Doctor Fastest

in which howard cosell and the devil's north american agent give a marathon race a helping hand--from the author of "Love Story" and "Oliver's Story"

John Fast. His every move in life belied his name. "Seems not as quick as other children," wrote his kindergarten teacher. "Slow at grasping concepts" is inscribed upon his Newton, Massachusetts, high school record.

Still, after graduation, John was hired by the U. S. Postal Service. As a sorter. In the intervening years, he stayed a sorter. Which says less about the U. S. Postal Service than it does about John Fast.

Along the line, after a lengthy courtship and a long engagement, John Fast married fellow sorter Millie Lowe. They had two children, Sara and Cornelius. Meanwhile, Millie was promoted several times. She's now a third assistant postal supervisor, with a desk in downtown Boston. John plodded on in Newton. And remained a sorter.

More than just inherent slowness had kept John from advancement. For he always wasted too much time on reading what he sorted. Not the letters (John was not a Watergater), just the magazines. Particularly ones about athletics. Most of all, the ones that dealt with track.

He jogged each day. Just for the fun of it. Three miles in roughly 27 minutes. And as he ran, he'd daydream about what he'd read that day. For instance, when Frank Shorter won the Fukuoka Marathon, John imagined it was he who'd won. (In 2:11.) And how the Japanese would honor him. He'd even hear the speeches, though--because they were in Japanese--he merely could pick out reiterations of his name: John Fast.

The more he read, the more he grew depressed.

"I wish I had been great," he said one day to Millie over breakfast.

"Everybody does. The Reader's Digest says that means you're nearing menopause."

"I don't wish I was great," said young Cornelius. "My teacher says the most important thing in life is people should be happy."

"That's just it, Cornelius," John retorted, "I just can't be happy till I'm great."

"Don't hold your breath," said Millie. Kindly. For she loved him very much. And yet, herself a senior officer, she knew already of projected plans for John--that did not include a rise from sorting. By 1984, swift new machines would take his place. And he'd be put in stamps. Thus, all she added at this moment was, "I've made your favorite Boston cream pie, John."

In the interim, John read the magazines and dreamed. The Boston Marathon passed half a mile from where he worked. And so he watched Bill Rodgers on his way to victory and a new course record (2:09.55). The mayor--on TV--then placed a wreath on Billy's head. The people all hurrahed.

In England, Davey Bedford ran 10,000 meters in a record 27:30. (John took that much time to run exactly half that distance!)

Yes, as the publications he pored over testified, runners everywhere were gaining glory, rising from the mediocrity of ordinary life and getting photographed and cheered.

He wondered if his wife was right. Was he already doomed to anonymity?

•

In any case, while brooding (i.e., reading and not sorting), he then came across an ad in Runner's World:

You too can win!!!

Write P. O. Box 99, Memphis, Tenn. All inquiries confidential.

He wrote that very day. That very week he got an answer: "Let's have lunch on Monday. Pick you up at noon." The note was signed by "Toffy Tofales, the Memphis Mastermind." The letterhead was starkly simple, bearing just the message: You too can win!!!

"You too can win, John."

These were the very first words spoken by the gnomelike stranger as they sat down in a booth at Franny's Luncheonette. Toffy ordered B.L.T.s for both of them. And turned to John and said:

"What would you like to win at?"

"Um--anything," said John, "gin rummy, bridge, the Massachusetts lottery...."

The visitor then smiled. "What about the Boston Marathon?" he said.

"The what?"

"You've heard of it?"

"I've dreamed of it! I've even dreamed of running just to try to go the distance. But I'm much too slow to even make the qualifying time you need to enter."

"You could win," repeated Toffy Tofales of Memphis. And his tone of voice, both confident and icy, sort of disconcerted John.

"What's the secret, mister? Pills? You pushing dope or something?"

Tofales just smiled. "I'm a businessman," he answered. "I'll give you something if you give me something. Simple, clean and legal. If you're genuinely interested, I'll guarantee you'll win the Boston Marathon."

A silence. John reflected. Then at last he spoke.

"What time?" said John. His hopes had suddenly been roused from hibernation.

The gnome now smiled again.

"Is 2:11 fast enough?" asked Tofales.

"Billy Rodgers' record's 2:09.55," said John, a trifle wistfully.

"You want the record, too, eh, John?"

"Um ..." he answered. And he hoped he wasn't blushing.

