Tour de France bicycle riders have an unspoken tradition. If the race leader falls, slips a chain, or has a flat, the field slows until he either catches back up or retires. No such tradition exists in track. A fall is simply an opportunity for others.
Chapter 30
JEREMY’S RACE
Harold Bond pulled away from the courthouse in Wellston at 5 a.m. He drove I-75 across the Ohio River, through the horse country of central Kentucky, and into the haze of the Tennessee highlands. Ten farmers from Wellston crammed into his rented van. Jeremy Stanfield was racing today for a place on the Olympic team and they wanted to be there.
“Good luck today, O’Neal.” Jeremy nodded a greeting to the only one of his rivals he really knew. Two hours remained before runner check-in but being at the track early erased at least one concern.
“Yeah- – hey, Jeremy. Good luck, kid.” O’Neal, elegantly attired in his satin USA warmups from the Atlanta Games, smiled to himself. Stanfield was still wearing that old green singlet.
Mary introduced herself to the row of farmers – Harold Bond was too distracted by the stadium to remember his etiquette. “I’m Mary Sanger, Jeremy’s friend,” she said, “and this is my father, Harry Beckwith.”
She went down the entire row, shaking each farmer’s coarse paw. To a man, they wore jeans, work boots, and baseball caps. They perched on their seatbacks like starlings on a power line.
Beckwith wore a light blue summer suit, an Olympic necktie, and a light straw hat. As always, Harry was comfortable with himself and put everyone at ease.
He asked if they’d ever seen Jeremy’s event before.
“You’re in for a treat, gentlemen,” said Beckwith. “The steeplechase is track’s most interesting race.”
He bought all the hot dogs in the vendor’s box and a case of soft drinks. By the time the race started, he was regaling them with Olympics stories. From a single row of ten, the farmers from Wellston now sat together, a tight knot of track fans around Harry Beckwith and Mary.
Mary trembled with excitement. Forty-five minutes earlier, she met Jeremy beneath the stadium, just before he began to loosen up.
“You know I love you, Jeremy. Have a good race.” She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him hard.
“Green is the color of courage,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.
Jeremy hugged her with his free arm. “I’m ready, thanks to you,” he said, then jogged down the ramp onto the stadium floor.
To a man, the steeplechase finalists were sore, their muscles still recovering from their heavy-footed slog on the flooded track in the semifinals.
Jeremy slipped on his spikes and double-knotted the laces, then spent a few minutes kneading the soreness from his calves.
The usual nervous prancing was more animated than usual. Pedro Perez and Robert Black seemed to have a contest going. Over and over again, first one, then the other, sprinted down the track and cleared the barrier in Lane 4 that would be placed across the track after the start.
The minutes crawled. Hearts pounded, the pulse felt in the temples. Arms tingled with excitement and apprehension. Finally, their names were announced and a blazered official approached with the starting pistol.
“Gentlemen, stand two meters behind the curved starting line. When I say ‘On Your Mark’, walk to the line and remain still.”
“On Your Mark!”
Twelve men, undaunted by the thirty-five barriers that lay ahead, walked to the waterfall start line and crouched, awaiting the gun.
BANG!
They lurched from the line and just one second later, six runners went down in a tangle of wiry legs, elbows, and spiked shoes.
BANG! BANG!
“Come back, gentlemen. Come back. Relax. We’ll take a few minutes to settle down and then we’ll try again.”
The carefully paced nervousness that preceded the start of a race was now psychological chaos. Eyeballs bulged from fear. Their fidgeting increased.
Kerry O’Neal had seen it all before. Ho-hum. A restart.
“Gentlemen, spread yourselves wider across the line, please. Stand back two meters. On your mark . . .”
The gun’s report released them once again and they fell into a brisk tempo around the curve, down the straight, and into the first of seven laps of obstacles.
Jason Christianson of Chevy Chase, Maryland, takes the lead over the first barrier. The announcer’s voice was clear and loud. Christianson won the first semifinal two days ago. Billy Vega, running in fourth, won the other semi. The Trials record is 8:12.20, set in 1996 by Kerry O’Neal of Columbus, Ohio. He’s wearing the USA singlet and is currently running third.
