn’t sure what to think. He had always pinned his hopes for glory on basketball. Other than Chip Newspickle and Ed Demski, the track team was notorious for being a scut bucket of misfits and rejects.
    â€œI really want to play basketball,” he said.
    â€œI read you. Your prerogative entirely. But it’s not an either-or situation is all I’m saying. I just want you to think about it. Will you do that for me?” Then he actually smiled. Cassidy had never seen him smile before.
    â€œYes, sir! I will.”
    â€œOkay, go ahead and take off. You’re going to be late to third period. If you get any grief, tell them you had a conference with me.”
    Bickerstaff started taking papers off the top of the stack on his desk, reaching for his reading glasses.
    â€œYes?” he said, looking up. Cassidy was still by the door.
    â€œWhat’s the school record for the 880?” Cassidy asked.
    â€œYou probably shouldn’t be too concerned about—”
    â€œI just wanted to know,” Cassidy said.
    â€œSon, it’s 2:07.3. That’s a tick under two sixty-four-second quarters back to back. I know that sounds awfully—”
    â€œI can run faster than that,” Cassidy said, and left.
    Bickerstaff stared at the door. What was it with this kid? He started reading the first letter but stopped after the first paragraph and took off his glasses.
    What the hell , he thought, maybe he can at that. Bickerstaff looked over at the small black-and-white photograph of himself and his teammates from all those years ago. There was a fierce and familiar look of determination on the face of that strange-looking, Dumbo-eared child.

CHAPTER 12
----
STATUS OF A SORT
    T hey were shooting at a netless hoop at their old elementary school, and Stiggs and Randleman were acting more than a little pissy.
    They had seen people smiling at Cassidy in the hallways. A couple of guys had actually stopped by their table at lunch to make some wisecracks and it was obvious they were including Cassidy in their ribaldry. Stiggs and Randleman, as starting forwards on the basketball team, were accustomed to tolerating Cassidy as a goofy sidekick. They allowed him in