12 Sports Aces, May 1943 — page 28: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

CORI A Pre RY t Sy PASSO OMY MWe eRNTT | be M8 os tout pled 2¢ ; 12 SPORTS ACES acs > <img Aa ea a Pal ec RD ip At An A Pate Te a al a Ts a Fi Ta tc ae a “How do you feel? Gonna take ’em?” “Maybe. Who knows?” Larry said and walked out, stepping carefully in stocking feet on the gravelly rubble. Perhaps he was rude, but he never liked talking be- fore a race. The siightest activity could wear you down and he didn’t want any- thing to go wrong today. The finalists were lined up for the sixty-yard highs when he reached the track. He found a shaded spot by the grandstand and flopped on his stomach. This was his ninety-first race coming up, and in a way it was all very silly. He’d started running as a kid because it was two miles to school and you kept warmer running. Later when he showed up for the mile at high school, he ran 4:40 his first time out. He won his first race in 4:32, rating a line or two in the local paper. Larry liked the look of his name in print so he kept it there the next three seasons. He won the National Inter-Scholastic, his senior year, in 4:21:75. There was nothing for it but college. At State he majored in English. He didn’t learn much about Shakespeare, but he ran 4:12 in his final year. Six years ago, that was. And now he was twenty-seven years old; he sold whisky for a living—and he was still run- ning mile races. He took off the white sweat socks, shook out his spikes and laced them on, strap- ping them tight with the roll of ad- hesive. Joe Cogan came ral over. Cogan was slight and hard in the Cun- ningham, Lovelock tradition. There were beads of sweat on his forehead where the hot sun hit him. “Hi-yuh,” he said. His drawl sounded relaxed, but he was a bundle of frazzled nerves now, as always with a race im- pending. “Siddown,” Larry said. “Take the load off. Relax.” Cogan was bouncing up and down on his toes, calf muscles rippling. “I gotta stay loose.” The sun was dipping behind the grandstand. It was hot, but the air was as fresh and clear as spring water, “Good day for it,” Larry said, “Yeah,” Cogan said. “It’s a day for a record.” The big horns blared first call for their race. Cogan wheeled and jogged around the rim toward the start. Larry lay where he was. It was hot enough to fore- go his warm-up. Anyhow first call didn’t count. There’d be the usual stalling around while the crowd’s appetite whetted. _ He tried to relax, but couldn’t. For no reason that made any sense at a time like now, he got to thinking about Peg Starrett and how it had been between them. Two years ago he’d gone back to State to run a special mile for old Pop Lan- ning. Cogan was there; and it was Larry Hanlon, the picture runner, against Co- gan, the bantam truck horse with the world famous kick. Larry went out fast with his graceful ground-eating steps. He grabbed the jead at the midway mark and for a while held it. He thought he had the race on ice until the last fifty yards when Cogan came pounding up and took over. Larry tried to sprint with him. He couldn’t sprint. The beautiful stride de- serted him. The juice drained out of him and Cogan romped home. Pop was pleased though. The time was 4: 79:8 and it made all the papers. HAT night at the Inn, Larry felt like a grandfather among the current crop of rug cutters. The campus wise- cracks and pat phrases left him unac- countably bored. He was going to sneak away early when he spotted the girl. She was dancing with a red-faced kid who was built like a halfback. She moved in a graceful halo of lacy white, accented by scarlet slippers and a single rose in coal-black hair. The minute he saw her Larry moved across the floor and cut in. He tried to remember how he’d danced in college. He said hesitating, “I’m Larry Hanlon, Lo..." “T know.” The husky tone of her voice tickled a sudden void in his stomach. “I saw you run today,” she said. “I’m Peg Starrett.” — (EOLPMIE KOOKS (E(0)