The discotheque was jam-packed, and most of the dancers on the floor had drawn aside to watch Billy and Rita going at it. Rita had on a midi-length red jersey dress that showed off her litheness. Billy was wearing faded bellbottoms, and an ancient T-shirt that said keep on truckin', and he was irresponsibly, gloriously barefoot. Both their bodies were grinding, snapping, whipping, twitching. It was sexual, but also —somehow—pure and joyous. There was that gulf between them. She was dancing at Billy, but without hope. He was dancing at himself and me.
Vince and I stood there watching, as the crush of young athletes around the sidelines stomped, clapped, whistled and demonstrated their enthusiasm. Several of the other dancers were imitating Billy's style.
Vince was shaking his head. "The whole goddamn place is doing the boogie," he said. "Do you think they know what kind of a dance that is?"
"He's started a fad," I said.
We stood there being very amused.
Billy saw us there and threw us a theatrical wink. The crowd roared with laughter.
"Move it, Billy!" Vince called. "Shake it!"
"Aren't you jealous, Harlan?" asked a Canadian hammer-thrower.
"Jealous?" I said. "What for?"
When the music stopped, Billy and Rita came walking over. Rita gave an ironic little bow in my direction, as if to say that she was returning Billy unharmed to my custody.
Vince went wild at the Games too, but it was a different wildness.
The press, and the gays in Montreal, were aware of his presence there. He was becoming a kind of anti-hero—the one who had been cut down so unjustly. He followed the track and field events, and Billy's performances, with melancholy avidness. Training little now, he put in a couple of token miles around the area daily, and that was it.
In the evenings, when I was talking on the phone to Billy, Vince would plunge off into the night life of Montreal. He had blossomed out in a black leather cap with a gold chain on it, and seemed bent on tricking with every gay in central Canada.
What worried me most, though, was that he was drinking. I reminded him as diplomatically as possible of what hard liquor can do to an athlete's blood vessels.
"Oh," he said carelessly, "I'm just a little depressed and blowing off steam. I'm not drinking much. When we go home, I'll quit and start training again."
Not having drunk hard liquor before, Vince had no tolerance. In the wee small hours of the morning he'd crawl back to the press village totally smashed. He slept at odd hours, started popping bennies to stay awake, and didn't eat much. It was amazing how unhealthy and dissipated he started to look in a few days.
Billy tried to reason with him too. He was actually curt with Billy and said, "Just leave me alone."
Billy and I didn't see much of each other during the Games. For his own safety's sake I wanted him to stay shut up in that security-ringed Village. The U.S. dormitory was so heavily guarded that, even when I did get into the village, there was no sneaking inside to Billy's room to make love. And I didn't want to make a fool of myself climbing up to his balcony like a lovesick Romeo.
So we did without sex for a whole week. The only thing that made it bearable was the endeavor that we were both caught up in.
Since the USOC considered me persona non grata, they had not brought me to Montreal attached semiofficially to the team as they had several other coaches. To get myself in, I had wangled an assignment from Sports Illustrated to write an exclusive report on the Games. This got me in as a media person. Vince came with me as my research assistant. The two of us shared an apartment in one of the buildings in the press village.
So, with my press pass, I could get into the Olympic village to interview athletes and, of course, to see Billy. The military had no qualms about letting me in, because they figured I wasn't going to bomb anybody.
Whenever I came to the Village, Billy was always waiting at the main gate. The minute the troops let me through, he threw Ms arms around me. He stayed with me and Vince all through our interviews with other athletes. With work done, we could stroll over the lawns or sit in one of the outdoor cafes drinking milk or mineral water. We held hands, or had our arms around each other. Everybody seemed to get used to the sight.
When we were apart, we fell back on the telephone. We'd lie on our beds in our separate rooms miles apart, and talk about how much we missed each other.
"I won't last the whole Games," he said. "It'll make me too tense. Maybe one night I'll come out. We can spend the night in Dad's hotel room."
Or we talked about the experiences he was having.
