Dick Randall, the Young Athlete

by Ellery H. Clark

It was four o'clock on a bright, warm afternoon in early May. Mr. Fenton, walking briskly toward the athletic field, stopped for a moment at the entrance, to gaze at the scene before him. In the ball-field, beyond the grandstand, the nine was playing a practice game against the subs. The tennis courts were filled, and the track and field men were putting the finishing touches to their afternoon's work. Ned Brewster, captain of the track team, was standing by the side of the high-jump path, and Mr. Fenton, as he crossed the field, stopped for a moment to talk with him. "Well, Ned," he queried, "what are our prospects? Will we draw first blood in the track meet next week, or will Ellis' desertion cost us the games?"

Brewster hesitated. "I don't really know, sir," he said at last. "A week ago, I should have said that everything looked fine, but now I'm not so sure. You see, Greenough's injury makes a big difference. I think he would have been certain of the hundred, and would have taken second in the two twenty, besides, but pulling that tendon puts him out of everything. The doctor says he can't possibly go into the meet.

"And then there's Dick Randall--I was never more disappointed in a fellow in my life. A fortnight ago, he was coming fast--his friend McDonald was simply doing wonders with him. Why, one Saturday afternoon I went over there with Dick, and he was certainly in great form. I measured everything myself, or really I could hardly have believed it. He did five seven in the high, and he cleared the bar by an inch and a half at that. He did twenty feet ten and a half in the broad, on his first try, and McDonald told him not to jump any more-- that that was good enough. And then he took his six tries with the shot, and did thirty-eight three. McDonald told me that day that if he could bring Dick up a little in the hammer, and if he'd get a little faster at the hundred and the hurdles, that he'd give Ellis and Johnson the fight of their lives in the Pentathlon. And then, just when all he needed was a little improvement, instead of going ahead, he started to go back, and he's been growing steadily worse ever since. It doesn't seem to be his fault, you know; he feels more disappointed about it than any one. He never sports at all, and he's the most conscientious worker on the squad. But there's something wrong. He isn't nearly so good as he was two weeks ago. You just watch him now. The bar is only five feet four."

Mr. Fenton looked on attentively, as Randall prepared to jump. There seemed to be a nervous hesitancy about his style. He started twice on his run before he could seem to catch step correctly, and even then, he ran more slowly than usual, as if he lacked confidence in himself, and rose awkwardly at the bar, without much of his former spring. Yet even with these faults, the attempt was none the less a good one. His body was higher than the stick, and he seemed, indeed, just on the point of clearing it in safety; but the necessary momentum was lacking, and despite his efforts, he fell heavily on the bar, knocking it off for the third successive time. He walked dejectedly out of the pit, and stood gazing at the uprights with wrinkled brow, as if striving to figure out the reason for his failure. Mr. Fenton walked over to him. "That was a good try, Randall," he said cheerfully. "A little more speed, and you would have had it. How are you feeling these days? Pretty well?"

Dick paused a moment before answering. "Well, to tell the truth, sir," he said at last, "I don't know what's got into me lately. I was doing quite well, two weeks ago, but now I'm no good at all. My weight is all right, and I feel all right, but I don't seem to have any ginger about me. Why, a month back I should have laughed at five feet four; I should have called that just a practice jump; and now today I try my hardest, and miss it three times running. And I've gone back in the broad jump--I can't do twenty feet now--and I'm not up to standard with the shot, either. The hammer is the only thing I've improved with, and I was so bad with that I couldn't very well have grown worse. Taking everything together, I'm really doing about as badly as a fellow could; and I don't see what the trouble is. I never practised so hard; I never thought so much about my events; I'm really discouraged."

Mr. Fenton glanced him over critically, from head to foot. He seemed worried and anxious, and while he appeared to be well up in weight, and while his muscular development was better than ever, his color was none too good, and his face looked somewhat drawn. Mr. Fenton gave a little nod, like a doctor who diagnoses a patient's condition. "Well, you look pretty well," he said, "but of course you've been doing quite a lot of work. I should say, in the trainers' language, that you were a little 'fine.' Why don't you take a rest, a complete rest, from now until the day of the games?"

Dick shook his head, without intending it, a little impatiently. "Oh, I couldn't, Mr. Fenton," he answered. "There's so much to learn yet, if I go into the Pentathlon. There's a knack I'm trying to work out in the broad jump, and that confounded hammer does bother me so. I think and think about it, and finally I imagine I've got the idea, and then I go out the next day and practise, and find I'm worse than ever. Why, one night, I even dreamed about it. I thought I threw it two hundred and fifty feet, and broke the world's record. Oh, but it felt fine. I was taking three turns, and spinning around like a top, and when I let it go, it went sailing off as high as the roof of a house. So the next morning I tried to remember how I stood in my dream, and how I swung the hammer, and everything, and then I went out in the afternoon and tried to put it all into practice and what do you suppose? I fouled about a mile, and got all tangled up in my feet, and fell down, and pretty nearly broke my neck; so I've lost all faith in dreams."

Mr. Fenton smiled. "I don't blame you," he answered, then added, "How have you been sleeping this last week or two, Randall? As well as when you came here first?"

Dick hesitated; then a little unwillingly replied, "Why, I haven't been sleeping so awfully well. It seems to take me a long time to get to sleep, to start with, and then I usually have some crazy nightmare or other about athletics, and then I wake up with a jump about three or four in the morning, and can't get to sleep again. But I feel all right, just the same. I'm not sick, sir."

Mr. Fenton laughed. "No, you look fairly rugged to me," he answered; "but take a rest from now on, Randall. Don't do any more work to-night; go in and get your rub; and forget all about athletics for a while."