"That's OK," said Tofales. "How quickly do you want to win?"

John thought a minute. What the heck, the whole thing isn't possible, so why not ask? "How about a new world's record?"

"Sure," said Tofales quite affably. "In marathons they're unofficial, but---"

"Oh, that's OK," said John, although the tinge of disappointment he betrayed was proof that he still thirsted for some great official spot in running history.

"Then, of course," said Tofales, "we possibly could find a warm-up race in which you'd break Dave Bedford's record for ten thousand meters."

"What? For real? Me break 27:30? What's the secret? I mean--what's the catch?"

"Nothing, John. It's just a simple, clear-cut business deal. I'll give you what you want, you'll give me what I want."

"I want," said John, "to win the Boston Marathon in ... 2:06--no, make it 2:05. And run ten thousand meters under ... twenty-seven minutes."

"Agreed," said Tofales.

That's it? He didn't bargain, balk or hesitate? Or say it might be difficult? For, after all, it was impossible.

"What do you want from me?" asked John.

The stranger looked at him and said:

"Your soul."

John dropped his B.L.T.

"You're the Devil, aren't you?" he gasped, his heart now pattering in panic.

"No, stay loose, John. I just handle North America for him."

"Why do you want my soul?" said John.

"Because you want to win so badly, and we figure you'd be willing to trade off."

"No," said John, "I have a wife and kids."

"They would be well provided for."

"But---"

"And," continued Tofales, "you'd be a hero. They would all be proud. As things are now, you're doomed to obsolescence as a sorter. Soon a machine will take your place."

"How do you know?"

"Believe me, John, the Devil reads The Wall Street Journal every day."

"Oh," he said.

This changed the picture greatly. Here he was, now fated for still further ignominy, soon to be consigned to more obscure obscurity. And at the same time, he was being offered ... glory. Earthly crowns. To drink profoundly from the well of greatness.

This was not an everyday occurrence.

Still, he had to have a few more details.

"How," he asked nervously, "how do I ... die?"

"You come with me," said Tofales. "I hand you over to the Prince of Hell."

"In Memphis?"

"Hell is not in Memphis, John. Memphis is a lovely city."

"Where, then?"

"In California."

"Really?"

John had never seen the Coast.

"The Devil operates out of a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel."

"So hell's in Hollywood?" said John.

"I didn't say that. But it's in the near vicinity."

"Say--can you tell me what it's like?" asked John.

"Come on, we haven't even made a deal."

"We have! I mean, we will. I mean---"

Negotiations clearly had concluded. From his pocket, Toffy Tofales withdrew (continued on page 235)Doctor Fastest(continued from page 194) a contract. Then he opened a catsup bottle, smeared some near the signature and gave the document to John.

"You don't need blood?"

"The Hollywood equivalent is catsup, John. Now with your index finger, sign where you see---"

"No," said John.

"What's wrong?"

"I have to read it first. I have to, Mr. Tofales."

"Of course. Please take your time."

John studied it with care. Amazing! For not only was it typed with his full name but it also indicated with precision in what time he'd win the Boston Marathon (2:04.59!) and his future record at 10,000 meters (24:33!). And, of course, the price:

In exchange for the aforementioned achievements, and immediately upon their fulfillment, I, John Fast, hereby promise to transfer my soul unto the Devil. As well as all publishing, mechanical and film rights to my story.

"What's left for my family?" said John.

"Your wife will get a fortune from personal appearances."

John nodded, speechless.

"Will she miss me?"

Tofales was diplomatic. "She'll be very busy with the children."

"Will they miss me?"

"Yes."

And thus assured, John Fast then signed his soul away.

•

The uniform was white. The warm-up suit was white. The shoes were white on white. There was no indication of their provenance except a tiny label: Designed in hell. Distributed by Jacques of Brooklyn.

They practiced in the nearby armory, which John had always thought an empty shell, closed after World War Two. But Toffy knew of an open door. And somehow in the middle of the rubble had set up an oval track. Two hundred yards around. Tartan surface, so it seemed to John.

There was also a loud-speaker system.

And an electric scoreboard with a timer (digital, in lights).

"Um, how, exactly, do we start? I've just been doing three miles---"

"That's irrelevant. All we need is to rehearse."

"Rehearse?"

"Your winning."

"Huh?"

"Today," said Tofales, "you'll just run single laps and break the tape. And practice smiling. Then we'll work on gestures."