"What a gas," he told me. "All these kids. Some of them are unbelievable. That's what the Games is, isn't it? It's like Woodstock in sweatsuits. It's just a bunch of kids getting together. All the adults with their politics and their rules are just not . . . not the Games at all. And it's so strange to be treated like a human being for a change. I'm going to get a swelled head."
"Are there any other gay people in there?" I wanted to know.
"Listen," he said, "you wouldn't believe. Not many, but some."
And he told me of several young people, two of them women, who had come out to him in private, and told him their gay griefs. He had spent some time with them, trying to help them sort out their feelings about themselves. "After they leave, I always cry," he said. "What can I do for them?"
"Any cruising in there?" I said.
"Well," he said, "like, yesterday, this decathlete wanted to talk to me. Turned out he didn't want any gay counseling. He wanted my body. I told him to get off."
But despite all the excitement and the human distractions, Billy didn't forget for a moment why he was there.
Some of the other athletes were partying too much, going to bed late, eating crazy things. But Billy went to bed every night at the exact hour he was supposed to. He worked out scrupulously, and was following his pre-meet diet down to the last spoonful, for packing glycogen into the muscles. Distance coach Taplinger was taking good care of him, shepherding him through the red tape.
Under every grin, every twitch of his body in the discotheque, Billy was aware of the red track waiting for him there in the center of the monster stadium.
When the 10,000 meter was run on the first Sunday of the Games, I went to my stadium seat with a strange mixture of peace and nervousness. We had done everything we could. All Billy had to do now was run.
What" can I say about his victory in the 10,000 meter? It isn't the 10,000 but the 5,000 a week later that I have to write the most about.
In the 10,000 he ran a perfect tactical race. It was his race from the gun. He took command, set a suicide pace, and ran away. Armas Sepponan was forced to set a faster early pace than he preferred, to stay within striking distance of Billy. In the last two laps, Billy eased off the pace, and Armas moved up strongly. But Billy had burned his kick to a cinder, and had just enough strength left to protect his lead.
They came balls-out down the final straight with Billy three yards in the lead, and the 70,000 spectators going berserk. Both of them were staggering. Billy was white with the pain of his liver cramps.
He hit the tape with both arms flung up in dizzy exultation. Sepponan crossed the line a half-second later.
I sat there so weak with relief that I could hardly react.
The times were up on the big scoreboard, but I already knew from my stopwatch. For the first time in history, the 27:30 barrier had been not merely broken, but smashed. Both of them had done it.
BILLY SIVE U.S. 27:28.9. ARMAS SEPPONAN FINLAND 27:29.4. JOHN FELTS AUSTRALIA 27:35.6...
Vince had shouted himself hoarse during the race, but neither John nor I had made a sound. Now Vince and John were both crying. They hugged me, and I was so stunned with joy that I hugged them back automatically. Betsy kissed me on the cheek, and I gave her a peck back.
The entire stadium was on its feet applauding, which always happens when a popular favorite wins.
Down on the track,
Billy was going berserk with joy. Striding back to the finish line, his face alight, he jumped up and down and blew kisses at the crowd.
Obviously the pain of the liver cramps was forgotten. Mike Stella had come in sixth with a respectable 28:01.2,.and the two of them hugged. Then Billy and Armas hugged each other. The two of them walked drunkenly around, sweaty and disheveled, their arms across each other's shoulders.
Then Billy started his victory lap. He tugged Armas with him, and motioned the other exhausted runners to join them. Shortly most of the field were jogging with him around the track. Billy and Mike and Armas went along hand in hand. The ovation went on and on. The cold chills just kept going up and down my body as I listened to that mass of humanity pay its tribute. He had repaid their warmth and support by showing them something new of what a man was capable of.
"Come on," I said to Vince and John.
We scrambled down to the trackside gate where family were allowed to join with the athletes when they came off the track.
Billy was just finishing the victory lap. He saw us waiting there and came jogging over. His face was wet with tears. In another moment he was in my arms, smelling of wet hair and wet cloth and good sweat. He held me so hard that he hurt me. Everyone was staring, but we didn't give a damn. His whole body was shaking as he cried with happiness.
