The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [92]
31
Henry and Starblind stood facing each other, pounding out curls with heavy dumbbells in perfect rhythm, Henry’s right arm moving with Starblind’s left, Starblind’s right with Henry’s left, as if each was gazing into a mirror. Starblind’s eyes flicked down to check out Henry’s blood-gorged biceps as if they were his own; Henry reflexively did the same.
Little Loondorf groaned and squirmed on the flat bench. Izzy hovered over him, shouting, “Come on, Phil! Take the pain, vendejo. The pain is like gas!”
“The pain is like a gas,” counseled Schwartz. He supervised from a metal folding chair, a newspaper in his lap and towel-wrapped ice bags on both knees. “It expands to fill up whatever space you give it. So we shouldn’t fear pain. A lot of it doesn’t hurt much more, or take up more psychic space, than a little bit. Viktor Frankl.”
“Come on, vendejo! The pain is like a gas!”
Henry and Starblind reached their hundredth curl. The dumbbells dropped from their weakened grasps and bounced off the rubberized floor. “Let’s go down to the track,” Henry said.
Starblind ran a sweat-slick hand through his hair. “Now? You’re nuts.”
“Let’s go.”
Starblind sighed that sigh of his—a long, exasperated, put-upon sigh, as if other humans had been designed especially to annoy him. As if he hadn’t dumped Anna Veeli, second-hottest girl in the school, to go out with the hottest, Cicely Krum. They headed for the door.
The track was empty. The moon hung early in the violet sky. “Hundreds,” said Henry.
“How many?”
“Twenty.”
“That’s crazy. I’ve got to pitch this weekend.”
“Fine. Twenty-five.”
“Whatever’s up your ass,” Starblind said, “leave it there.”
They took off through the dusk. Starblind won the first one easily. He had sprinter’s speed, an extra gear to kick it into; the track coach was always begging him to show up, untrained, for important meets. They walked to the next set of lines on the track, took off again.
“Two–zip,” Starblind said.
Henry nodded. He had never beaten Starblind in any of their many races, whether up the stadium steps or here on the track or side by side on adjacent treadmills in the dead of winter, their sneakers slapping faster and faster against the fraying woven rubber of the treadmill belts as the motors creaked and moaned, their shaky index fingers jabbing the buttons that added tenths of miles per hour, sweat flying around the room like water off wet dogs.
Starblind won the next two, each time opening a wide gap in the final fifteen meters. “How do my shoe bottoms look?” he asked. “Clean?”
Henry grunted. True, he’d never beaten Starblind—but they hadn’t had a full-on race in a long time. He was fitter than he’d ever been. “That’s four,” he said.
Starblind won the fifth and the sixth and the seventh. Henry hung on his shoulder like a bad angel. As they walked toward the starting line for race number eight, Starblind was gasping for air, his rib cage heaving up and down. Henry kept his inhalations quiet and shallow: hide your weakness, hold your advantage. If he wanted to beat Starblind it wouldn’t be by speed. He would have to break his will.
He took a lead in the eighth, but Starblind came roaring past. Motherfucker, Henry thought. He wanted to grab Starblind by the collar of his sleek silver shirt and jerk him back, fling him down on the track, stomp on his chest. He had no special reason to be pissed at Starblind, but he wanted to hurt, wanted to hurt somebody, and Starblind was right here, asking for it.
“How many is that?” Starblind asked, as if he didn’t know.
“Eight.”
“Already?”
They flew side by side down the track, legs flailing like a ragged four-legged beast. “Tie,” Henry said firmly.
“What? Fine. Tie.” You had to hand it to Starblind—he trained hard, he was in great shape. But now he was leaning forward, hands on knees, gasping for air. Trying to buy a little time before the next sprint. He was dead meat.