Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Seven

Jimmy Springer, September 2016

“Dude, I’m telling you, I wasn’t even drunk.”

“No way-how much of that handle did you have?”

“Not enough clearly.” Smith said as Ryan shook his head in disbelief.

Enough that you threw up in my mom’s flower pot, Jimmy thought to himself. He looked around the track at his classmates. Most were straining, sweaty and red, as they tried to complete four loops as fast as he could do eight. Feeling anxious, Jimmy glanced down at his friend’s watch. “Guys, we might want to get moving a little faster,”

“Stop worrying so much, bro. It’s effing gym class.”

But that didn’t put Jimmy’s mind at ease. As part of the presidential fitness testing, Union Valley students had to participate in a variety of challenges. After completing pulls ups last class, today’s task was a timed one mile run.

Before the class, the new gym teacher, Mr. Wall, had warned students that anyone who didn’t put forth an honest effort would receive a failing grade. The time ceiling he had deemed suitable was 12 minutes which equated to 3 minutes per lap. At the back of the class, having already been lapped by the majority of their peers, Corey Smith, Ryan Joseph and Jimmy Springer were walking their third oval and quickly approaching the 11 minute mark.

As they approached the start of their final lap, Mr. Wall looked at them disappointedly. He checked down at the stop watch around his neck.

“You boys might want to think about running,” he said simply, his eyes still down at his watch, “you’ve got about a minute before you fail.”

Jimmy looked back at his friends keenly. Ryan stared back looking slightly uneasy, but Corey seemed unperturbed. He could feel the seconds ebbing away. 11:01 ... 11:02 ... 11:03 ...

Finally, he couldn’t wait any longer. He took off, sprinting away from his two friends as he rolled around the track. He imagined his sudden injection of speed probably looked rather ridiculous, but the part of him that cared about his social image had been fiercely pushed aside once the word “fail” entered the conversation. Swinging his arms and unfurling his long, powerful stride, he ambled forward like a gazelle, gaining momentum with each step as his body warmed up and his muscles untightened. He kept his eyes ahead of him on the finish line and made sure not to let up until he cleared it.

“11:54 ... 11:55 ... 11:56 …”

He stopped, leaning over to try and catch his breath. Looking over his shoulder, he saw he was still some 200 meters ahead of his last two classmates.

“Nice work Springer,” Mr. Wall said, patting his hand on Jimmy’s back. “Most impressive D+ I’ve seen all day.”

Chris Cline, September 2016

“Do you have anything in a bigger size?” He said, holding a pair of maroon shorts up in front of his face.

“Believe it or not, they don’t make XXL shorts for people whose sport is exclusively running.” Coach Finley said, tossing him a white singlet. “Now go ahead and change. You are probably going to want some pins to make sure those shorts stay on.” He handed him a few small silver pins.

“Thanks, Mr. Finley,” he replied, gathering his clothing and trekking back to the team locker room. Most boys were already changed and waiting aboard the bus. A few stragglers were double checking their bags. Chris quickly stripped down to his boxers and then slipped on his uniform shorts, pulling them up to his waist. As soon as he let go of the end, the shorts fell back down around his ankles. Swearing under his breath, he pulled them up again and pinned the waistband over on itself so that it hugged tight around his hips. The shorts now fitting properly, he examined their length closely in the mirror. His boxers were sticking out below each leg.

“C’mon, boys! We have to get a move on!” Coach Finley called from just outside the changing room. Snapping his head up, Chris hastily threw on his uniform top, a West Chester North t-shirt and a pair of pants. Then, he trudged out of the locker room alongside his last two teammates, Thomas Partridge and Caleb Collins.

The bus was fairly full as both the girls and boys teams were traveling together. Today, both teams were facing Downingtown West High School. West had finished fourth in the conference the previous season on the boy’s side, but apparently they returned a stable of key pieces. On the girl’s side, Downingtown West had been second in the conference in 2015 and had qualified for the state championships.

As Chris wandered down the aisle, he looked for a free seat before spotting an opening next to a nervous looking Sam Wikler. He plopped down next to the freshman and smiled.

“What’s up, Sam?” He asked.

“Not much,” Sam said quietly, looking down at his feet, “Your shoe is untied, by the way.”

