The cross-country path led up through mown grass, over the opposite hill, to disappear into the sky. The sky shone deep blue. White clouds, broad and lazy, drifted across it.
Bullet stood watching. The mass broke up into smaller groups, bending and stretching in exercises. The coaches, three blue windbreakers and one red one, moved among the groups. Two officials stood by the starting line on the track, in black-and-white striped shirts and black shorts. From a distance, the competitors looked like animals turned loose into a field, guided byherdsmen into positions on the lush meadow while the officials oversaw the whole operation. From a distance, the whole scene looked ordered, designed, completed.
If he could paint, Bullet thought, this was something that would make a painting, in oil to catch the quality of color the clear air brought out. The rich green of the grass; the brown of track and pits so perfectly brown it looked like it had to be some other substance, not really earth at all, maybe gold; and the figures of the young men, lying on the grass with their fingers locked behind their necks, muscles pulling effortlessly up, or running in place with high-lifted knees: but he didnât paint, couldnât even draw, and didnât want to.
He went down the slope to find out when his events were.
The coach moved around, checking up, checking in, encouraging and advising. He handed Bullet the clipboard. On the top of the papers was a mimeographed sheet listing the order of events. Cross-country, as usual, came near the end. As always, the relay race came last. When he was a ninth grader, Bullet ran with the relay team. The coach had tried to get him to run sprints too, but he refusedâhe was fast enough but he didnât like running on the track, in the lines. After one season, Bullet could decide what events he would enter, and he refused to run in the relay anymore.
âTillerman, you time the sprints,â the coach told him. Bullet hung the stopwatch around his neck and moved on along the fence to stand at the hundred-meter mark. After a while, the finish tape was set up across the eight lanes of track, and he saw eight runners move into positionâfour pairs of blue shorts, four red. They crouched, bodies coiled into position, heads down. In unison, they raised their bodies up to rest on fingertips and toes and thenâa split second later, at the sound of a blank being firedâthey sprang off their marks. Bullet started the stopwatch at the same time.
Fifteen seconds later it was all over, and the eight runners were going back to their coaches to check times and hear advice. Bullet filled in the places and times for their runners: four, six, seven, eight; the times ranged from 13.1 to 14.8 seconds. The winning time was 11.9, a little kid, probably a ninth grader, skinny and fast, who headed for the finish line as if that was his only hope in the whole world.
Bullet moved up to the two hundred meter mark, halfway around the track. Two members of the Crisfield team were running both of these races, which put them at a disadvantage. But they were strong starters, which gave them some chanceâin those leaguesâof competing: not that day, though, the Acorn runners had been well-coached, had trained hard. Crisfield took the bottom four positions in the two hundred. Bullet wrote down the results, then moved to stand near the group by the starting line, to time the four hundred meter, once around the track. There, waiting for the gun to sound, his finger poised over the stopper, he could watch the start close up. Eight tense bodies, each in position at the far right edge of the lane, waited. The gun went, he pushed down. The runners were away.
Into the first straight they were bunched. Acorn was running that little guy again, and he pulled out ahead, legs pumping, head slewing as his shoulders swung, setting the pace fast. At the turn, about halfway around, he fell apart, dropping
Bullet stood watching. The mass broke up into smaller groups, bending and stretching in exercises. The coaches, three blue windbreakers and one red one, moved among the groups. Two officials stood by the starting line on the track, in black-and-white striped shirts and black shorts. From a distance, the competitors looked like animals turned loose into a field, guided byherdsmen into positions on the lush meadow while the officials oversaw the whole operation. From a distance, the whole scene looked ordered, designed, completed.
If he could paint, Bullet thought, this was something that would make a painting, in oil to catch the quality of color the clear air brought out. The rich green of the grass; the brown of track and pits so perfectly brown it looked like it had to be some other substance, not really earth at all, maybe gold; and the figures of the young men, lying on the grass with their fingers locked behind their necks, muscles pulling effortlessly up, or running in place with high-lifted knees: but he didnât paint, couldnât even draw, and didnât want to.
He went down the slope to find out when his events were.
The coach moved around, checking up, checking in, encouraging and advising. He handed Bullet the clipboard. On the top of the papers was a mimeographed sheet listing the order of events. Cross-country, as usual, came near the end. As always, the relay race came last. When he was a ninth grader, Bullet ran with the relay team. The coach had tried to get him to run sprints too, but he refusedâhe was fast enough but he didnât like running on the track, in the lines. After one season, Bullet could decide what events he would enter, and he refused to run in the relay anymore.
âTillerman, you time the sprints,â the coach told him. Bullet hung the stopwatch around his neck and moved on along the fence to stand at the hundred-meter mark. After a while, the finish tape was set up across the eight lanes of track, and he saw eight runners move into positionâfour pairs of blue shorts, four red. They crouched, bodies coiled into position, heads down. In unison, they raised their bodies up to rest on fingertips and toes and thenâa split second later, at the sound of a blank being firedâthey sprang off their marks. Bullet started the stopwatch at the same time.
Fifteen seconds later it was all over, and the eight runners were going back to their coaches to check times and hear advice. Bullet filled in the places and times for their runners: four, six, seven, eight; the times ranged from 13.1 to 14.8 seconds. The winning time was 11.9, a little kid, probably a ninth grader, skinny and fast, who headed for the finish line as if that was his only hope in the whole world.
Bullet moved up to the two hundred meter mark, halfway around the track. Two members of the Crisfield team were running both of these races, which put them at a disadvantage. But they were strong starters, which gave them some chanceâin those leaguesâof competing: not that day, though, the Acorn runners had been well-coached, had trained hard. Crisfield took the bottom four positions in the two hundred. Bullet wrote down the results, then moved to stand near the group by the starting line, to time the four hundred meter, once around the track. There, waiting for the gun to sound, his finger poised over the stopper, he could watch the start close up. Eight tense bodies, each in position at the far right edge of the lane, waited. The gun went, he pushed down. The runners were away.
Into the first straight they were bunched. Acorn was running that little guy again, and he pulled out ahead, legs pumping, head slewing as his shoulders swung, setting the pace fast. At the turn, about halfway around, he fell apart, dropping
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