Pulp Fiction, 1943 · page 30 of 100
12 Sports Aces, May 1943 — page 30: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Page Analysis This is **story prose** from a pulp fiction magazine titled "12 Sports Aces" (page 28). The text depicts a narrative about a competitive runner named Larry Hanlon who, after conversation with a coach named Pop Lanning, decides to attempt breaking a world record despite Pop's skepticism about his sprinting ability. The passage concludes with Larry preparing for a race at what appears to be a track meet, with competitors in their starting positions and a starter preparing to fire the starting pistol. The story focuses on Larry's determination to prove himself both as an athlete and as a salesman.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
28 12 SPORTS ACES | 2 8 1 Ore Qer Por PoeGee Goer ePrreior Decide + Hor Bs + Ges Por Pro hee Pee Bs Dee +o Dee Deo ee Boe De De Hoo Ge Dr Coe Son Doo G Poe Ger Pre Pre Pardo Por Geo Peo Geo Pra Pe- Pee Pre Peo Ge Dre Der Poo Pee eres Grow “But not enough. And if I don’t make the grade before I’m through running, - you'll let me out?” The old man’s eyes wavered. “We have no kick about your work, Hanlon: You're ‘not top man. Nor bottem either, but a year or two from now, if you quit run- ning, you might be. There’s no use over- looking the help of a well-known name— in this business especially. Once folks forget who you are. ...” His shoulders rose in an empty gesture. Larry nodded. It was cute, he thought. Oh, very. He simpiy would have to be- come a real salesman before he guit run- ning. That was going to take some doing. He was a quiet guy. He’d never been much of a mixer. But maybe the best salesmen were just his type—the converted intro- verts, the cool quiet guys who made them- selves friendly. The bluff smile and the slap on the back were out. Salesmen were made, but it took years to do it. There was still some time—a year more of running, another perhaps before the sports-minded public forgot him. Did they have to forget him? He wondered. They hadn’t forgotten Cunningham or Paavo Nurmi. There was the answer. Hang up a rec- ord, something for each year’s crop of newcomers to aim at. Every time they ‘came close you were back in the head- lines, a perennial big shot. The next time he worked through State he looked up Pop Lanning. “T wanta rack up next year, Pop. But first I wanta hang up a record. Got any ideas?” Pop wagged his gray head and looked like a cynic. “World’s record, Larry?” Larry nodded and Pop said, “You’re crazy.” Larry wanted reasons why. Pop said, “T had you for three years up here and i’ve seen you run plenty. You’ve got pace; you've got a sweet running style. As pret- ty as a picture, but you’re no world cham- pion.” Larry got stubborn. “Why?” he per- - sisted. Pop started picking fluff off his coat. “You're a front runner, kid. When the going gets tough you fold up, Not that you don’t have the guts. It’s trying to match the other guy’s sprint that kills you. It busts your beautiful stride wide vpen just when you need it. You can’t sprint. Stride’s ail you’ve got and you know it.” Lo “So I run one race and forget the oth- ers. 1 pace it, Pop. I could do it. There's a record in it.” Pop shook his head. “Better men than you have tried it.” Larry wasn’t convinced. It was his champion’s pride, he supposed. What Pop said stung plenty. He’d never figured him- self that way, in the years he’d been run- ning. - That winter he really went into train- ing. Joe Cogan licked him twice in the Garden, but the times were good. Larry dreamed up a crazy plan, based on what Pop said. It was a screwball stunt, a long shot. But what better time could there be for a gamble? E GOT UP, relaxed and easy, and loped toward the start. Bellotti, in from the coast, looked burned and fit, ° trained to the minute. Joe Cogan trem- bled with nerves as he knelt digging holes. Levering of Columbia, the fourth entrant, was standing by idly. In the draw Larry got the second lane, with Levering on the pole and Joe Cogan and Bellotti outside him. The hubbub from the grandstand died and the booming horns took over, identi- fying their names and numbers. The starter flicked a final cartridge into his pistol and his arm came up as he faced them. “On your marks.” Larry got down in his holes and took a deep lungful of air. Joe Cogan’s calf muscles were trembling beside him. He saw Cogan’s quick harsh breaths and wondered how the man had become a champion, wasting so much before the race started. “Now set!” On fingertips, eyes straight ahead. He would take the lead from the start. He smiled, thinking how that would flab- bergast them. Larry Hanlon, the picture runner, racing it out for pole position. EOMIE OOO KS (E(@)