Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Ben Havleck, November 1^st 2016

“Next stop Hershey, Pennsylvania.” The announcement was barely decipherable over the bus speakers. But it didn’t matter. The bus was essentially empty and the only noise Ben could hear was the music coming from his headphones. Whatever tomorrow brings, I’ll be there … With open arms and open eyes yeaah . As the bus rolled into motion again, Ben stared out of his window, letting his mind wander. Alone with his thoughts.

No one likes being lonely, but Ben was at least used to being lonely. He spent hours a day running by himself, but that did not mean he liked it. After his sophomore year, Ben’s family moved from Downingtown, in the suburbs outside Philadelphia, to Bloomsburg Area, upending the fragile dynamic of his teenage social life. He was naturally shy and often uncomfortable around those he did not know. For that reason, some of his old teammates had nicknamed him Peanut because “you had to crack the shell to discover the nut that lies within”.

However, the nickname probably stuck so well because Ben stood a modest five foot five, had carried little to no muscle and his mounds of curly black hair probably accounted for the majority of his body weight. This body type now stood out against the backdrop of strong, rugged Bloomsburg men.

So it was not particularly surprising that, through his first semester of school, Ben struggled to fit in. He had eaten many of his lunches alone, determinedly looking down at a notebook filled with splits and workout logs attempting to project that his solidarity was a choice rather than a necessity. He was also slowly losing touch with his friends from his previous home, the connection between them sustained only by his out of date cell phone’s texting capabilities. And, perhaps worst of all, Bloomsburg Area High School did not have a cross country or track and field program.

Of course, that did not stop Ben. After meeting with the Athletic Director, he managed to negotiate club status at the school, meaning this “team” would have zero dollars in funding, but could still participate in the Pennsylvania Athletic League events, including the District and State Championships. In the fall of his junior year, Ben competed at one local invitational, funded by the money from his 17^th Birthday and then the Class AA District Four Championships, where he placed 2^nd and qualified for the State Championships. His experience at these championships would come to shape the rest of his high school career.

But that wasn’t the memory he wanted to clutter his mind. Especially now.

Mark Miller, May 2016

“Come on Miller, let’s go we’re gonna be late!” A tan Honda Pilot was parked outside the Miller residence. Two boys sat in the car, listening to music, while a third scrambled wildly at the front door. After a moments struggle, Mark came sprinting down the lawn, wearing one sandal and holding the other in his hand. He pulled open the back seat of the car, tossed his drawstring bag across the seat and flung himself inside. “Sorry, I couldn’t find my watch. You guys didn’t bring running shoes did you?”

“Heck no, I haven’t run since leagues. You have to take advantage of the benefits of being slow.” Mark’s teammate, Ian McPearson, had placed 7^th in the 3200 meters at the Lancaster-Lebanon League Championship’s but missed the district qualifying standard by one second. “Can you drive a little faster Tom? We’re gonna be late.”

“Calm down dude, I’ve gotta be careful. This is my mom’s car.” The driver was Thomas Winslow, another member of Manheim’s Track and Field team. All three runners had just completed their sophomore season on the oval.

“Well you’re driving like her so I guess that makes sense … I still don’t get why I couldn’t drive.”

“Because Tom doesn’t drive straight through the center of a traffic circle,” Mark piped in from the back seat. “Yo, turn this song up.”

… Word on road is the clique about to blow, you ain’t gotta run and tell nobody they already know …

“This is sick, all Jayson ever plays in the car is country music …”

“You know I always keep the Drizzy loaded in the car, homie.” Tom and Mark shared a momentary fist bump.

“I don’t know how you two listen to this crap. Just another reason I should have driven.”

“Sorry Ian, but nobody wants to listen to ‘Bleed it Out’ on repeat.”

“Guys, seriously, I can’t race unless I listen to Bleed it Out first” Tom made his best effort to mimic Ian’ s voice while Mark laughed.

It was fantastic weather at Shippensburg. The clouds slightly obscured the morning sun. The air was almost perfectly still with the exception of an occasional cool breeze, gratefully accepted by the trio of sophomores exiting the parking lot. Even from a distance, Mark could see the bleachers were packed with family, friends and athletes.

“So I guess this meet is like a big deal or something?” Mark chuckled as Ian stepped to his left hip. He too was staring ahead at the stadium.

“It’s 9:25 now, so the small school boys are probably just about to start up. Probably got like 10 minutes until large schools.” Tom clicked the lock for his car and led the march to the entrance. At the gate, Mark and Ian chipped in for Tom’s ticket and, after their hands were stamped, they trekked around the outside of the track. The small school race was well underway, with a short, black haired boy leading the charge. A few runners were hobbling slowly off the back of the pack, unable to handle the pace.

“How fast you think those guys are running?” Ian asked Mark as they passed. “We could totally beat some of these kids if we were in this classification. What a joke.”

