The East Regional. This was not the Buckeye Games. This was not the Penn Relays. This was the toughest track meet east of California. Dozens of Olympic hopefuls were bringing their hopes to the starting line, racing for a breakthrough performance, striving for a qualifying time to enter the Trials, just thirteen months away.
Chapter Eleven
EAST REGIONAL
Harold Bond spent Sunday, his usual day of rest, in the woodshop. The NCAA rule book he checked out from the Wellston Library had the specifications for steeplechase barriers. By suppertime, Harold had built and moved the five 200-pound hurdles to the barnyard on his flatbed trailer.
He took considerable pride that he could execute such a weighty task without assistance from any other man. By morning, the concrete would set, seizing the uprights of the water jump barrier in its unyielding grasp. He filled the twelve-foot-wide water hazard with wood shavings, so Jeremy could workout anytime, in any kind of footwear.
* * * * *
Mary punched up the Boston number and smoothed her hair back as the phone rang.
“O’Malley here!”
“Mr. O’Malley, my name is Mary Sanger. I represent Jeremy Stanfield, a steeplechase runner who would like to compete in the East Regional meet.”
“Yeah? Send in his entry blank and twenty bucks. D’you need the form?”
Mary hesitated. This wasn’t easy.
“Mr. O’Malley, please forgive me, but Jeremy Stanfield has the third fastest steeple time in the U.S. this year.”
“Oh, yeah? What kind of time?
“Eight twenty-six at the Penn Relays. That’s after he got knocked down with 500 meters to go. I believe he can break 8:20.”
“So, what do you want?,” the brusque Irishman asked.
“I was hoping you could provide complimentary entry, send me a list of hotels, and perhaps defray some of our expenses,” Mary said, apologetically.
“You’re new at this, aren’t you, Ma’m?” said the veteran promoter of the country’s second largest championship track meet. O’Malley rocked back in his chair and smiled broadly as he played his little game.
Mary fidgeted with her notes, cleared her throat, and decided she had nothing to lose by being assertive. “Stanfield deserves to be in your meet, Sir. He . . .”
“Miss Sanger,” chuckled O’Malley, puffing cigar smoke across his dingy office in the Boston Garden, “the boy is in the steeple. We’re delighted to have him. I’ll give you 100 dollars per diem, two plane tickets, and a hotel. One room or two?”
“Uh . . .,” said Mary, taken aback, “two rooms.”
“We know about Stanfield. I was going to call him this week myself. We just can’t seem to get any fast Americans to race this year, what with Baxter coming from England. We’ve got Turni the Finn, and at least one Kenyan . . . let’s see . . Temiri . . . yes. Stanfield makes eleven so far. Good to have a strong American in the field. It will be a good learning experience for the lad.”
“Anything else I can do for you, Miss Sanger?” asked the former hammer thrower, now about a hundred pounds over his competitive weight.
“No, sir,” Mary blurted. “Thank you very much.”
“Just stay on the line and I’ll have my secretary, Marge, take your information. We look forward to having you in Boston.”
In minutes it was all arranged.
Mary was heading out for a run fifteen minutes later when the phone rang.
“Miss Sanger? This is Thomas O’Malley. If the kid breaks 8:20, there’s $500 in it for him. If he places in the top three, I’ll kick in another five bills.
“Oh, and the next time you call a promoter, don’t be bashful. You’ve got a great athlete there.”
Indeed I do, Mary thought. She smiled for five miles.
* * * * *
The flight was bumpy but Mary slept most of the way, her head leaning lightly on Jeremy’s shoulder. He loved how she smelled. He was careful not to shift in his seat, so she wouldn’t be awakened.
O’Malley greeted them at the terminal.
“Well, son, you’re starting to make a name for yourself. Some of the press boys were asking questions about you,” he told the distracted athlete. “I wouldn’t give them the name of your hotel, so you could have some privacy before the race.”
“Baxter’s a tough sonuvabitch . . . pardon my French, Ma’m.