"How about a V for victory?" suggested John.

His mentor nodded with approval.

"Just like Richard Nixon," said the Devil's representative.

"I'm a Democrat," said John.

"Like Winston Churchill, then."

"OK."

•

As days went by, they practiced breaking tape. Then smiling. Making Vs like Churchill, waving to the fans.

One evening Tofales slipped on a wig, turned up the lights red-hot and said:

"Now pretend I'm Barbara Walters. Let's rehearse your interview."

•

John never told his wife a thing. (Toffy was severe in this regard.)

Yet Millie noticed that his mood was up. She also noticed that his sweat suit sort of flashed. And Johnny wouldn't let her touch it.

"It isn't dirty yet," he'd say. "It's new material that never needs a wash."

And Millie said, "OK." Because she loved him very much.

•

Debut!

The first meet was the Massachusetts A.A.U. Cross-Country championship. John casually suggested that the family spend Sunday out in Franklin Park. The kids were overjoyed; a powdered-sugar snow was on the ground.

"Hey, look--some guys are gonna race. What wouldja say if I jumped in?"

"You'd look ridiculous," said Millie. But with kindness. For she loved him very much.

"Besides---"

And then she noticed underneath his parka he already had on his sweat suit, whiter than snow. And was wearing track shoes, whiter still.

Six miles. With sloping hills. He won in 27:12.

Tofales was present, naturally. Dressed as a priest. Taking movies "for the junior high boys."

Next day at the armory, they ran the films of John's performance.

"Smile's OK," said Tofales, "I think Vs could use a bit of work." And on they practiced.

His children were delighted. Kids in school had seen their father's picture in the papers. John was proud that they were proud. It sure seemed worth ... the effort.

At the Postal Service, word came down to give John Fast time off for practice. Millie saw the telex. It had come from Washington.

Actually, she'd never been too much for sports and so she didn't know quite how to take it.

"John's been jogging ever since we've known each other," Millie told The Boston Globe, for lack of other comment.

"Tell her not to call it jogging," Tofales irately said to John the next afternoon.

"It doesn't matter and I wouldn't hurt her feelings," John replied.

"It does," insisted Tofales.

"She'll soon see, anyway," said John, and stooped to lace his track shoes.

True enough, when local Boston merchants raised the cash to pay their transportation to the nationals, his wife had caught the bug. Oh, my, she'd never left New England in her life.

Chicago! Cold as....

Millie stomped her booted feet to keep from freezing.

Runners to the marks (almost 1000)!

Many of them John could recognize from years of reading. He was taking off his sweats as Toff approached, today dressed as a bearded rabbi.

"That's Frank Shorter," John said with a tinge of awe. His words puffed out into the winter air. "Frank looks in shape. The papers say---"

"Dun't vorry," Rabbi Toff replied, "stay looze and dun't beliff de joinalists." He stroked his beard and, with John's sweats across his shoulders, shuffled off.

As the readers of Sports Illustrated should recall, the issue of November 30 contained a photo (on page 12) of John Fast winning. Shorter, badly out of focus, was at least 100 yards behind. The caption read, "Too Fast for Frank." The newsmen really grooved on Fast's name.

And now the invitations to the indoor meets began to inundate the quiet Newton street where John and Millie lived.

Word came down again: Give John time off to travel.

First Philadelphia, the famous Wanamaker Mile. A new meet record: 3:57.2.

Tofales refused to let John talk to local television.

"We'll hold out for Cosell," he whispered. "He's the Devil's favorite."

Word quickly reached the offices of ABC. (Toffy called Roone Arledge and, by babbling like an idiot, convinced him he was someone from the A.A.U.)

"This guy might be big," said Roone. "Let's get an 'Up Close' on him, just in case he happens."

TV crews were sent to Boston. Tofales, expecting that Cosell might ask about John's "secret," had prepared a piscatorial reply.

"Fish," said John to Howard.

"Fish?"

"That's it. I think my turning point came when I got eating heavy on the fish. In fact, Mr. Cosell, I'd say I owe it all to fish. And to my wife, of course."

"Well," said Cosell, while signaling the camera to come close on his own famous face, "John says it's fish, I'd say it's talent. But who knows? There's only one thing we can say with certitude. John Fast is getting faster. Very soon, indeed, the world will call him 'Dr. Fastest'."