“Oh, thanks,” Chris pulled his leg up toward his chest and began to fix his laces. “You excited for today?”

“Are you planning to race in those?” He ignored the question and instead pointed at Chris’s newly tied shoe.

“Yeah, I was planning to,” Chris said looking slightly confused, “I thought this was what you guys raced in?”

“Soccer cleats?” Sam said incredulously. His voice carried loud enough to catch the attention of the rows closest to them. A few snickers floated back to them.

“I’m going to take that as a ‘no’ … Let me see your shoes real quick.” Sam rummaged through his bag and produced a pair of red and black shoes which he, in turn, passed to Chris to examine. The shoes were lightweight but had a series of pointy needle like spikes on the bottom. Chris turned the shoe over in his hands once before giving it back to his teammate. “Well, those definitely aren’t cleats.”

He stood up, looking to the front of the bus to try and catch Coach Finley’s eye, but just as he reached his feet, they began to pull out of the parking lot. The movement knocked him backwards and he slunk back into his seat, his previous smile nowhere to be seen.

“Well you clean up nice!” His mother said as Chris walked down the stairs. He posed awkwardly after he cleared the last step. “Let me just fix your tie.” She grabbed his tie and fiddled with it at the base of his neck.

“It’s fine, Mom,” He said, trying to pull away, “I don’t think anyone will even be able to see it from the stands.” After a moments struggle, she stepped back, padding at his shirt to clear away some stray hairs.

“You know what, wait right there. I’m going to get your father’s lint roller-”

“Mom! Seriously?”

“Alright, alright.” She said looking slightly put off. “Will you at least let me get a picture?”

Chris rolled his eyes, but consented. The homecoming court was going to be honored at halftime of the night’s homecoming football game against Downingtown West and so he was dressed in his best suit. Which doubled as his only suit.

He had been dreading this night as he knew his ex-girlfriend, Melissa Fredricks would be honored as well. He had been doing his best to avoid her during school hours, but out on the field there would be no place to hide.

“OK, I’ve got to head out,” he said after smiling for the photo, “But I’ll meet you guys at the game?”

“Yes, we will be in our usual spot. Dad has his phone if you need to call.” She looked at her son carefully as he played nervously with the keys in his hands. “Don’t dwell on her, Chris.” She said, gently touching his hand. “She wasn’t good enough for you.”

Chris gave a small smile and shook his head softly. “Do you think anyone is?”

“Probably not.” She beamed at him and fidgeted one last time with his tie. “But I don’t think you should give up on finding someone who proves me wrong.”

“Love you, Mom,” he replied laughing. And with the keys firmly gripped in his hands, he left for the high school.

Jimmy Springer, cont.

When the days are cold and the cards all fold … And the saints we see are all made of gold … When your dreams all fail and the ones we hail … Are the worst of all and the blood’s run stale …

He walked casually down the hallway, listening to his music. The school was mostly empty as he had been caught up leaving class. Not that it mattered. This year’s cross country coach, Mr. Newman, didn’t care much if he was late. He actually didn’t care much about the team in general. Essentially, he was a glorified baby sitter, collecting his baby sitter sized paycheck as an official school “coach”.

No matter what we breed, we still are made of greed … This is my kingdom come, this is my kingdom come …

The first week of practice, Jimmy had run on his own each day, listening to music on his iPod. He ran for as long or as short as he pleased and, when he was finished, he got in his car and left. Independent and unrestricted.

When you feel my heat, look into my eyes … It’s where my demons hide, it’s where my demons hide … Don’t get too close, it’s dark inside … It’s where my demons hide, it’s where my demons hide …

He walked into the locker room beside the gymnasium. His footsteps echoed around his empty corner. The Cross Country team had rapidly evaporated over the past few years. As a freshman, he had been part of an 18 man roster with dreams of competing for a state championship. Now, this mighty army was down to just three soldiers. Joining him, already mostly dressed, were sophomore Drew Ainsley and junior Reed Buchanan.

Drew was a bit pudgy, with a round face. He certainly lacked a runner’s natural physique, and, as far as Jimmy knew, a runner’s natural enthusiasm for running. Allegedly, Drew’s mother had forced him to join the cross country squad to help him keep his weight in check before his sister’s wedding the next spring. He would trot a mile or two, work up a solid sweat and then disappear. 

