The Front Runner

psychotherapist, David Silver, whose aim was to help gay students adjust rather than attempt forcible "cures." We advertised in campus publications across the country.
    In particular, athletes were welcome to our service. Here we were open not only to students, but to men and women in amateur open and pro competition. The strictest confidentiality was maintained. And gay athletes did come to us, nearly all of them in the dark of the night. If I could name names, I would include a list here that would not be very long, but would astound for the range of ages and sports that it covered.
    We also had a gay switchboard. It was open from six P.M. to midnight and two of the boys were always on phone duty.
    I can still hear Billy picking up the phone in his dorm room and saying, "Gay Prescott." At first he was a little nervous, dealing anonymously in this way with strangers' problems. But with some pointers from Silver, he finally relaxed, and was able to pour his compassion into the telephone.
    On October 7, I went into New York for the Monday trackwriters' lunch at Mamma Leone's.
    I hadn't been to one of these lunches since before leaving Penn State. Even after coming to Prescott, even after starting to coach my three star runners, I had stayed away, because I didn't feel confident enough. But this fall, I felt mentally ready for it. I had a whole
    bunch of good runners to do PR for, and I wanted to announce that Prescott would be holding its own first college cross-country meet on campus in late October. What could be more simple?
    Mamma Leone's looks a little like the Baths of Cara-calla, with gloomy arches and Roman busts everywhere, offset by the many tables with red-checked tablecloths.
    About fifty people were there, mostly coaches and reporters, and they were putting away lasagna and spaghetti with clam sauce and many martinis and beers. They were all listening to coach after coach get up to the microphone and give news about his team or his upcoming meet and try to make it sound so compelling that the newspapers would write it up. The air was so full of cigarette smoke that my eyes watered, and the reporters were scribbing notes and asking questions. Only a single woman was present, a reporter. It was a very male, very conservative, very businesslike atmosphere.
    I was sitting at a side table with Bruce Cayton, who had left the Post and was now freelancing, and with Aldo Franconi. Aldo was an old friend, one of the few who stayed on speaking terms with me during the dark days after Penn. He was coach of a Long Island team, head of the metropolitan AAU track and field committee, and one of twenty-five members of the executive committee of the U.S. Olympic Committee. Aldo was one of those gruff, paunchy guys who is the salt of the earth of track, and devotes his entire life to it.
    Both of these old friends of mine were curiously subdued. I did my best to make conversation. As we were waiting for my turn at the mike, I said, "I notice a few more people are speaking to me these days. Just a few."
    Aldo looked at me strangely for a moment. "They're jealous," he finally said. "None of them have gold-medal prospects like Matti or Sive on their teams."
    I tried hard with Bruce. "Bruce," I said, "you didn't have much effect at the Post. They don't run any more track news than they used to."
    "The Post is interested only in four-legged runners," said Bruce, swallowing a martini whole.
    When I went up to the mike, I suddenly felt nervous. I was going into battle and they were going to shoot real bullets at me. I was a Marine making my first landing. The fifty faces, in the blue air, amid the glowering arches and the Roman busts, seemed hostile. I told myself I was imagining things.
    I managed to give them my little spiel. I told them about my influx of class runners. I told them that Prescott would be a team to watch that year, that we were very strong on paper and that we planned to go to all the NCAA meets and burn everybody. I told them about our upcoming cross-country meet and urged the reporters to turn out in full force to cover it.
    A last-minute rush of nervousness overcame me, and I didn't say anything specific about my three gay superstars and how their training was coming along.
    The restaurant was silent.
    "Any questions?" I asked.
    Another silence. Finally one coach said, "You say you're going to have a girls' event at this meet?"
    "That's right. A two-miler. We've got a strong girls' team now, and we're