And as Dennis Hurley raced along that cold January day, he thought only about the exhilaration running gave him. It didn’t matter where he was. Voices in his head simply told him to take off. Once in stride, he visualized the luster about his legs, buoyant and fast, and of the driving force of his arms.  That’s how he felt that day running along the path, hidden by snow but outlined by large trees on either side whose limbs made slight cracking sounds, like distant pops on the Fourth of July. It wasn’t until the path ended that he came to a hard stop, the parish grounds now in full view. 

As Monsignor Cassidy climbed the rectory steps, he thought that on this day of days, when his dream was about to come true, he had just been forced to address that vulgar coach about a damnable sporting event…If only he had come a generation or two earlier, he could have bullied parishioners in Church Latin and excoriated damned souls to suffer light years in Hell. He didn’t necessarily mind that his role at St. Theresa’s afforded him regular opportunities to sharpen his wit with clever observations about doltish parishioners. 

Dennis was not at all interested in the money issues of his parents, who back in the day barely had enough to cover the first month’s rent for their Queens studio apartment over a Jericho Turnpike coin shop. Night after night, following a modest dinner atop a lumpy linoleum floor, Catherine Hurley opened the living room couch into a pull-out. Like some hotel wench, she whipped the bed sheets out and over the mattress. That’s why Dan Hurley did a double flip when his Uncle Billy, a retired New York City cop who had amassed a fortune shaking down perps, sold his three-story summer getaway on 32 Crocus to them for a song.

Once inside the sacristy, and greeting a wall of radiated heat, Dennis grabbed a cloth altar napkin. He dried the sweat off his face and neck. He wasted no time peeking out onto the altar. Indeed, the coffin and all the tall candles were gone. But he was startled to see the new man, Father Ken Garland, a young, pot-bellied priest with curly black hair and a small square jaw set inside a blubbery face.

Clicking his stopwatch, Coach Jack then shouted, “Now beat it.” The team took off running, Adam surging to the lead. Soon the core three broke ahead of Fenny and Mumbles. Legs pulled up the rear. 

Just as Coach Jack had demanded, the slow burn surge started at the second jetty, the hot pace maintained.

Coach Jack, impressed by the team’s overall effort, hurried to get the results to the cross-country board for all to see after they showered.

Mile Time Trial

• October 1974
• Feltman: 4:20
• Walker: 4:24
• Hurley: 4:26
• Fenny: 4:30
• Mumbino: 4:31
• Peterson: 4:44
• Legstaff: 4:44
• Mumbino: 4:31

“Now remember,” said Coach Jack right before the race to his runners, “the strategy that got us here in the first place. After bumrushing the goddam shit out of the opening hundred yards, the first mile’s all about biding your time. But once you hit the mile marker, it’s time to explode out of a canon. Time to poke the bear and start mowing down runner after runner over the next two miles. All the while telling yourselves that slinging dirt back at your competitors is the road to victory. So, boys, wadda you say? The moment’s at hand. The granddaddy of them all, the first ever state meet to include Catholic schools. Got it?” 

Tonight, Cindy was anything but one of those special cheerleaders sprayed with a powerful protective film. Plucky legs bouncing and snapping with energy. Instead her hair was tangled, mascara smearing downward, the top half of her shirt unbuttoned…Early that next morning, their sons still in bed, seven varsity fathers with worry on their faces occupied a rear table at the Apollo Diner. “So when my Adam got home well after eleven,” Harry Feltman explained, “Ida smelled booze on his breath.”

While at first the voices below were muted, there eventually came his father’s queer imitations of Bogey and Jolson, each mingled with his mother’s hearty laughter. Dennis went back down to the kitchen. The candles burned unevenly, dappled light on the thin layer of fried rice left on their plates. His parents stood by the sink, each holding a drink. Catherine Hurley saw her son and sighed, as if life was good again. Dan Hurley, on the other hand, with puckered lips knew it was a perfect opportunity to charge the fridge for more ice cubes.

Through the front screen window, Dennis stared across the field to the wall of summer trees that blocked all of the parish cemetery except for scattered headstones that, flickering like birthday candles from the moon’s light, broke through on its crest. 

Good God, he muttered as he stepped back to his bed and collapsed on it. If we had just left well enough alone after the picnic. Had we just stayed home!

With that, Dennis and William caught up to Peter and grinded up a long incline. They passed a good dozen runners in the process. But just as the three gapped a large pack on the long backside, Peter caught William’s spike and went down, Dennis forced to hurdle over him. William and Dennis slowed down to let Peter catch up.  

“You okay?” Dennis asked.

“Piece of cake!” Peter replied.

“F***!” William groaned, “then let’s go.”