Reed joined the team toward the end of the previous fall, once he realized he could become a “varsity” athlete simply by showing up. The team dipped below seven runners the previous October, meaning as long as you were on the roster for Districts, you were guaranteed a letter. As Jimmy approached, Reed was carefully hanging his letterman jacket in his locker.

Springer gave his younger teammates a small nod, but otherwise ignored them. Without removing his earbuds, Jimmy quickly changed into his running gear and then exited the locker room alone.
He was planning to do five miles today. Preferably fast. This early in the year, his homework had yet to pile up, so he was hoping to meet up with his friends after practice. Leaning against the door, he pushed out into the hallway. As he walked, he looked down at his iPod, flipping through his preferred playlist. Without an upward glance, he made his way toward the exit.

“Springer!” The voice made him jump as he turned around, pulling his left bud from his ear. It was the new gym teacher, Mr. Wall, who was waving him back in his direction. “Hold on a second, I’d like to meet with the team before practice.”

“The team?” Jimmy replied, removing his other headphone, “The cross country team?” He walked forward uncertainly.

“Yes, unless-Ainsley!” He called to the sophomore, waving him over just as he had Jimmy, before refocusing, “You a part of another team I should know about, Springer?”

“So-what-are you picking up the baby sitter checks now?” The senior said as a confused looking Reed joined their small huddle.

“No. Mr. Newman is still our head coach. I have simply volunteered to help out as an assistant so he doesn’t have to split his attention between the men’s and women’s teams.”

Jimmy looked across the hall at Mr. Newman. He sat comfortably in a chair reading his newspaper while the girl’s team stretched in a misshapen circle. “He does look pretty overworked.”

“Now,” Mr. Wall continued, smirking slightly, “since we will be spending a lot of time together, I thought it might be helpful for me to take the time to learn each of your objectives for this season.” He passed each of the three boys a sheet of paper. “These are goal sheets. I’d like you guys to take the week and think about what sort of things you would like to accomplish by the end of the fall.” Jimmy looked skeptically up and down the page. “Then, my job will be to do everything I can to help you achieve those goals.”

“You ever coach Cross Country before?” Jimmy asked.

“Nope.”

“But you ran cross country in high school?”

“Nope.”

“So then ... why are you doing this exactly?”

Coach Wall pulled another piece of paper from his pocket and held it up. “I’ve got a goal sheet of my own to fill out this week.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. Great, he thought. He turned and began to replace his headphones. “Actually,” Coach Wall said, grabbing his arm as it was halfway to his ear, “we are going to start this run together. As a team.” Jimmy looked slightly taken aback while his two teammates looked downright frightened. “Ainsley, Buchanan-our goal is to keep up with Springer as long as possible. Springer, you just run like you would on a normal day. We won’t hold you back.”

“Coach, just to be clear,” Reed said, “Did you say ‘we’?”

“Yep,” the coach replied, bending down to check his shoelaces. “We are a team boys. Anything we accomplish this year, we accomplish together.”

Facing away from his peers, Jimmy smiled smugly as they walked out the door to start their run. The mere implication that this group of nobodies could run with a multi-time state champion like himself for any period of time had lit a fire in his stomach that he only distantly remembered. He rolled his neck to both sides and prepared for a fast start.

The first few steps they were together. But that was about it. Within five minutes, Jimmy had completely dropped the trio from sight and he was off on his own as usual. Only his music for conversation.

Chris Cline, cont.

Chris trudged off the bus at Downingtown West High School, his cleats clomping loudly on the pavement. He hung his head and walked on the far left of the group, trying to avoid contact with the rest of his teammates. As an outsider, he was determined to prove he belonged during his first cross country race, but things had gotten off to a disappointing start with his shoe mix up. In his rush to catch the bus, he had forgotten to bring any extra foot ware.

“Nice shoes,” A voice behind him said jokingly.

“Go ahead, laugh at the new kid. I made a mistake, alright?!” he said angrily, “I’d like to see you-” He turned around to see Sarah walking just behind him. She looked surprised by his outburst, but was grinning, on the verge of laughter. “Oh, hey Sarah, how’s it going?” He tried to cover his momentary freak out. “You-uh-ready for the race?”

“Haha, geez are you? You sound kinda tense.”

