The Demon was a Natural. He floated around the track, surging, easing, making a mockery of the pitiful mortals who tested their limits of oxygen uptake, lactate tolerance, and muscle fatigue. At some point in every race, the Demon of Pain cast his net over the field of runners. All felt it.
Chapter Five
JOHN CORBIN
“Good evening, sports fans, and welcome to Cable Sports Network’s World of Sports. I’m H.R. Javitts.
“The Bears announced that Cedric Murphy, last year’s Rookie of the Year, would miss the next two weeks due to muscle spasms in his calves. Murphy tormented the Broncos last Sunday with two interceptions and a touchdown in the Bears’ 21-7 victory.
“The PGA announced that every golf tournament sponsor must increase their prize money purse by 25%. Tour chief Arnold Chesterfield cited increased costs incurred by touring pros for the demand.
“In baseball action tonight, the Yankees and the Marlins clinched their respective pennants and will meet in the World Series, beginning Friday in New York.
“Former heavyweight boxing champ Sugar “Cat” Washington signed a contract today to meet WBA title holder Reynolds Harmon of England in Las Vegas on January third. Harmon is guaranteed twelve million dollars. Washington will receive seven million, win, lose, or draw.
“This just in from Stockholm, Sweden: American and world record holder in the pole vault, Eddie Mullenix, lost to the Russian, Vladi-something Bornetzof at the Euro Meet of Champions. Mullenix was 30 centimeters shy of his record – looks like a big choke. A Brit set a new world record in the 3000 meters and a Moroccan did likewise in the ten thousand.
“Sure wish they’d go back to yards and miles.
“That’s it tonight from me, ‘Home Run’ Javitts. Back to you, Deborah.”
John Corbin sat in front of the TV and gritted his teeth. Announcers like Javitts are the world’s worst. All they care about are American pro sports – the big money. Who set the world records in Stockholm? Probably Lovecroft in the 3,000. But which Moroccan clipped Gebreselassie’s record, Mustaffa? How fast did they run?
Mullenix, Lovecroft, Mustaffa, Bornetzof. These men were John’s heroes. Although the amateur label ceased to have meaning in the 1980’s, Olympic sport, especially track and field, was still the forum for uncontrived, man-to-man contests. On the track, a hard-working amateur could challenge the full-time professional.
Corbin punched up the Cable Sports Network number.
“May I please speak to Mr. Javitts?”
A long pause. “Yeah, Javitts here. What can I do you for?”
“Mr. Javitts, I’m John Corbin of the Great Lakes Track Club. Thanks for mentioning the results from the track meet in Sweden on your telecast. Could you please tell me who set the world records in the three- and ten-thousand meters and their times?”
“Great Lakes Track Club? Is that here in Chicago? Sorry, kid. I just shredded that story. Maybe you could retrieve it on the Internet. Anything else I can help you with?”
“No, thank you,” said John. “Say, we appreciate all the coverage you can give to track. There are thousands of runners, jumpers, and throwers whose biggest reward is coverage on shows like yours.”
“Yeah, well, we do what we can for you guys. But my listeners are mostly interested in the pros.”
“O.K., thanks, Mr. Javitts. Good bye.”
John fumed. His advertising job with the Beckwith Group taught him one thing above all else: Publicity creates demand. Put me in charge, he thought, and I could make those Cable Sports Network viewers salivate for news of track, swimming, weightlifting – all the total effort sports.
Total Effort Sports were special to John Corbin. From grade school on, he believed that athletes were of two distinct types: Naturals and Triers.
Naturals dominated the skill positions in team sports, and consequently, the statistics and press coverage. Natural athletes were often boastful, arrogant – and most irritating – capable of high-level performance without total effort.
Triers hustled. You could count on a trier for second effort, for digging deep to complete his task, to play when injured. Triers trained hard every day, year-round. All the world loves a trier, John believed, but the media concentrates on the Naturals.
John gravitated to track because it was one sport where hard work yielded the most predictable results. On the track, John had met and defeated many naturals who had not prepared adequately. In the 1500 meters, with two laps to go, John had learned to force the pace. Oh, how good to feel the gap widening. It hurt, to be sure. But hurt was what John trained for every day.