Next weekend at the Garden in New York, John ran a memorable two mile. His splits were 4:06 and 4:05.5: Total time, 8:11.5, a new world's record.

John became a household word.

Mothers now made children clean their plates, invoking this new hero's name ("Eat your fish and you'll be great like Dr. Fastest!").

Even Millie started cooking seafood every night.

"Again?" groaned John.

"But on the television, dear---"

"But that was for my image, hon. Let's call up for a pizza, huh?"

•

He suddenly got rich. Race promoters offered him enormous sums to grace their meets with his participation. In a single month, he won eight races--and $10,000. Which, no fool, he stored inside the freezer.

("If you put it in the bank, the IRS will trace you," Toffy Tofales advised.)

It now was March, and Dr. Fastest owned three indoor records: mile (3:52 = $3000); two mile (8:11.5 = $2500); and three mile (12:12 = $1200). Still, not one of these--however gratifying--was related to the legal contract that had promised him the record at 10,000 meters. And the Boston Marathon. Subsequent to which....

Well, let us not think tragic thoughts just yet.

Where to run 10,000 meters in the month of March? They'd better find a race. For April, what the poet called the cruelest month, was almost nigh. There'd be no racing right before the marathon. Fortunately, Florida exists. And had 10,000 meters on its end-of-winter relays program.

Millie, John and the kids flew into Gainesville three days early. Wonderful when you're a star. There are suddenly expenses for the family and even carfare for your dog or cat.

As it was spring vacation, all the college teams were there. And were they anxious to watch John work out! Thus, Tofales composed a whole scenario (which naturally excluded practice smiles and Vs for victory).

Witnesses will not too easily forget his pair of workouts in the Sunshine State. Six times a mile in 4:04 (440 jog to rest up in between). The morning of the race, a little speed for sharpening: three quarter-miles in 46.4; 46.2; 46 flat. Athletes gasped. Some even drooled. Still others thought of giving up the sport.

Naturally, Tofales was supervising. He was hanging by the track.

Dressed as an orange.

•

Even though it was a star-studded field, it seemed a foregone conclusion that John would win. His rivals even thought so. Shorter said as much, and Lasse Viren spent an hour trying to convince him to wear Nike track shoes. Las Vegas odds were 14-1 that John would take the record and 2-1 that ABC would win the time slot.

Then the gun!

John ran the first lap in exactly 60 seconds.

And continued at that pace.

In point of fact, he ran every one of the two dozen laps in 60 seconds.

And then kicked.

Thus, after six consecutive four-minute miles, he sprinted and broke the tape in a world-shattering, mind-boggling 24:33!

The fans all rose to offer him a well-deserved ovation.

John Fast smiled.

He raised his hands in perfect Vs.

He ran a victory lap. Also 60 seconds flat.

In a quiet corner sat the Memphis Mastermind. Dressed today like an accountant. In his pocket ledger, the smirking Tofales now wrote: Half of deal complete. Lucifer would doubtless telegraph congratulations--even flowers--to his motel room.

"What's next, John?" inquired Cosell at trackside. "What new mountains will you try to conquer?"

John Fast puffed a bit ("Pretend you're out of breath," he'd been instructed).

"Well ... I think ... the Boston Marathon."

Cosell looked straight into the camera. To tell it to the world the way it was.

"Twenty-six excruciating miles! And--let us not forget--385 yards! That's living hell!"

"Yes, Howard!!"

Cosell was wiser than he knew.

•

Roone Arledge woke his network boss, who was in bed.

"What, Roone?" he growled. "I'm very busy."

"Boss, I want us to go live--with twenty cameras--on the Boston Marathon."

"Rooner--are you crazy? We have soaps on weekday afternoons. Your cockamamie joggers' festival could lose our bread and butter! No, forget---"

"But, boss, I've got the latest numbers. Listen to what John Fast does with the women nineteen to forty-nine. Sunday's share was eighty-one!"

"No shit, Big Redhead. Really? Truly?"

"Yes, boss, no prevarication. And we'd have them all for almost three hours with John in the marathon on live."

"Sounds awesome, Roonie-baby. Take the ball and run!"

•

Up in Boston, strange new tension filled the air. Especially the quiet Newton street where John and Millie lived. And most of all within the heart of Dr. Fastest.

He was ultrafamous now. Even dogs barked lovingly in admiration as he strolled the street (he'd wanted to be by himself, to think). And owners of the dogs would say things like "Hi, John," "God bless," "Good luck." And once or twice, "Could you spare me twenty bucks till payday?"

