Hey Team,
Here's a first look at that fiction piece I've been working on. Enjoy!
~ ~ ~
“You’ll be the one, Dash,” the official says quietly, lest the other runners hear.
“Thank you, sir.”
Dash Thorogood takes a deep breath and dances on the starting line, bouncing on his toes and letting his relaxed arms swing free. Wembley Stadium is packed on this warm August evening. Dash knows without looking that he is the main attraction: the teenaged girls banging their palms on the tin signs lining the homestretch bleachers: people calling out his name at random; the empty tea stand which patrons and employees alike have abandoned to witness the first four-minute mile in history; and, as always, his father smoking his pipe by the finish line, stopwatch clenched in his right fist. Dash knows that Tim Thorogood’s thumb hovers above the start button, wanting to get the most exact possible split time, firmly believing that this digit has a faster reaction time than the forefinger once the gun sounds.
Dash flashes his eyes towards the other runners toeing the white chalk line on the cinders. The German is his only concern. A glance at his father, who now looks his way and nods encouragement. He absorbs the energy in the stadium as the crowd quiets for the starter.
“The mile run, gentlemen,” the official in the dark blue blazer and gray slacks informs the field. He also wears a tie and flat cap. Polished brass buttons fasten his jacket. “Four laps of the oval. There will be two commands: ready, steady, and then the gun. You must come to a set position and remain completely motionless before I fire.”
The starter holds a pistol in one hand and stopwatch in the other. Behind him, six similarly dressed timers are poised with stopwatches in their right hands. Some have chosen to wear a flat cap. Others, a Panama skimmer.
The starter walks away from the athletes, coming to a halt ten yards up the first turn. The stadium is now completely silent, with the exception of a drunken young man yelling “you can do it, Dash!”
“Shut up” and shooshes from the crowd come from up and down the backstretch.
The crowd is once again still. Not a whisper can be heard.
The starter is annoyed by the lack of respect shown by the drunk, but also just as much by those in the crowd who shut him up. This is his stage. Not theirs. He revels in the command of his role — the drama.
His name is Richard Gardner. He is 67, married to the same woman since he came home from the war 20 years ago. Dickie was a sprinter back in the day, first in his youth, but later at Gallipoli at the advanced age of 46. He lost his first wife and his four sons in a house fire when he was just 22. Ironically, he made his living as a firefighter back then and answered that very call. The grief was like a shroud. Joining the army became his refuge. When the war ended and he got married again, British Athletics filled that void. First, as a local volunteer, raking the long jump pit and adjusting the hurdles. Then, as a timer, with the Omega stopwatch and special jacket. Finally, after 15 years, he was voted worthy of managing the starter’s pistol and controlling the pace of an entire meet. Slow on warmer days like today, quicker when the rain and cold make the crowd punchy. Not a day goes by that Dickie Gardner is unaware that Gallipoli was the making of him — of how the mud and dysentery killed so many of his mates that the only man available to sprint messages uphill from the Dardanelles Strait to the shit-infester battlefield trenches was a middle-aged enlisted man. He never talks about it but everyone – even many young runners, as he has been told — know his story.
So Dickie Gardner, still watching his pints and quarts to remain fit and healthy, considers it just and right that he fires the starting gun for this momentous day in human history. Burton may have found the source of the Nile (or was it Speke?) but Everest remains unclimbed and the four-minute mile unbroken. His whispered words to Dash Thorogood on the starting line are Gardner’s prayer. Forever more, he will be known as the man who fired the prophetic starting gun.
Now, Gardner makes the crowd wait just a little longer.
“Runners ready,” he booms in his parade ground voice. To Gardner’s satisfaction, the words echo around the cavernous stadium.
Each runner takes one smart step forward and crouches just behind the starting line.
“Steady.”
The frozen runners balance in place, doing their best not to step a toe over the chalk. Gardner holds them for an impossibly long ten seconds. The runners tremble and grow angry, barely able to hold a stable position.
“Fire the fucking gun,” yells a voice from the stands, starting a low grumble of agreement from the crowd.
“Stand up,” Gardner orders the runners. He lowers his pistol. Boos rain down on the track. Dickie Gardner, now realizing he may become known as the man who ruined the four-minute mile attempt by grandstanding, no longer waits on the crowd. The runners are close enough to hear him just fine.
“Runners ready!”
One smart step to the line.
Gardner raises his pistol.
“Steady.”
The field holds firm.
Starter Dickie Gardner fires his pistol. It is the same military-issue Webley Mk VI he wore at Gallipoli, so much higher in caliber than the small starter’s handgun he normally uses, which only fires blanks. The difference in volume of sound is like the contrast between a cannon and a cap pistol. He notices, with a small stab of delight, that several runners are openly startled.
Dickie Gardner only brings out this handgun for special occasions. This is actually the first time he’s used it at a track meet. He holsters the pistol and stands back to watch his moment of glory unfold.