There was a heavy pause as the story of Rake's termination came and went without comment.Neely had been drifting through western Canada, in a post-college funk that lasted almost five years, and had missed the drama. Over time, he had heard some of the details, though he had tried to convince himself he didn't care what happened to Eddie Rake.
"You ran the eighty-three laps?"Neely asked.
"Yep, in 1990, when I was a sophomore."
"Still the record?"
"Yep.You?"
"Thirty-one, my senior year.Eighty-three is hard to believe."
"I got lucky. It was cloudy and cool."
"How about the guy who came in second?"
"Forty-five, I think."
"Doesn't sound like luck to me. Did you play in college?"
"No, I weighed one-thirty with pads on."
"He was all-state for two years," Paul said. "And still holds the record for return yardage. His momma just couldn't fatten him up."
"I got a question," Neely said. "I ran thirty-one laps and collapsed in pain. Then Rake cussed me like a dog. What, exactly, did he say when you finished with eighty-three?"
Paul grunted and grinned because he'd heard the story. Jaeger shook his head and smiled. "Typical Rake," he said. "When I finished, he walked by me and said, in a loud voice, 'I thought you could do a hundred.' Of course, this was for the benefit of the other players. Later, in the locker room, he said, very quietly, that it was a gutsy performance."
Two of the joggers left the track and walked up a few rows where they sat by themselves and stared at the field. They were in their early fifties, tanned and fit with expensive running shoes. "Guy on the right is Blanchard Teague," Paul said, anxious to prove he knew everyone."Our optometrist. On the left is Jon Couch, a lawyer. They played in the late sixties, during The Streak."
"So they never lost a game," Jaeger said.