The Front Runner

reading OUR BILLY, GO
    VINCE, LOVE FROM THE GANG IN NEW JERSEY, BEAUTIFUL THINGS, etc.
    In the seats behind me, I could hear a couple of crusty old right-wing track nuts muttering that they were sickened by all this.
    In other areas of the crowd, I saw other enthusiastic supporters of ours. One group had a sign reading BE KIND TO "THE ANIMAL." They were young radical and liberal heterosexuals, mostly students, who were taking up the gay cause the way they had black civil rights. The publicity that Billy had gotten, and his appealing ways, were rapidly making him something of a gay guru with these young people.
    When we arrived at the Garden that night, we had to fight our way through a crowd of them. It was good to feel loved for once. We were crushed, hugged, kissed, jostled, wished well and touched. Billy was fighting off a dozen screaming girls and scrawling autographs and laughing. Some of them were wearing T-shirts that said GO BILLY.
    "Can you believe it?" he said when we got in. "We have a few more friends."
    When the athletes started coming out onto the track
    and warming up, they were no less colorful than the gays. Lately track and field athletes had been blossoming out in mod attire for the indoor meets. Vaulter Marion Wheeler was there in his patchwork warm up pants. Shot-putter Al Diefenbaker was wearing his flowered T-shirt. Black sprinter Ted Fields had on a bizarre embroidered vest.
    Bob Dellinger was out there warming up too, wearing his regular UCLA warmups.
    But when Billy and Vince shucked their warmups, the crowd gasped a little, and a wave of whoops and wolf-whistles went up from the gays. The two of them were wearing tracksuits that glittered in the bright lights. Billy's was a little more subdued, a gold jersey. But Vince's was a blatant silver, and it set off his wild black hair and beard and his hirsute body admirably.
    Billy and Vince had done it as a joke. "All those other runners are gonna be in indoor drag," said Vince. "We have to show them that there's no doing things halfway."
    But from Dellinger's look of disgust, I knew Billy and Vince were in for a rough night.
    When the two-mile started, there was pushing and shoving such as I'd seldom seen. It looked more like the women's roller derby than a men's track event.
    Billy went out at a suicide pace. Dellinger and three others went with him, sitting on his back. Vince lay back, waiting to kick. Lap after lap, everybody elbowing and spiking. The crowd was screaming for blood. The gays yelling, "Burn 'em, Billy!" The old guard howling, "Smoke 'em, Bob!" The liberal students shrieking as if they were at a rock concert.
    Billy and Vince were beautiful to look at in their now sweaty silver and gold. I could feel every eye in the place mesmerized by them.
    With a lap and a half to go, Vince moved up for the kill, hurtling along, his white teeth showing through his beard with delight. Billy and Dellinger were running shoulder even. Dellinger shoved Billy. Billy ignored him, so Dellinger leaned on him again. This time Billy scored a solid hit on Dellinger. The man behind Billy, running boxed in, reached forward and shoved Billy
    right in the middle of the back, but Billy kept his balance and shot forward, starting his drive.
    Vince came up beside Dellinger, and Dellinger elbowed him in the ribs. Vince bared his teeth and hit him right back. The crowd was on its feet, howling. Dellinger was leaning on Vince again. Billy's drive was burning Vince off, and he pulled ahead, leaving Vince to deal with Bob.
    The next thing everybody knew, Vince had thrown a miler's flying body-check on Dellinger. The two of them staggered and stumbled aside, I jumped up, panicked, with visions of falls and injuries in Vince's invalid legs. Then, as the rest of the field raced on by, the two runners had recovered, and they were punching each other.
    The crowd roared as if it was a heavyweight championship, taking sides.
    The officials raced out and shoved the two of them off the track before the field came around again. In the infield, the two runners started slugging each other again. By then I was there myself, trying to pry Vince off Dellinger. Vince had a bloody nose and red spots were dripped down the front of his sweat-soaked silver. Dellinger had a swelling eye.
    "You whore," snarled Dellinger.
    "You straight pig," said Vince. "you keep your fucking fascist elbows to yourself next time."
    Billy, aware of what was happening, poured on his strong new finish and