“ONE LAP TO GO! Havleck, Griffin, McKenzie!” The announcement came booming over the P.A. system as the front pack of runners surged by. Mark paused at the fence to watch. The curly haired boy at the front was straining to keep his lead. At the 200 meter mark on the far side, suddenly the runners in 2^nd and 3^rd sprang into action. They launched into an all out sprint, leaving the initial leader fighting through quicksand to keep pace. “It’s going to be McKenzie in 9:17! 62 seconds for the last 400 meters.”

“Wow! That was pretty fast!” Tom said as they climbed up the steps, looking for an open seat in the crowded stands. The others murmured their agreement. They walked to nearly the top of the stadium before sliding in next to another group of student-age spectators. “Aren’t your parents here somewhere, Mark?”

“Yeah, they got here way earlier. Didn’t want to be cutting it close.” He perused the section to his lower left. “I thought they said they were sitting with Lauren in the middle of the straight-”

“Wait Lauren’s here?” Tom and Ian started frantically scanning the crowd in all directions. Mark smirked, shaking his head in amused frustration. Lauren Johnson was his brother’s girlfriend and, more importantly to Mark’s friends, was very good looking.

“Dude I found her.”

“Where?”

“Right there man.” Tom looked in the direction Ian was pointing. Lauren was standing with her long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing athletic clothing displaying the Manheim Township insignia. She was talking to an older woman whose nose resembled Mark’s, but had blonde hair to match Jayson’s.

“So Mark, is everything still going well with her and your brother? Or like … is she looking for a better looking, more distinguished academic type?” Tom flexed dramatically to underscore his point. Mark stared back, eye brows raised.

“Alright I take it everything’s good, then.”  He paused as they announced the last call for the large school boys’ race. “How ‘bout your mom is everything going well with her and your dad? Or like … is she looking for a better looking, more d-”

Mark punched him hard in the arm.

Now 9:45, they began to line up the competitors for the Boys Large School 3200 Meter State Championships. The 3200 (the approximate metric equivalent for Two Miles) was an eight-lap race around the track, the longest event the PAL offered at the State Meet.  The field consisted of eighteen runners, including five from District Three, the region of the state in which Manheim Township resided. Mark recognized a few familiar faces on the starting line, including, most obviously, his brother Jayson Miller.

Jayson had won the District Three Championships a week earlier on this same track with a winning mark of 9 minutes and 7.34 seconds. His margin of victory was nearly 50 yards, most of that coming over the last lap when he really decided to put the hammer down. Here at Shippensburg, Jayson was hoping to become Manheim’s first state champion in program history. But one man stood firmly in his way.

“So which one’s Springer?” Ian asked as the runners took their marks, anticipating the gun.  Mark scanned quickly before spotting a tall figure with an orange singlet and dark blue shorts.

“That one.” As if on cue, the gun sounded and Springer sprinted forth, clearing the crowded field and taking up the lead. It was a beautiful, graceful stride, effortlessly gliding to the front. Jayson followed him, running tall and powerful, a look of determination and focus engraved on his face.

Jimmy Springer, May 2015

He sat on the edge of the bed. Outside he could hear the laughter and joy of the other athletes on the lawn. It must be nice, he thought to himself. His face became warm once again. If the tears came with another surge, he may not be able to fight them off. Blinking furiously, a few drops slipped through his defenses and splattered the sheets beneath him. It wasn’t fair. This was supposed to be the moment that would make everything right. When everyone would be happy again.

A knock came at the door and startled the boy on the bed. The palm of his hand wiped his face before turning its attention to twist a knob. Standing in the entranceway was a shorter man with glasses and wild, messy brown hair. He smiled, holding up a stack of papers. “I thought we should discuss some strategy for tomorrow.”

Jimmy Springer and Coach David Ames entered the stadium at Shippensburg early the next morning. It was already packed with reporters, fans and parents, but Jimmy wasn’t too concerned about the pressure or the “bright lights”. He had already succeeded on the big stage.

He watched the other runners as they walked in. Some looked nervous, others overwhelmed by the fans, the stadium, or the atmosphere. Springer had long passed that stage. He had even passed the sadness he felt the previous night. Now he was simply angry. If no one cared about him anymore, he would make them care. He would make history.

Together he and Coach Ames sat quietly, almost awkwardly, as time slowly ticked down. Eventually, Springer rose to his feet, throwing his jersey around his neck like a cape and grabbing his spikes. Coach Ames rose as well.

“Remember Jimmy-10 minutes is full recovery.”

The 3200 was first. He jogged carefully onto the infield, stone-faced, trying to project an air of invincibility to those around him. Stretching. Drills. Strides. All in silence and seriousness. As they lined up the competitors for the event, someone stuck out his hand.