“Here’s a meet program,” O’Malley said as he led them to a limousine. “We don’t expect you to win, Stanfield. Just do the best you can and have some fun.’
Jeremy was having no fun. The limousine – all limousines – disgusted him. And they had arrived in time to experience the gridlock of downtown Boston. Jeremy was sick of thinking about Baxter and the other foreigners he would race tomorrow. He would rather be in Wellston, running out Prairie Road to the farm.
While Mary checked them into their rooms, a bellhop tossed their luggage onto a dolly.
“We’ll take our own,” Jeremy snapped with uncharacteristic irritation and snatched the bags from the cart.
On the way to the elevator, he stumbled on the thick carpet and went sprawling. Red-faced, he scrambled to his feet and recovered the suitcases and gym bag. Mary felt his tension and remained silent. They rode in a mirrored elevator – that irritated him, too – to the tenth floor.
“Let me freshen up,” Mary told him outside her door. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
They had not touched since that delicious morning at his house in Wellston but they had both recalled it a hundred times. Jeremy had always believed that a physical or emotional relationship would sap his abilities. To his surprise, though thoughts of Mary permeated him, he had never trained better.
But she was not on his mind at this moment. He sat on the enormous bed in the spacious room and sulked. Everything seemed so foreign – the city, the people with their unfamiliar accents and brusque manners, even the mint on his pillow. Why am I here, he asked himself?
“To prepare for the Olympic team,” he answered aloud.
Those who have no doubts, have nothing, he remembered the ancient Greeks saying.
But racing the Africans and Europeans unnerved Jeremy. He could envision calmly lining up beside them, just like any other race. But he had read of the aggressive jostling, the sharp elbows, the deliberate spiking.
He had leafed through the program O’Malley gave him at the airport. Now he studied it. His rivals’ photographs leered at him; their times seemed unbeatable.
There was Baxter, the Olympic medalist; Temiri, one of the hordes of world-class Kenyan steeplers; Turni of Finland; Maroc of Morocco, half-brother to the 1992 bronze medalist; Kloschmann of Germany; McBride of Ireland; the Italian, Giardelli; and five Americans he had never heard of. And there, at the end of the page, without a photo, Jeremy Stanfield, USA.
Mary’s knock at his door snapped him from his trance.
“Time for dinner, Jeremy!” Mary said cheerily when he opened the door. “I made reservations at Assagio’s, two blocks away.”
“I’m ready,” he replied weakly. The tension of the coming race had gnawed away his enthusiasm.
Mary recognized his anxiety and wondered what she could do. He seemed so sad.
“After we eat, let’s go see a movie,” she said. “We’ve got one hundred dollars to spend, so we ought to spend it!”
“O.K.” he said, emotionless.
They walked to the elevator. Jeremy stood slouched, looking at the shiny outer doors. The empty elevator opened and he stepped into its mouth, imagining being eaten by this huge hotel.
As the doors closed, Mary hugged him hard.
“You have nothing to lose, Jeremy. You can put everything on the line tomorrow. I’m here for you, no matter what happens.”
He felt her lips press against his neck, sending a shiver down his side. Fear over the race left him for the first time in days. He hugged her urgently and buried his face in her long black hair. When the elevator reached the lobby, Mary pressed ’10’ and they were levitated back to their floor.
Mary took him by the hand, took him to her room, sat him on the bed. She reached for the telephone.
“Room service? Send two pasta dinners and two fruit desserts to room 1021 at eight o’clock,” Mary commanded. “Yes, eight. Ten twenty-one. Thank you.”
It was only six o’clock. The descending June sunshine slid beneath the closed drapes, filling the room with fire-glow. Jeremy lay back on the bed, empty. For the moment, everything was gone; his appetite, his desire to run, his interest in Mary. As he lay passively on the bed, Mary pulled off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, and unbuttoned his shirt. In one deft movement with crossed arms, she swept her green dress over her head and stood before him, nude.
“Jeremy.”
He opened his eyes. She crawled onto the bed.
“I’m going to please you, Jeremy,” she whispered.