Pain was the great separator. Running was a total effort sport – there were no time outs, no coasting, no substitutions. Excellence in running was, in John’s mind, conquest of self. Even in defeat, he felt deep satisfaction when the discomfort of a race was confronted and ignored.
Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, The Imp of the Perverse, described an unseen presence that implored a person to flirt with disaster through risky behaviors. John believed there was another imp that lived on the track, the Demon of Pain.
The Demon was a Natural. He floated around the track, surging, easing, making a mockery of the pitiful mortals who tested their limits of oxygen uptake, lactate tolerance, and muscle fatigue. At some point in every race, the Demon of Pain cast his net over the field of runners. All felt it. In some races, no one broke through and the competitors dragged the gleeful Demon to the finish line on his net. But on occasion, John felt himself break through the net, like a determined moth caught in a spider’s web.
Whether he won the race or lost, John relished his confrontations with the Demon.
Naturals dealt poorly with the Demon. Triers accepted his role in athletics. Things would never be easy for them. For triers, overcoming adversity was athletics, not an unwelcome intruder.
John Corbin was the best runner his high school had ever seen. But the Demon dominated his college career at Cleveland State until his senior year, when a new coach let him train on his own. Running alone, John rediscovered his love for training and competing – for himself and not for others.
In November, he left the Demon for dead, decimating a strong field at the muddy Midwest Cross Country Championships. After a hard winter of training, John Corbin won every 5,000-meter race he ran. Only an arch injury stopped him from competing at Nationals.
Harry Beckwith, a State alumnus, delivered the commencement address at John’s graduation. He hired John the following Monday. Beckwith’s speech was entitled, “Dealing with Demons.”
The Beckwith Group was more than a job for John. It was an unprecedented opportunity to pursue his Olympic Dream. John was 23 and fitter than ever before. He realized the odds of making the U.S. Olympic Team were prohibitive – except now he had Harry Beckwith on his side.
The old man told him about meeting Jesse Owens who spoke at his grade school in 1937. Despite the unreasonable expectations of the American public and press weighing down his spikes, Owens won four gold medals in Berlin.
Beckwith had watched Horace “The Horse” Ashenfelter win the 1952 steeplechase in Helsinki, defeating Kazantsev of the Soviet Union and breaking the world record in the process.
“That was the greatest of all Olympic Games, Helsinki,” said the silver-haired boss one Friday afternoon. At four o’clock, Harry brought an employee into his office to chat for the final hour of the workweek. John sat nervously, his tie tight and his back straight; he had been with the company for less than three months.
Beckwith, now 74, jogged three miles every lunch hour at Edgewater Park in downtown Cleveland. He attended every major track meet he could get to. Now, in John, he had found an interested ear for his reminiscences.
“Zatopek of Czechoslovakia was incredible,” said the aged athlete. “Uninhibited will-to-win, pure and simple. His 10,000-meters victory was easy – except for the French Algerian, Alain Mimoun. What do you know about the Helsinki 5,000, John?”
John, accustomed to listening, was taken aback. “Uh . . . I . . . Zatopek won it, I think,” he blurted.
“You bet he did, Son,” said Harry Beckwith, his eyes gleaming. “The race was a dogfight all the way. Eight men in it for eight-and-a-half laps. Then with four to go, the Czech bolted to the front. Mimoun, of course, went with him. Then Schade, the European champion from Germany, took the lead. Chris Chataway, a Brit, and the fastest man in the field, followed suit, and it became a four-man race.”
Beckwith looked thirty years old again, an athlete’s adrenaline raising him in his chair. His face showed no wrinkles; his eyeballs bulged, the whites showing. He had the visage of one of the men in the race.
“Schade gathered in the leaders with a solid 400-meter surge but with two laps to go, Zatopek sprinted again. They pulled apart like taffy. Then, as mortality returned to his body, Zatopek slowed and the four men reformed into a pack.”
John’s heart was pounding now. Never had the description of a race excited him so. The old man was on the edge of his seat, his voice hot and powerful. John almost rose to his feet.