I tussled his damp hair and said, "Hey, Mr. Sive, you were pretty good out there."
Then Billy hugged his father and Vince. He wiped his eyes on the tail of his singlet and pulled on his sweats, and then he cried some more. He hugged Tap-linger and Tay Parker.
Even Gus Lindquist thawed to the point where he said grudgingly, "Dot vas nice running, Billy."
An hour later, showered and somewhat combed, wearing the U.S. team's fancy blue warmups, he was on the victory stand.. The gold medal was glinting on his chest. He pulled Armas and John Felts up on the top step with him. The three stood straight and un-moving while the American flag went up and the anthem played, Billy was seen to shift his feet a little— he had bad blisters. He had himself under control now. He looked, simply, very happy and a little tired.
He had felt a lifetime's release. I envied him that release. It would have been nice to cry a little. But tears were not in my education. However deep my happiness and pride, my eyes stayed dry.
Not long after that, Billy, Armas and I were in the ABC-TV quarters. We were interviewed live for the edification and information of the folks back home. The three of us sat with commentator Frank Hayes holding the mike to our faces. We had one of those beautiful banal postmortems on a race, and homosexuality was not mentioned once.
hayes (to Armas): Do you feel that you made any mistakes?
armas (shaking his head): No. I am running smart race. I am starting my kick at just right time. But Billy is the more strong this time. That is all.
hayes: Are you disappointed, Armas?
armas (shaking his head again, with his elfin smile): In 1972 I am winning the golds in this double. Now Billy is winning them. It is fair. You must understand, I am not caring about the medals. I am running always against clock. My goal in this race is breaking the 27:30. So I am having the new personal record, and I am pleased. If Billy is not being in the race, maybe I am not running so good. Another time, possibly, I am being the more strong.
hayes (grinning): Do you feel that maybe that time is coming in the 5,000 next Sunday?
Billy and Armas looked at each other, grinning savagely.
armas: Billy is knowing that the 5,000 is my race.
billy (to Armas): Trying to psych me, huh?
We all laughed.
hayes: Well, let's hope that we can look forward to some more brilliant competition between you two.
billy: We're an ideal combination, really. The way we work at breaking each other, who knows how far we'll knock those 10,000 and 5,000 times down.
hayes : You don't feel that you've reached your ultimate?
billy: No. And I don't think Armas feels that way either.
hayes: How do you feel about owning a world record, Billy?
billy (with Virgo candidness): Good.
hayes: You feeling the pressure of owning a record?
billY: Oh yeah, already. The race is over just a couple of hours, and already the pressure about the 5,000 is incredible. But I don't really put that pressure on myself.
hayes: What are your plans for after the Games, both of you?
armas : I am competing in Europe. I am peaking maybe two, three weeks more, maybe I am breaking Billy's record. (He grinned at Billy.) Then I am going home and being fireman.
billy: This guy is trying to do a psych job on me here.
We all laughed.
billy: I'm gonna go home to New York and teach. (He looked at me.) We both are. We have to earn a living. I plan to take a nice, long rest, an easy crosscountry season, have some fun. Then hit the boards.
hayes: How about you, Harlan? You were an Olympic prospect in your day. Are you maybe living in this a little vicariously?
me: Well, if somebody had given me the choice of winning a medal myself back in '56 or '60, or of helping Billy win it today, the choice would be pretty clear. This medal means so much more.
billy: A lot of people don't realize how much Harlan's coaching did for me. When I came to Prescott, I was doing nearly everything wrong. If Harlan hadn't twisted my arm so that I'd train in a way that was right for me, I'd still be messing around there over 28 minutes. Maybe I'd be off the track altogether with injuries ...
hayes: Twisted your arm?
billy (laughing): I'm very stubborn.
hayes: Armas, what about you? Are you feeling the pressure about the 5,000?
armas: From my countrymen, yes. (He was alluding delicately to the fact that straight Finnish track fans felt that the national masculinity was at stake. But he then slid over his own allusion by adding diplomatically): You see, my countrymen are feeling that the 10,000 and the 5,000 are Finnish property, and our country it is very small, so ...