But what he wanted most of all was just to spend time with his family. Curious, that's what he'd always done before charisma struck.

Moreover, as the final race day neared, John sensed within himself an evergrowing longing not to die.

But how to beat the Devil? It was signed and sealed.

Clearly, he could not consult a lawyer.

No, there was no loophole, anyway. There was no escape.

His greatest pain was that he had to keep it all from Millie. And, putting it quite bluntly, he began to get cold feet.

He wasn't really ready ... to depart this life.

"Ah, but you have to be," said Toffy. 'After all, a deal's a deal and we are honorable people. Anyway, we're flying out that evening, when the stories are all filed. First-class to the Coast. Do you want me to find out what the movie is?"

"No," said John.

•

The night before the race. The children, tuckered out, were all tucked in. John could not sleep. Millie, sensing something, woke to find her husband not in bed.

He was standing in the trophy-laden living room. Staring out the window at the stars.

"John, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just couldn't sleep," he answered, without turning.

"But you've never had these nerves before," she said. "I mean, it's just another race." She paused. "Isn't it?"

"I guess."

"What's wrong, then, John?"

John Fast turned and faced his wife. His eyes were filled with tears.

"I'm gonna die," he said.

She took him in her arms to comfort him.

"Oh, John, it's just the Boston Marathon. You'll be all right."

He couldn't tell her more.

She took him by the hand back to the bedroom. He slept fitfully. And now and then he sobbed.

Alarm clock! Race day! Time to drive to Hopkinton to start the race.

The local ABC affiliate supplied a limousine and driver. And Cosell himself, for whom no local substitute exists.

"Johnny, this is it. This is the big one, John, the longest and most grueling test a human being can subject his body to."

"Yes, Howard."

"How do you feel, Big John?"

"Urn---"

"Frankly, you look absolutely scared to death."

(This brilliant line had been supplied to Howard by the major writer hired by the network for the big occasion.)

John, in trepidation, not to mention mortal fear, was longing to say something to the TV fans.

"It's ... um ... Howard ... my last race."

Cosell reacted with appropriate astonishment.

"What's that, John? The legendary Dr. Fastest won't be representing the U-nited Stales at the O-lympic games?"

"Yes, Howard. I mean ... no."

"This is ab-so-lutely as-tonishing! At the height, the very pinnacle of his career, John Fast is hanging up his track shoes! Why, Big Johnny? Tell your people why!"

Howard pushed the mike near John Fast's mouth, Death Valley parched.

"Because ..." he started.

John was desperate. Does God exist? If so, would He be tuning in to ABC? He longed to ask Cosell: "Does the Almighty watch the tube?"

"Howard--uh--do you believe in God?"

"John--what a question! All of us at ABC believe in God." (And inwardly he thought: We call Him Nielsen.)

"Well ... then ... you'll understand if I say ... God is more important than ... a victory in track?"

His heart was praying: Lord, be tuning in and pity me!

•

The Hopkinton gymnasium would make a sardine can seem spacious by comparison. It buzzed with several thousand runners, chatting, stretching, telling lies about their training. Wintergreen was wafting in the air.

Snakelike lines of athletes waited to pick up their numbers. Other queues were waiting for the doctors to examine them. (A marathon can kill if you're unfit, as we all know.)

Clad in whitest white (it really shone today), John entered. Suddenly, the hum became a hush. All eyes were on him. Not a sound except the click-click-clicking and the whir of cameras. Although John walked within a swarm of journalists, he ached with loneliness. He'd left his family outside (to get his number and return as soon as possible). There were so many things he longed to say to them.

His eyes were glazed. He didn't want to look at anything. Indeed, he didn't want to see damn Toffy Tofales of Memphis anywhere.

Yet there he was! Disguised as---

Not disguised!

He was himself. He was--let's say it--Mephistopheles. In all his awesome awesomeness.

Clad in a black Adidas track suit.

And black track shoes, which had even blacker stripes on them.

And wearing on his head--to hide we all know what--a stocking cap. Of black.

"I'll be with you today," said Mephistopheles.

John Fast wondered: Hasn't anybody noticed this most terrifying creature?

"All the way, John. Every step. We'll finish at the finish line together."

John shuddered at the sound of "finish." Anger mixed with fright.

"You don't trust me, do you, Mephistopheles?"