“I guess I’m just a little nervous.”

“Maybe a little.” They transitioned from the pavement to a grass soccer field and Chris’s shoes impact on the ground softened. “You know, one of the guys might have extra spikes that you can borrow. Like Will is probably crazy enough-”

“No thanks,” Chris replied darkly. “I’ll be fine.”

“Ok, suit yourself.” She said shrugging. “But I’m just warning you-things are going to get Messi out there.”

“Really?”

“C’mon that was a good one.”

“Sure it was.” Chris shook his head, chuckling despite himself, “Must be nice. Being confident enough to joke around like this before a race. I assume this means you’re going to win again?”

“You’re kidding, right?” She said slightly outraged. “Downingtown West has one of the-like-five best girls in the state.”

“Who’s that?”

“Quinn Boswell. She ran 17:50 last year or something absurd like that.”

“Oh crap, seriously?” Chris said nervously. “That’s really fast …” His mind flashed back to the first race he had seen and the all the boys this girl would have defeated with ease. “Well, I guess each of our goals for today can be to beat her.”

“You afraid of losing to a girl?”

“Not exactly,” he said as they reached West Chester North’s camp site. He watched as Andy and Matt laughed at some out-of-earshot joke. “But I am afraid of these guys seeing me lose to a girl.”

He sat in his car. A few yards away, at the top of a small gradual incline, the football team was playing against Downingtown West. The cheerleading team would be standing in front of the hometown crowd, encouraging the fans to cheer the Warriors to victory. In the opposite direction, the members of the 2016 Homecoming Court who weren’t involved in the contest were gathering in the school gymnasium. At halftime, they would all meet at the stadium and stand before their peers to be honored.

He had a weird feeling in his stomach. For much of Chris’s life, he had been told that the “popular kids” in high school would not still be the “popular kids” in the real world. That he shouldn’t concern himself with what other people thought was cool. And yet here he was, sitting in a suit and tie, preparing to be recognized at one of the year’s biggest events because of other people’s opinions regarding his level of coolness.

Eventually, he forced himself out of the car. He opened the back seat and pulled his suit jacket off its hanger. With the jacket draped over his shoulder, he trudged in through the front doors of the gym and meandered onto the basketball court. Sitting in the stands was a group of boys and girls dressed in their own casual attire. Some of the members looked nervous and kept fiddling with their clothes. Others leaned casually back, looking at ease. Chris picked out his acquaintance Anthony Hawkins from the crowd in the front left, fitting neatly into the second category.

“Ah, Chris, you made it!” A tall woman with long black hair hurried forward to meet him upon his arrival. She was checking off something on her clipboard and looking slightly flustered. “Ok, that’s everyone besides our two cheerleaders.” She walked past him toward the hall before calling over her shoulder, “You can just take a seat in the stands with the others. We will be heading up shortly.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.” He awkwardly approached the stands. Chris glanced briefly to the front left. Hawkins sat with a dark blue sweater vest over a red tie. He was leaning back, talking easily with other court members Justin Knight and Hannah English. Chris then glanced to the right. Jenny Conner from his math class sat near the front. A few rows behind her was Ricky Collins, a captain of the cross country team. Ricky picked slightly at his nails, but didn’t look up to acknowledge his teammate’s arrival. Ultimately, Chris climbed back toward the top most rows and sat down in the middle of the bleachers. From the top, no one could look down upon him or whisper behind his back. They would have to turn around and face him to do that. Quietly, he sat on his perch, watching the conversations of his peers.

After a few moments, Anthony Hawkins broke from his dialogue. “Yo, Chris! When did you get here?” He said in unconvincing surprise. He waved his hand. “Come down and sit with us. No need to be anti-social.” He smiled a wide, toothy, grin. The pair around him laughed, however it was not an infectious, joyful laugh, but rather a colder, mocking sort.

The other discussions dwindled in volume as more seniors watched this interaction. Given everything that happened in the past week, Chris was more interesting to his peers than ever. He had previously been an easy to understand stereotype: the football quarterback who dates the head cheerleader. But with a high profile break-up, an odd replacement choice and an increasing closeness to the reclusive cross country team, things were suddenly flipped on their side. And each student now wanted to determine their own orientation to stand things back up.