She lay beside him, fitting her body against his like the missing piece of a puzzle. She sighed softly, gently touched her lips to his, and they kissed.
Their first kiss was like a rainstorm. It started slowly, intensified to a tempest, then diminished. They panted and opened their eyes, moist with animal passion.
“You are so special to me,” Mary said. “You can’t imagine.”
Jeremy smiled. He could say nothing. He was not in control. He never had been with Mary.
Now we are going to make love, he thought with absolute calm. She must know it is my first time.
Together, they pulled his clothing from him and the feeling of her skin on his sent electricity through his body.
He had imagined sex but his imagination had not approached the reality. Mary loved him as she imagined every person dreams of being loved the first time. They touched and they kissed and time stood still for them.
Room service came and went, unacknowledged. The room grew dark as the sun set. The great hotel in a far-from-home city became the only reality for them and they loved each other through the night. For her, Jeremy was the gentle man whose existence she had always doubted. For him, it was a night of wonder.
Jeremy awoke with a dreamy heaviness he had never felt before. In ten hours, he had to face a dozen men in spikes but they no longer frightened him. Mary returned from the shower, smelling moist and fresh. He smiled sheepishly, reached out his hand for hers and pulled her close, and buried himself in her warmth once more.
* * * * *
The East Regional. This was not the Buckeye Games. This was not the Penn Relays. This was the toughest track meet east of California. Dozens of Olympic hopefuls were bringing their hopes to the starting line, racing for a breakthrough performance, striving for a qualifying time to enter the Trials, just thirteen months away.
* * * * *
THIS VIEW OF SPORT
By Ken Davis
British Olympian “Big Ben” Baxter threw down the gauntlet at the feet of the world’s steeplechasers in Boston’s East Regional track championship last night, smashing the meet record by four seconds and dominating an international-class field that included Joshua Temiri of Kenya, Pekko Turni of Finland, and an unheralded American, Jeremy Stanfield.
Baxter abandoned his usual sit-and-wait tactic, swapping the lead with Temiri and Stanfield a dozen times before un-leashing a sustained drive over the last two laps for a twenty-meter victory margin. His time of 8:17.77 was the best in the world so far this year.
The Brit was ecstatic with his win, which was voted the outstanding performance of the meet.
Temiri tried gamely to go with Baxter but faded so badly in the final lap he managed just fourth. Turni ran off the pace throughout and, although the Finn came on strong in the stretch, he was pipped at the post by the previously-unknown non-collegian from Ohio named Jeremy Stanfield. The farm boy from the village of Wellston ran 8:19.50, a six-second PR and the best time of the year by an American athlete.
“Baxter, Temiri, and Turni – they’re all great!” Stanfield told me in a post-race interview. “I’ve got to work a lot harder if I want to do well in international competition.”
Plenty of pressmen thought he’d done well enough. Stanfield won the prestigious Glenn Cunningham Cup for outstanding newcomer to the annual championships.
Other featured events included the 5,000 meters won by Fernando Da Gama of Spain in 13:09; the 200 meters won in the world-leading time of 20.33 by Cyril Johnston of Jamaica; and the 10,000, won by Billy Kangaa of Tanzania, the 1992 Olympic Champion, in 28:03.
A mature veteran and a college freshman were the outstanding female athletes in Boston. Sarah Herrington, 31, strode to victory in the 1500. She snatched the lead at 800 meters and pulled away to win in the fine time of 4:04.12. Tia Wapiti, 19, sped over the 400-meter hurdles in the world-leading time of 54.33.
Additional American performances of promise were turned in by John Corbin of Cleveland who ran 13:19.08 in the 5,000, and Kivato Wapiti, another teen-age phenom, in the 10,000 meters.
Wapiti, the twin brother of the women’s hurdles champ, crashed the 29-minute barrier with a 28:37 clocking in the 25-lap race.
The results at Boston give many fans in this country hope that U.S. fortunes are improving in the distance events.
