The unwelcome man

by Waldo David Frank

Quincy was too slight for foot-ball. So he “went out” for the track team.

He got the necessary suit and shoes. And he reported.

Quincy had reached full height at seventeen. He was fairly tall, lithe, splendidly loose-knit. His muscles were soft but long. His shoulders were sharp. His neck was thin and he held his head always slightly forward. He looked to be excellent material. The coach selected him for the “220 yard dash,” since he had no pre-conceptions on the matter.

In that first try-out, Quincy won his race. It was a strange and sharp experience for him. Ten panting fellows lined out beside him under the bleak sky. The cold air ate against the heat of his body. He felt free and the feeling gave him a sense almost of shame. He had no right to win that race! As his feet tore ground away, something within him told him to come in second, if need be—but not first! But he was unleashed. He raced with his soul. And he won, as if he had committed an improper act.

The upperclassmen congratulated him. His fellows also, did not seem to think that he had had no right to win. That night at dinner, his every word was respectfully attended. He was consulted upon the effect of cigarettes on “wind.” He was asked how many medals he had won at school. And when he answered that he had never raced before, they smiled with deprecation as if the fact of his nonage had been a boast of supernatural powers.

But in the atmosphere of new impressions, this strange event did not intrude too much. He slept well and early. He began to be troubled by the attentions of his class-mates. A few days later, he ran the “100 yard dash” and won again. He was subjected, now, to very direct attention, at the track house. He was rubbed down, massaged, questioned about his habits. The boys took him for granted. Upon the third day, he was asked in the field if he would try the “440.” He was willing. He finished third in excellent company. This time the captain of the college track team shook his hand.

“Burt, you’re the real thing,” he said. “Now work—! Train! There’s glory for you.”

Quincy got back to his room and discovered that he hated this favor into which he had fallen. He loved to run. He loved to race, although the conspicuousness of winning made him uncomfortable. What he detested was the “business” and the importance that had been attached to a quite natural and unassuming exercise. If it was joy to hurl himself through the air and wind, with his breast atingle and his head aflame, it was torture straightway to be currycombed—mentally and physically—like a race-horse. It was torture to be patronized by a shallow-mouthed senior who, by some insuperable right, was his captain and his mentor. It was torture to be told what to eat, when to rest, how to pace. And it was torture to feel himself engaged, harnessed, to run—whether the mood was there or no.

For a week more, Quincy bore this tyranny to which his prowess had subjected him. And then, calmly, bravely, he quit. He was not aware of the heroism of his act. And to be sure, there was no voice nor mind about him so to paint it. What he had done was cowardly, perverse, vicious and monstrous in the light of this new world. There was no possible alternative in viewpoint.

He had told the captain that he loved to run, but that he did not wish to make sprinting the master of his time and soul. The captain had smiled knowingly.