“Where’s Stanfield?” asked Gene Henry.
“There, middle of the pack. He’s the short kid in the green shirt,” Harold said, pointing. “Now they’re heading for the water jump.”
Pedro Perez of Santa Fe has taken the lead, followed by Christianson, O’Neal, and David Moore of Eugene. The top three finishers will become the United States Olympians in the 3,000-meter steeplechase, folks. There are six laps to go.
“That was a conservative start, men,” Beckwith told them, glancing at the stadium clock. “Someone will probably start pushing the pace soon.”
As if on cue, David Moore could be patient no longer. The six-foot, six-inch long-striding Oregon collegian burst from the pack and opened a fifteen-meter lead.
“Look at them hit that water!” exclaimed Charles Bennett, smacking his John Deere hat against his thigh. “This is one hell of a race!”
Moore leads with five laps to go, followed by O’Neal, Christianson, Perez, and Billy Vega of Littleton, Colorado.
Jeremy ran wide, avoiding the bumps and shoves that occur so often along the rail. This is the race to achieve your dream, he said to himself. Be of strong heart. Inexplicably, a fragment of song invaded his thoughts.
“All you need is love,” sang Lennon and McCartney, so Jeremy completed the phrase in his mind, “Da-da, da-da, da!”
“All you need is love. Da-da, da-da, da!” Over the barrier, around the curve, over the water jump, down the straight.
“All you need is love, Love. Love is all you need.”
Moore has opened a twenty-meter lead on O’Neal with four laps left to run. The time for that circuit, 64.7 seconds, was our fastest so far. Moving into third, from Wellston, Ohio, Jeremey Stanfield, in green.
The farmers hollered their encouragement. “Go, Stanfield! Go, Wellston!”
Jeremy skittered along the track and narrowed the gap between himself and O’Neal. Moore stepped the barriers with giraffe-like bounds while O’Neal glided each hurdle with equine grace. Jeremy, half-a-foot shorter than O’Neal, lurched over each obstacle with the grace of a barnyard goat.
Despite the contrast in styles, Jeremy ran efficiently. By the end of the fourth lap, O’Neal was just a meter in front of him.
Three laps remain in this 3,000-meter steeplechase final. David Moore continues to lead. His time of five minutes, one second, is on pace for a new Trials record. O’Neal and Stanfield are next in 5:04. Christianson next in 5:10. Perez, Vega, and Black follow closely.
On the curve, Moore glanced over his left shoulder and saw his two pursuers. But winning didn’t concern him – any spot in the top three would do. I’ll ease back and get some help from O’Neal, he thought. Together, maybe we can protect this lead.
The speed with which O’Neal caught Moore surprised them both. This is where I planned to take over anyway, O’Neal thought. I’ll bear down now. The third from last water jump loomed ahead. O’Neal slid wide to give the lanky Moore plenty of room.
O’Neal is down! Kerry O’Neal just fell into the water jump! Moore has the lead.
Moore swerved wide at the water jump barrier to allow O’Neal to pass on the inside. The trail leg of Moore’s eight-foot-long stride struck O’Neal’s foot as he stepped onto the barrier. O’Neal’s toe hit the hurdle and he flipped headfirst into the water.
O’Neal’s disorientation was total. He could not find his feet nor the upslope of the ramp. Three long seconds passed. He waded out of the water. Perez and Black soared past in full flight.
Dazed, O’Neal could not run. Instantly, a familiar face yelled at him. “Run!! Let’s go!”
It was Jeremy Stanfield. The boy in green stood on the track. He had stopped, turned back to the water jump to get O’Neal.
“Forget it, kid. It’s over. Get going,” said the dazed champion.
“Come on!” Jeremy screamed, “You can’t quit. You’re Kerry O’Neal!”
The conviction in the boy’s voice aroused O’Neal’s pride. Of course, I must finish the race. He accelerated back up to race speed. Jeremy ran just ahead.