Beckwith entered the final lap with the four Olympians. “You see, Zatopek was no speed merchant. In a 1500, the Czech would have finished last. Mimoun was snakebit and he knew it – in a dozen races, Zatopek had outrun him every time. But Schade was powerful and was just where he wanted to be. And no one expected Chataway, the miler, to be up there after 11-1/2 laps! With his kick, it looked like a gold medal for Great Britain.”
Beckwith gulped, panted a couple of times, then picked up the race. John stared at him with concern.
“So down they ran along the backstretch. With 250 meters to go, Zatopek gave it everything but Schade surged past him at the top of the curve. Then Chataway sprinted. For fifty meters, the race looked over. Suddenly, blinded by fatigue, Chataway stepped on the curb and stumbled into the infield. In an instant, Zatopek was back in front.”
Abruptly, Beckwith jerked open a desk drawer and lifted out a framed newspaper photograph. He thrust it across the desk to John. It was yellow and faded but there was no mistaking the moment. On the bend lay the Englishman, Chataway. In front was the indomitable Zatopek. He had only two meters on Mimoun, three on Schade. But there was something in the photo that had finality, like the race was over.
“See the expression on his face?” asked Beckwith. “He was the slowest man in the field over 100 meters but Zatopek was already there – he had willed his body to the finish line first. Mimoun’s head is back. It was the inevitable again, second place. Schade had never run a better race, but all it got him was the bronze medal.”
Beckwith took a deep breath. “That, young man, may have been the greatest race ever run. I hope before you retire from the track you can experience a race such as that one.”
Beckwith rose and headed for the door. “Well, let’s go home, John. Are you racing this weekend?”
John’s mind was still on the track in Helsinki.
“No, no races, Mr. Beckwith,” as he stood up. “Just a workout tomorrow morning at Lakefront Stadium. Then my long run on Sunday.”
“Good training, John,” said the again-elderly man. “Good for you. I’ll see you next week.”
Bill Szymczak willed himself to float the opening mile in 4:40, then set about running down the lead pack. He threw in a powerful surge at two miles and caught the leader, Jerry Roberts.
Roberts fought hard to drop Bill, but the short-striding Szymczak had the race in hand.
Don’t let it come down to a sprint, Bill reminded himself.
With 800 meters to run, the tanned, muscular twenty-seven-year-old lifted himself to full speed. In seconds, Roberts gave up the chase.
“Our winner, number 413, Bill Szymczak out of St. Louis. Time, 14:09,” crackled the loudspeaker. “Second place in 14:17, Jerry Roberts of Lee’s Summit. Let’s give these men a hand, your winner and runner-up in the Columbia Citizen-Press 5,000.”
Bill shook Roberts’ hand in the chute, smiled at the kids cheering for him, scooped up a cup of cold water, then jogged back up the course.
“Way to go, Frank!
“Kick, Ken! Two hundred meters to go!
“Finish strong, Norm!”
Two minutes later, the announcer’s voice blared, “Here comes our first woman finisher, Sarah Herrington of St. Louis. Her time — 16:22, a new course record!”
Minutes later, Bill hugged her soaking wet body, kissed her on the cheek, and jogged the course with her for a cool down. “How’d you feel, Sweetheart?”
“Felt great! Five K is a little long for me to race right now, but I felt really strong all the way. Thanks for jogging with me.”
They chatted with a few of Bill’s friends, collected their winners’ checks for $300 apiece, picked up their trophies, and prepared to leave.
The results for the twelve-and-under boys were in dispute. The race director pored over the computer printout but couldn’t solve the problem. There were three trophies for four sets of anxious parents and four small boys who just wanted to head home.
“Stop the car, Sarah,” said Bill. He hopped out, handed his trophy to the ten-year-old who was without an award, and smiled.
“Someday you’ll win a race and there won’t be any doubt about the results. Nice running, kids!”
They drove east on I-70. If they got home before five o’clock, he could get in another run.
———-
AM–5 km warmup; 5 km in 14:09; 5 km cooldown (Columbia)
PM–4 miles easy in the neighborhood
13 miles for the day