We all laughed. I sat there feeling very smug that the folks back home were being forced to watch this on their tubes.
billy (drawling): You mean that I'm an American colonial imperialist who is taking over Finnish territory ...
We all laughed harder.
That night, Billy and his bodyguards left the Olympic Village for about three hours. They came to the Cartier Hotel in downtown Montreal for a celebration. A group of about thirty-five of us had dinner, hosted by Billy's very proud father.
After dinner, Steve Goodnight threw a huge party in the hotel bar, the Petit Fleur. This bar, as it happened, was one of the leading gay bars in Montreal. All the others must have been empty that night—it seemed like every gay in town was crowding in there. Champagne, wine, whiskey and beer flowed like the river Jordan. A great number of straights, athletic people and sundry celebrities mingled with the gays, but finally they became a little intimidated by the heavy gay pride in the air. Only the Prescotts and Mike and Sue stuck it out, and finally the Prescotts got tired and went to their own hotel.
Billy, looking a little exhausted by now, was lionized, worshipped, cruised, felt up, kissed and hugged. Finally he couldn't take it any longer, and he hopped up and sat on the grand piano to be above the crowd. He sat there smiling wearily, answering questions, sipping his mineral water. He was wearing a casual beige silk suit, another that his father had bought him a couple years ago, that everyone said was straight out of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Looking at him, I pondered on how this situation could drive me wild with jealousy if I didn't see the Virgo in him firmly refusing all advances.
Steve got up on a barstool and made an incredible fifteen-minute speech full of raunchy gay puns, that didn't mention Billy at all. He was so drunk that he could hardly stay on the stool. Everybody roared with laughter. The sharp smell of amyl nitrite got stronger and stronger in the air. Vince was wandering around, somewhat drunk also, with h
is arm around a wild depraved-looking young French Canadian of about eighteen. Vince was Wearing his leather cap tipped rakishly over one eye, and a black leather jerkin that left his arms and chest bare and displayed his tattoos; The jukebox blared endlessly.
The crowd begged Billy to get up on the bar and do the boogie.
He refused. "I did my boogie on the track," he said.
Finally I was trying to fight my way through the crush to Billy with another glass of mineral water for him, and somebody's hand started to unzip my fly. I put my free hand down there, and pushed the hand away, and zipped my fly back up. Leo is not next to Virgo in the zodiac for nothing.
Billy was looking a little gray. "Harlan, let's go back to the Village," he said. "I've had enough of this, and I'm falling apart."
We tried to find Vince, but he had disappeared with his friend, so we caught a cab to the Village alone.
The next morning late, Vince returned, hung-over and subdued. He must have purged some of the poison building up inside of him, because for the next few days he stayed right with us.
"I don't know what came over me," he said. "Last night I made a spectacle of myself. I don't understand myself any more."
Billy showed great concern for him, and he responded, and it seemed a little like old times. Every day the three of us sat in the stands with the rest of the group, and watched the track and field events of our choice. Billy and Vince yelled for their friends on the team.
Rita Hedley bombed out in the semifinals of the women's 1,500, and Billy said, "I hope it wasn't because I danced the legs off her."
Down in the States, Billy's victory was all over the media. Telegrams of congratulation poured in to him. One was from Jacques, sent from the small Michigan town near where he was doing his field work. It said:
THANK GOD FOR TV, IT WAS BEAUTIFUL, YOU MAKE ME WANT TO START RUNNING AGAIN, GOOD LUCK IN THE 5,000, LOVE, JACQUES.
As the Games ground on, I began to see a subtle change in Billy. His euphoria was wearing off, and he (like me) was beginning to find being a celebrity very wearing: the demands on his time and emotional energy, the loss of privacy, the feeling of being looked at by 100 million TV viewers via satellite every day.