The Front Runner

threw a pleasant glow on the dark old board floor, on the threadbare Afghan rag before the hearth. I had bought the wing chairs and sofa and coffee table at the local thrift shop.
    The decor fit my needs exactly. Nothing fancy, so the boys could flop all over it. Easy to clean, since my ex-wife was still soaking me and I couldn't afford a cleaning lady. On the pine-paneled walls, I had photos of runners and a few fly-spotted old sporting prints.
    On either side of the fireplace were two doors. The one on the right led into a small sunny kitchen, with old-fashioned cupboards painted so many times you could hardly close the doors. I did as little cooking as possible, preferring to eat with the students in the college dining room.
    The door on the left led into the paneled bedroom. The hideous burled-walnut Victorian bed and dresser had come from the local Salvation Army warehouse. The big windows looked out into the spruce trees, but now the curtains were pulled. By the bed, another creaky door led into an ice-cold old-fashioned tile bathroom with a rusty shower and a cranky old toilet.
    Four of the cross-country team were already there. I had two of them bringing in more wood from the tarp-covered pile behind the house, and the other two in the kitchen slicing carrots to make carrot sticks.
    The Oregon three came at five after seven, just to establish their independence. They shucked their jackets and looked around.
    "Carrot sticks," said Vince with disgust, leaning in the kitchen doorway.
    "No junk food served on this campus," I said. "No potato chips, no hot dogs, none of that crap. Runners are what they eat."
    Jacques came into the kitchen and started cutting
    carrots with exquisite precision. He was a biology major, and had probably gotten his skill dissecting specimens in the lab.
    Shortly" they were all there. Joe Prescott came too, and settled into a wing chair (I had made a track nut out of him, and he came to the open house as often as he could). After initial awkwardness, they were all talking nicely, and my team discovered that the three newcomers were human beings. I showed a film of the recent national cross-country championship. We had a discussion, and all munched carrot sticks and cracked nuts and drank tea.
    It was a pleasant evening, and when the rest moved off at about 8:30, I motioned Joe and the Oregon three to stay.
    The five of us sat on alone by the fire, Joe and I in the wing chairs, and the three boys sitting on the rug. I said a few things that had been on my mind.
    "You know," I said, "I took you guys on the team in a weak moment. I don't regret it. But the more I think about what's ahead, the more I realize what a hassle it's going to be."
    They were all silent.
    "First of all, we've got to keep your being gay under wraps for as long as possible. I don't want you coming out on campus, joining the gay lib group or anything like that. Sooner or later, the rumor is going to get around, and we'll deal with it when it does. But let's buy ourselves as much peace and quiet as possible, for now. Is that agreeable?"
    They all nodded.
    "Another problem. When that rumor gets around, invariably people are going to remember what happened to me at Penn State. Did Billy's father tell you about that?"
    "Yeah, he told us the whole story," said Vince.
    "Okay," I said. "So I never touched the kid. But the fact is, the suspicion was planted in people's minds. Now, because of John Sive, you kids have become privy to information about me that very few people have. On this campus, for instance, only Joe and Marian know that I'm gay. Not even the other gays know
    that I'm gay. So I'm going to keep your secret, and you're going to keep mine. Agreed?"
    They nodded. "Agreed," said Jacques softly.
    "Because when you kids get forced out in the open, in all likelihood I'm going to be forced out too. That's going to be a painful moment. It might mean the end of my career for good."
    There was total comprehension in their young eyes. Joe was lighting a cigarette, and there was comprehension in his eyes too.
    "And that's just the human angle of the problem," I said. "Second, we have the athletic angle. I'm sure you know by now that there are conservative people in track who hate runners and coaches that don't conform. It doesn't much matter how they don't conform. The littlest misstep, and whammo."
    The boys' eyes met mine squarely as I looked at each of them in turn. They knew what I was talking about, but I knew more