“Good luck James” It struck him the wrong way. James. Something burned slightly within him, his eyes briefly stinging.

“My name is Jimmy” And he ignored the outstretched arm of the blonde haired boy so that he could turn his face from him. They took seeds one through six and walked them up to the top of the waterfall, pulling Jimmy and a few other athletes away from the majority of the field. He took a deep breath to calm himself, wiping a trail of sweat from underneath his eye. Or at least he pretended it was sweat.

“Runners to your marks …” He took a long step forward to the line. “Get set …” A slight look to his right revealed five nervous faces. A quiet confidence emerged inside of him. BANG! The crowd erupted and Jimmy sprinted coolly through traffic to take up a spot at the front. Around him, the field fought for position, but subconsciously everyone was defaulting to Jimmy.

There was no doubt the first 200 meters was fast. Maybe a 29 second bend. They are scared now, he thought to himself. Casually and easily, he took his foot off the gas.

Coach Ames was waiting for him near the 300 meter mark as planned. He didn’t open his mouth, instead giving a simple nod. Springer glided along at the front. The first 400 would still appear quick, but really they had gone down from four minute pace to five. He knew it. If the others do, they sure aren’t acting like it.

No one so much as challenged him down around the back stretch. Or by Coach Ames. Or again into the straightaway. The clock read 2:23 and the reality etched clearly for all to see, spelling out the dramatic change from meet record pace to state qualifying pace, kick-started the field.

Panic was setting in from all sides. Coaches were screaming for athletes to pick it up. Frantic jostling and positioning recommenced within the pack. Yet Springer was clear of it all at the front, just as planned. He had wasted no energy and stayed out of traffic.  As they made their way into the backstretch for a third time, a few runners came swinging wide. Scott Zarniack, the WPIAL champion at 3200, surged wildly to the front, pulling Owen Ward of Coatesville to his shoulder. The blistering early pace had resumed. Runner after runner seemed to be flying by on Jimmy’s outside. He was in 5^th. Then 8^th. But every time he passed the 300 mark, his coach spoke the same barely audible word: “Wait”.

Jimmy was keeping an eye on his 400 splits as he came through. He had dipped his pace evenly down over the next three laps, while the runners at the front had burned themselves out going from 76 down to 66, most already slowing back down. Just as easily as he had been passed, Springer floated back towards the front. Every runner he overtook sent a new burst of energy through his body. The adrenaline of his race was empowering, wiping clean the pain of his daily life and replacing it with the ecstasy of competition and the thrill of impending victory.

He was right on the shoulder of the leaders again, closing in on 900 meters to go.

“GO NOW JIMMY! IT’S TIME TO GO! PUSH!” For the first time, Coach Ames was positively shouting, a far cry from his silent, stoic demeanor he had maintained in the race’s early stages. Springer responded, pressing for a brief moment and breaking loose of the field with an impressive surge. A pair of Coatesville runners, Sean Williams and Owen Ward, were his only real competitors now. He could hear their strained breathing. A slight wheezing was coming from Williams. Ward’s arms were beginning to flail. But their spirit was perhaps more broken than their actual bodies.

Jimmy held the lead around the turn of the penultimate lap. I can’t believe it, he thought to himself. They bought it. He smiled to himself as he effortlessly loped down the back straightaway, Williams and Ward running doggedly in his wake. However, slowly the lead group of three was increasing in size. The chasers were making a bid to join them. Williams looked wildly over his shoulder, confused by the turn of events.

Springer’s initial burst. Ames’s wild cheering. It was all a ruse. Jimmy hadn’t gone to the front to start his kick, he’d gone there to delay it. Slowing the pace back down fit perfectly into his plans: save as much energy as possible while simultaneously guaranteeing a true kicker’s finish. Stunned by the ever increasing pack, Williams desperately surged his way to the front, going back ahead of Springer to hold the lead into the bell. Jimmy held his ground, stepping slightly sideways to avoid becoming boxed in on the inside rail. Now they were sprinting in earnest along the far straightaway, but he knew he still had gears left in reserve.

The roar of the crowd was growing as the runners rounded their final turn. Jimmy tried to remain patient, but he could feel sprinters closing in on both his inside and outside. And Williams was slowing. His push from home had come too furiously and too soon.

“GO JIMMY, YOU GOTTA GO NOW!” This time Ames’s screaming was authentic. Seizing the moment, Jimmy flipped on his switch. Slingshotting himself off the turn, Springer came flying into the straightaway, a slight breeze brushing across his face, wind whipping gently through his hair. He tried to remain smooth, to keep his face calm. 75 meters. 50 meters. 25 meters. He chanced a look to his outside. There was no one. He chanced another to his inside. All clear. The emotion of the moment hit.

With a dramatic fist pump and a scream of triumph, Jimmy Springer won the state championship at 3200 meters.

GO TO CHAPTER FOUR