The Front Runner
wait to get to Montreal. He wanted to burn up the whole world.
SEVENTEEN
THE huge stadium was packed with its 70,000 crowd. The place was overflowing with flags and band music and tension. Scattered clouds blew over—the place darkened and brightened as the sun came and went. It was windy—the flags unfurled smartly.
It was the opening ceremonies of the Games.
The whole group of us were in our seats down close to the track, opposite the stretch of straight that led to the finish line. John Sive, Delphine, Vince, Steve and the Angel, Betsy Heden, the Prescotts, a number of gay activists and celebrities. The only one missing was Jacques—he was off in the field immersed in research, but he had sent Billy a good-luck telegram.
Everyone in the group was excited at all the color except me—I had been to the Games before. But I had to admit that the Canadians were putting on the most magnificent show ever.
All that British love of pageantry was pouring onto the track. Mounties in scarlet, regiments of kilted Scots, the Parliament Guards from Ottawa in their bearskin hats. Then all the minorities of Canada were marching past: Indians and Eskimos, French Canadians, Germans, Ukrainians, all in costume.
I sat there bemused, exhausted from the weeks of struggle shaky with nervous exhilaration. The band music and the skirl of bagpipes dizzied me.
Only one lone marcher was going to mean anything to me. And soon he came.
The teams started pouring onto the track. Each with its flagbearer in the lead. In my old age, I had come to disapprove of the Games as a vehicle of senseless nationalistic politics. And yet, when the American team stepped onto the track, and I caught the first glimpse
of the Stars and Stripes waving over the massed heads of the athletes, I got an incredible case of the chills.
I clutched John's arm. "There they are," I said.
Slowly" the U.S. team came striding—the team that so nearly was torn to pieces by Billy's persecution. They marched in two solid blocks—the 226 men and the 83 women. They were all in their smart red blazers, the men in white trousers and the women in white skirts. The men wore blue ties and the women had blue silk scarves fluttering at their necks.
In front of them, alone, walked Billy. He was proud, graceful, almost military, bearing the heavy flag slanting a little against the breeze. His glasses glinted in the sunlight and his curls ruffled. He had a happy grin on his face.
As he paced slowly down the center of the red tartan track, the sections of crowd opposite him burst into cheers and warm applause. The applause followed him along like a slow wave.
Few athletes had ever come to the Games trailing as much publicity as Billy had. His fight to get there had finally turned much of the hostility to warmth or at least well-wishing. Most people in the stadium now seemed to feel, "All right, he's here, let's be kind to the Animal and see how he runs."
He was opposite us now. He knew our seats were up there somewhere, and he dared to loose one hand from the flagstaff and toss a little wave at us. I threw one arm around John and the other around Vince and hugged them both hard. I had a lump in my throat. John had tears running down his cheeks. Vince was nodding a little, grinning sadly at his own bad luck.
"Look at him," I said. "He would have made a damn fine Marine."
Delphine was sobbing joyously. "He's so fresh," he kept saying.
Steve had his arm around the Angel, who seemed to recognize his gentle acquaintance down there and was smiling a little, his blond mane blowing back against the knees of a stout middle-aged lady. Betsy was bouncing up and down in her seat, clutching Vince's arm. The Prescotts, sitting in front of us, turned
around with huge grins. Joe slapped me happily on the knee, and Marian squeezed my hand.
"We made it," said Joe. "It just hits me now."
The loudest applause for Billy was from the gays scattered through the stadium. Hundreds had come from the States, scraping together money for tickets and camping in the city parks. The richer gays had flocked to the Cartier Hotel, where John and Steve were staying. They had come from all the Canadian cities. They had even come flocking from Europe. Two rows in front of us, we could see a couple of handsome young Canadian gays in faded levis, yelling Billy's name and hugging each other.
The American team was past now. All we could see was Billy's mop of curls above the others' heads, and the flag
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