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In January 1997 Kane moved into the Boyetts' basement bedroom. That same year Brian shot up seven inches and entered high school. Now he looked like a runner -- lean, long-muscled, with a smooth, disciplined stride. He was a less proficient student, however.Freshmen had to read the Iliad, but Brian didn't see why. Kane did. One night he was waiting at the kitchen table with a translation of Homer's epic about the Trojan War.
"What's this all about, Coach?" Brian asked.
"It's about life!" said Kane, motioning Brian to sit down.
While Sue and Jennifer made meatloaf, Kane read the ancient verse in his best dramatic voice. Brian listened with amazement, until Kane insisted he try it. Embarrassed, Brian finally began to read and soon got wrapped up in the story describing heroism, cowardice, loyalty and deceit.
They kept at it night after night for weeks. Track in the early morning and afternoon, the Iliad after dinner. Subtly Kane was coaching Brian about something else -- being a man.
The two read the passages in which the Trojan hero Hector meets the stronger Greek warrior Achilles in hand-to-hand combat. At first, knowing that powerful gods favor Achilles, Hector panics and runs. But courage, Kane told Brian, is not being impervious to fear. It's being afraid, yet confronting fear -- as Hector does. He stops his flight, and though sensing he is doomed, turns to face his enemy to uphold his honor.
The daily track practice and the nightly readings went on, and gradually both exercises began to pay off. Brian's bedroom shelves started filling with books and with trophies from state and county races.
But then came the fall of 1998. Brian developed a stress fracture of his thighbone that put him out of competition. And Kane had been suffering from muscular weakness, for which he'd been hospitalized a year earlier. Doctors were puzzled, but suspected he'd had a minor stroke. First he had to use a cane and then a walker.
In time Brian gained strength in his legs again, but Kane did not. He had trouble walking, even standing. Brian emptied his savings account to buy him a three-wheeled scooter so Kane could still go to the track.
In March 2000 Brian entered a two-mile event at a national scholastic indoor track meet at the 168th Street Armory in New York City. The best distance runners in the country were there. Sue brought Kane in a wheelchair.
At the starting gun, Brian burst into the lead, but then strategically dropped back. Halfway through the race he moved up to the middle of the pack. There was still a big gap between him and the leader, but as he turned into the final lap, cheers, stamping feet and the word "hammer" ringing in his brain drove him on.
From his seat near the finish line, Kane watched Brian surge to the lead with the greatest finishing kick he'd ever see him make -- and win.
"I've Had a Good Life"
A month later Kane began losing his voice and choking on his food. Finally doctors made a new diagnosis: amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), Lou Gehrig's disease. Kane, a strong man who'd molded athletes, was losing all muscle function. His spinal cord was degenerating. He would soon learn he had only months to live.
"Don't feel bad," Kane told Brian in a faltering voice. "I've had a good life, and I'll be coaching you for a while yet."
Sue took over all of his care. She drove him to the track, shaved him, cut his hair, diced his food, helped him with personal hygiene. But his big battle each day was with the stairs.
There were nine blue-carpeted steps from his basement room to the kitchen. Every day he struggled to make it on his own. Soon he could not. Even with Sue's help they took ten painful minutes to climb, and each day it was harder.
Then Sue had to leave. In August, Jennifer was heading off to Arizona State University, and Sue needed to help her settle in.
"Go ahead, Mom," Brian told her. "I can look after Charlie." On the first day after she left, Brian put in two early hours at his summer job as a recreational camp counselor, and then raced home. He found Kane, still in pajamas, sitting in a chair in his small dark room, crying.
Brian tried to get him up, telling him he had to get dressed so they could go to the track. Kane refused.
Late that afternoon Kane's son arrived from his Marine base in Virginia. Together the two Brians urged, cajoled, prodded, and finally got him dressed and out of his room.
Now he faced the stairs. Brian could see that he was daunted. Just nine steps -- which this once strong man could have taken effortlessly -- had become a mountain for him. And Kane let out a cry of protest when they lifted him under his arms to help him climb. He pleaded to go back to bed; he wanted to quit.
You can do it, Brian kept urging him, and finally he saw a firm resolve gather in his coach's eyes.
Leaning upon their arms -- feet stumbling, legs throbbing -- Charlie Kane hammered away. One step at a time -- all nine. Until he stood breathless on the kitchen floor. Held up by the two sons he loved.
That evening when they returned from the track, all three men sat down together at the kitchen table where Kane and Brian had read the Greek epic aloud. And then Brian reached out and took his coach's hand. "Everything I am, Charlie, is because of you," he said.
On June 6, Brian won the 3200-meter run at the New Jersey State Meet of Champions. Kane watched from his wheelchair, stopwatch clutched loosely in his hand. The next morning he was totally paralyzed. Sue and Brian cared for him at their home until the end. Charles Kane died on June 23, 2001.
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