Jeremy read the article again, looked at the $1,000 check O’Malley had given him after the meet, and admired the gold cup that stood on his hotel room television. Someone from Adidas had slipped a laminated copy of the Boston Globe article and photograph under his door during the night. Along with it was a scribbled note:
Stanfield–
Get in touch with me today.
You’re the kind of runner we
like. Call me at 454-3443.
We’ll get you into a new uniform.
Marston Keillor
Adidas USA
The color photograph on the front page of the sports section captured Baxter, the Union Jack on his white singlet, snapping the tape with his chest. The telephoto lens pulled the battle for second place into the frame. Jeremy, in his green WELLSTON jersey was out-dueling Turni, clad in Finland blue, for second place.
“I’m not wearing anything but my green singlet,” Jeremy said, as he climbed onto the bed and snuggled next to Mary.
“I thought you might say that, Jeremy. You don’t need anything they’ve got.”
Later that morning, as Marston Keillor delayed his Sunday golf foursome in expectation of the boy’s call, Mary and Jeremy flew back to Ohio, knowing nothing of the future but filled with the confidence of those in love that all would be fine.
* * * * *
Jeremy trained as never before in preparation for the USATF National Championships in Raleigh. On July 15, he would race in the steeplechase prelims and two days later, face Kerry O’Neal and ten other Americans for a spot on the U.S. team that would compete in Europe. Four meets were scheduled, versus Russia, Poland, Norway, and Great Britain.
Two athletes would qualify in each event. Jeremy knew he would happily retire his green Wellston singlet for the honor of wearing one bearing the letters USA.
His life since Boston, with Mary in it, had more balance. She spent her weekends with him in Wellston. Each Wednesday afternoon, he drove to Grove City to spend the evening with her before driving home around midnight. His obsession with running had moderated to keen focus.
Jeremy’s path to the Olympics was clear now. A first or second at Nationals would earn him a ticket onto the international circuit. His experiences in Europe would motivate him throughout his final winter of preparation. All he needed to do was win or place second in Raleigh.
* * * * *
“Stanfield,” he repeated to the man. “Jeremy Stanfield.”
He stood at the check-in table behind the stadium. He was thoroughly warmed up, keen to compete.
“Your name’s not here, son,” said the rotund pink official. His straw hat’s brim cast an ellipse of shade across his nose, producing a beak-like effect.
“I sent my entry via the Internet. I got a confirmation from the meet director. I know I’m entered in the meet!” Jeremy explained, a bright white dread engulfing him.
“This is the only list and you’re not on it.”
“What should I do?” he pleaded. “Can’t you just write my name down and straighten things out later?”
“That’s the rules, boy,” blustered the reddening man. “If you’re not on my list, you’ve got no number, and you can’t race.”
Jeremy was sprinting up the stadium steps to the press box to find the meet director when the loudspeaker blared:
LAST CALL FOR THE MEN’S 3,000 METER STEEPLECHASE. SECOND CALL FOR THE WOMEN’S JAVELIN THROW. FIRST CALL FOR THE WOMEN’S 1500 METER RUN.
The dreaded final call had been transformed. It usually felt like a call to his execution and signaled the final excruciating moments before the release of the starter’s gun. This time, it was confirmation that his ship had weighed anchor without Jeremy on board. He had focused on this meet all season. Now he had no choice but to stand and watch.
The preliminary heats were won in 8:35.06 and 8:40.77. Two days later, O’Neal won his fifth national championship in the steeplechase, unchallenged, with a time of 8:29.63.
* * * * *
Brenda Jankowski’s job was to compile and print the entry lists for the U.S. Championships from Internet and mailed-in applications. When her boyfriend, Hank Jeffries, was bumped off the list of twenty-four steeplechase qualifiers, she had to do something.
She scanned the entries and looked for the youngest runner. She scrubbed Jeremy Stanfield from the computer’s memory. He was young – he would have lots of other opportunities to run, she reasoned.
Then she phoned Hank Jeffries.
“Hank, Honey,” she told him. “You got into the meet! If you win the trip to Europe, can I go with you?”