"I don't trust any human being, Fasto."

Fasto? Where was all the previous respect? The camaraderie? The friendliness?

"Drop dead," said John to Mephistopheles, who laughed at the absurdity.

It suddenly occurred to John he hadn't kissed his wife and kids goodbye. He thought he'd be right back. But now this demon wouldn't let him move. He was immobilized by some infernal chains.

Oh, Lord, why did I sin in wanting so to win the Boston Marathon?

John was on line. His turn was coming soon. Officials sat behind a table. You would state your name, they'd find it on the list and call your number to a second clerk, who'd fish it out and hand it to you.

Overseeing all was race director old Jock Semple, legend in and of himself. Scottish Jock, the great defender of the rules. As much an object of both awe and fear as Lucifer himself. (To whom, throughout the years, he had been now and then compared.)

A Harvard athlete stood before John in the line. He spoke his name.

"Pete Reider."

And the clerk called, "Reider, number 809."

The second clerk gave Pete his number and he moved away.

Now John's turn came.

"John Fast," he said.

"Hi, Johnny," smiled the clerk, then called, "John Fast."

"No number," said the second clerk.

No what?

"What's Johnny's number?" asked the first clerk once again.

"Zero. He's not on my list at all."

"But that's impossible," an icy voice hissed, "I sent the entry in myself."

It was Mephistopheles ventriloquizing through the body of the death-doomed hero.

"Ain't got no number for no Johnny," said the second clerk apologetically.

John felt a steely grip around his upper arm.

"What trick is this, John Fast? What trick?"

The lights, of course, were on John now, the cameras live, anticipating the great pin-on-number ceremony. Jim McKay was posed to commentate.

"No trick," John whispered. "I don't understand."

"Jock Semple!" the officials called in unison.

The mighty Scotsman trotted over.

"Yass?"

"We have no number for John Fast."

" 'Course not, ya bloody foools," Jock burred.

"How come?" asked John, his head vertiginous.

"Yer entry cunna be accepted, Jun," said Jock. " 'M sorry, lad."

What? said a million voices in the bowels of hell.

"What?" said Mephistopheles through Johnny Fast.

"A rule's a rule," Jock Semple said. "Ya shoulda read the blooody entry form. It says a rooner hasta qualify. He must've roon a marathun officially in under three hours."

Universal consternation. Cosmic chaos.

Jim McKay was in there quickly with the microphone.

"But, Jock," said Jim, "this man holds every record in the world, from one mile through ten thousand meters!"

"I read the blooody papers, Jim," said Jock. "You oughta read my blooody entry form. The man has never roon a marathun. An' we got standards here in Boston."

Jock now turned his back to the camera and went off. He had no patience with McKay, the network or with anything except official runners. He would not care a whit to learn that Arledge now was shrieking to McKay (by earphone) to get Fast into that race--or they would both be up a creek.

Jim sprinted after Jock.

John Fast watched this drama speechless. And unable to decide if it was God or Lucifer (or slight insanity) who made Jock Semple move in wondrous ways.

But Mephistopheles was clearly panicked. He was now muttering, "Oh, no, no, no, no, no."

McKay had collared Jock. Although all the press now clustered to shout questions and some expletives, they let Jim be their spokesman.

"Now, Jock," said Jim insistently, "let's say--with all due reverence--that today was Judgment Day and the Messiah came here first to join the race. Would you deny a number to the Savior?"

"Absolutely not," said Jock. Then quickly added, "If he met the qualifying time."

Indeed, Jock Semple is an honorable man. And before he walked away to speak to runners from the L.A. Striders on the course's topography, he said to all the journalists collectively:

"Now go to hell."

Back across the gym, John Fast could hear the words of Jock.

And suddenly the adamantine grip around his arm no longer was.

For Mephistopheles had gone....

•

In a minute, John was outside with the wife and kids.

Millie never asked him what had happened. For she loved him far too much.

"Are you disappointed, John?" a journalist inquired.

"No," said John, disguising his euphoria (the remnant of his drama training with the Memphis Mastermind).

"What are you gonna do?"

"Well, first, I'll take my family for breakfast...."

"And then after that?"

"Do what I always do the day they run the marathon."

"Which is?"

"Watch the race"--he paused--"and maybe dream that I was running."

"Tofales was present, naturally. Dressed as a priest. Taking movies 'for the junior high boys.' "