There are now just two laps to go in this steeplechase final. Perez and Black share the lead in 6:06. Christianson lies third, Moore now fourth. O’Neal and Stanfield are coming through now in 6:14.
Harry Beckwith thought he had seen it all before: Fred Norris of England doubled back in the Boston Marathon to help Johnny Kelley to his feet; John Landy had stopped to check on fallen teenager, Ron Clarke, in an Australian championship. Never before, however, had he seen such a gesture – it was actually a sacrifice – in an Olympic Trials. There was simply too much at stake.
Jeremy did not think of anything but closing the gap. He turned after hurdling each barrier and yelled, “Come on!”
O’Neal’s pride steadily emerged from his inglorious mishap. Two minutes of running remained There are four other men up there but this boy believes in me. I must make the effort.
Mary had buried her head in her hands the moment Jeremy turned back to retrieve O’Neal. It’s over, she thought. Tears ran down her cheeks – they had worked so hard for this race and now it’s gone.
“Mary, look up here,” Harry Beckwith snapped. “Your boy is racing again.”
Harold Bond sprang from his seat in the stands and scampered down to the railing. One after another, his nine friends joined him, ignoring the commands of the stadium security guard to sit down.
“Go, Jeremy,” bellowed Harold. Jeremy recognized the voice above the noise of the frantic crowd. He lowered his head and accelerated.
O’Neal had regained full focus and courage. Stanfield sacrificed himself to get me back into this race, he thought. The least I can do is run with him.
With six hundred meters to go, Jeremy pulled alongside the long-striding Moore, giving him a wide berth. O’Neal followed closely. Over the water jump, Jeremy passed Moore and was now fourth.
Coming up to the bell, folks! What a race! Perez and Black hold a lead of ten meters over Christianson. Stanfield and O’Neal are twenty meters back. Let’s cheer these fine athletes home.
Pandemonium reigned along the rail–Harold Bond and his buddies started to chant and others in the crowd were joining in.
“STAN-FIELD, STAN-FIELD, STAN-FIELD!” boomed ten deep voices and Jeremy remembered that he was now a four-minute miler. He could run fast. He could bound over hog boxes, through deep mud, in boots, after a hard day’s work.
And there goes Stanfield! The announcer had lost all objectivity. He wanted athletic justice. Stanfield is closing, now moving into third. O’Neal is fourth. Black leads over the final water jump, Perez now second. But here comes Stanfield–and O’Neal!
Mary shook with excitement. She knocked Harry’s hat off and tugged on his sleeve, ripping threads at the shoulder of his jacket. She screamed so loudly nearby fans turned to see what was wrong.
“Go, Jeremy, you darling! Run! Run! Run!”
Stanfield swept past Perez over the final barrier. Black glanced back to see if he needed to kick. His glance came too late; Jeremy blew past Black with twenty meters to run. He was the Olympic Trials champion.
Jeremy spun around, gasping, to look for O’Neal.
Perez drifted wide to impede O’Neal. It was the wrong tactic to try on a master like Kerry O’Neal. Without a stride’s hesitation, O’Neal ducked through the gap on the rail and lunged across the line, third by the thickness of his pectorals.
O’Neal walked straight to Jeremy Stanfield and wrapped him in a bear hug, lifted the farm boy off his feet, and spun him around in a circle. Delighted cameramen captured the heartwarming scene for TV and tomorrow’s newspapers.
“You saved me, Jeremy. I don’t know why you did it, but you saved me. Thank you, kid. I can’t thank you enough. Did you win it?”
“Yeah, I won. Will you jog a lap with me? It would mean a lot to me if you would.”
O’Neal raised Jeremy’s arm in the air like a boxing referee would do. Jeremy was suddenly embarrassed by the attention. O’Neal grabbed an American flag from a fan along the railing. Holding Stanfield’s arm aloft, and waving the flag, O’Neal started the victory lap.
“Wait,” Jeremy said. “Let’s take Black with us.”