The Front Runner

hit the tape for a new American indoor record in the two-mile.
    Then, hardly missing a stride across the infield, he headed for Dellinger himself. I blocked his way. Billy was convulsed with a cold fury—he kept trying to climb past me. We were a group of squabbling officials, coaches and runners as about two dozen of us tried to quiet them down. The whole meet came to a stop for about ten minutes.
    "Dellinger hit them both first," I said.
    "They're nothing but trouble," said one of the officials.
    "It's other people make the trouble," I said.
    "You stay outta my way next time," Billy said to
    Dellinger. "If I have to stop and break your neck right in the middle of the Olympic trials, I'll do that." Buddhist nonviolence was out the window.
    Finally the runners walked off the track and the meet went on.
    Vince threw his arm protectively across Billy's shoulders. Several students and gays jumped down and surrounded them. Up in the crowd, Delphine de Sevigny stood up and heaved a bouquet of long-stemmed American beauties down at Billy. They had probably cost him a week's groceries. Billy caught them neatly and threw him a kiss. John Sive was sitting by Delphine, grinning with pride.
    The old guard sat glumly, wishing for the good old days. I knew just how they felt. I had known the good old days myself.
    We didn't know it then, but the Millrose was the glittering peak of Vince's career. From then on, it was downhill into the dark.
    That weekend he had won the Wanamaker Mile for the third time. His rivals had pushed him to a 3:51.59 mile, which now put him second on the all-time list. But his fist-fight with Dellinger stirred up a storm of criticism. People conceded that Dellinger had started it, and that was all. New York Times sports columnist Andy Meagan suggested that Vince take up ice hockey and play for Philadelphia, a team noted for brawling.
    The anti-gay element in track hated Vince more than Billy, because of his impudence and his studhorse parading. After the Millrose, everybody must have decided that Vince had to go.
    At any rate, about two weeks later, Vince was barred from all further amateur competition by the AAU, who had just conveniently discovered that he had taken several under-the-table payments from promoters in the season before he came to me. They had the canceled checks.
    Vince was furious, then crushed.
    "Everybody was taking them," he said. "I know who, and how much. If I go, they all go with me." And he was planning on talking to the press. I shared
    to the full his heartbreak at this injustice. But I finally managed to talk him out of naming other names, pointing out that it didn't make things any better to have a hundred athletes suffer instead of one.
    Vince's tragedy stirred up once again the controversy about the sham basis on which amateur sports are conducted in the U.S. But all the soul-searching didn't help Vince. His Olympic hopes were dead. He cried bitterly, and there was nothing Billy or I could do to comfort him.
    A week later he had picked himself up and signed a pro contract with the International Track Association, for $70,000, and would be going on his first tour when school was over. But the sorrow stayed, turning into bitterness.
    Now they had shot two of my three young birds out of the sky.
    I worried about Billy more than ever. It had gotten so I was a chronic worrier. At the very least I was going to come out of this with a nervous breakdown, I joked to myself. At the most, I was going to have a gold-medal runner and a breakdown.
    TWELVE
    EARLY in April, Billy took a good two-week rest. It would be the last rest he'd get till after the Olympics —if he made the team. I cut him down to a couple miles' gentle running every day, and encouraged him to eat a lot and gain a few pounds.
    This rest would be the cornerstone of his Olympic buildup. By the Trials in mid-July, he would be sharp enough to make the team. The six weeks following the Trials would have him peaking by the Games. Billy could stay at a peak for about four weeks, racing flat out every three or four days, so I was hoping that, after Montreal, we could fly to Europe for some post-Olympic meets.
    By now, I had more or less taught Billy how to rest. He muttered a little, but did his daily two miles obediently.
    We both quailed at the thought of the summer ahead. If he made the team, officially he would not be my runner any more, till after the Games. He would be taken away to the Olympic training camp. From