“I’m good, man,” Chris said politely. “Just looking to decompress. Been a long week.” He didn’t particularly like Anthony or the people around him. And he certainly had no interest in giving in to his belittling request. Especially when he suspected the conversation would inevitably turn to Melissa and his split.

“Sorry to hear that, dude,” he said, this time unsuccessfully attempting to imitate sympathy. “Those track nerds must be tough to spend your days with.”

“Nah I don’t think that’s it,” Chris replied, working hard to keep the politeness in his voice. He kept his eyes fixed ahead, but suspected Ricky’s gaze may have finally drifted from his nails. “I think it may be from ass-holes in sweater vests talking shit about me.” He smiled. From the corner of his eye, he could see a few jaws drop. Any side conversations that had survived to this point had just received an immediate death sentence.

Hawkins wasn’t smiling anymore and when he spoke, there was nothing fake about his aggressive tone. “Looks like those losers are rubbing off on you-”

“I certainly hope so,” Chris cut across his opponent, his courteous demeanor slipping out of reach, “A bunch of hard working, decent guys pursuing their goals? Instead of lounging around with some ‘bros’ waiting for their family money to kick in? Hmm, who would I rather be?”

Anthony sat fuming for a second, looking for the proper comeback. Then, seemingly out of clever retorts, “You know, what f-” The tall woman with black hair walked hurriedly back into the gym. “- you, you washed up piece of sh-”

“Excuse me, Mr. Hawkins!” The woman shouted, looking outraged. “We do not use that sort of language within the halls of our school. You’ll be serving detention with me this week.” Anthony simmered dangerously, flashing a menacing glance in Chris’s direction, but remained quiet so as to avoid further discipline. “Now, if you would please line up in two straight lines-one male, one female-and order yourselves in alphabetical order. Ladies, please remember we will need to leave space for Miss Fredricks and Miss Shepard.”

They organized themselves as requested. From the top steps, Chris had to make his way carefully to the front, avoiding the outstretched legs of a couple people who had taken offense to his comments. He lined up just behind Stephen Bishop and just ahead of Ricky Collins. This paired him with Jenny Conner who was second in line for the girls behind Catherine Clausen. Then they proceeded in file up toward the football stadium.

When he first stepped outside, Chris felt a momentary chill as the wind swept through him for the first time. But once it subsided, he found the temperature comfortable. As they approached the steps that led to their destination, Chris began to hear the familiar buzz of the crowd. He imagined himself walking with his helmet in hand, his pads on his shoulders. That entrance had been simple. Now every gate he approached was complicated.

“Hey Chris,” Jenny whispered to him as they walked past the stadium boundary, “I appreciate what you said back there.” With the increased noise around them, no one else could hear her voice carry. “It was pretty cool.”

Jimmy Springer, cont.

After his breakaway performance the day before, Jimmy figured his new coach would give up on his ambitious “start together” strategy. But to his surprise, Coach Wall insisted once again on beginning the next day’s practice as a group.

“Coach,” Drew had said as they prepared for another run, “I’m sorry but there’s just no way we can keep up with Jimmy. He’s too good.”

“Well it won’t hurt to try,” the coach replied, pushing the door open for his athletes to walk through. Drew’s expression reflected a dissenting opinion. “Look, we’ve got the best runner in the state. But that doesn’t help us if we don’t use him.”

Although Jimmy was mildly flattered by the compliment, he ultimately decided this adamancy on training as a group was insulting. As a prideful runner, he once again stormed out of the school and left the others to suffer in his wake.

On Wednesday, he arrived to find Coach Wall sitting outside practice in running clothes reading a small, black paperback. He placed a small bookmark in his page as Jimmy approached.

“How you feeling today, Springer?” He asked rising to his feet. The coach grimaced slightly as his muscles unwound.

“Better than you are it looks like,” he said, grinning as the gym teacher carefully stretched.

“Just a little soreness. Natural for a new runner like myself. Hopefully next week, I’ll feel better.” He placed his book on the small chair on which he had been sitting and smiled cheerily.

Jimmy frowned back at him. “Did you guys decide on our meet schedule yet?”

“We are still discussing a few details with the athletic director,” Coach Wall replied, his smile fading slightly. “But our first race will be this Saturday at Boyertown. Seems like it will be a smaller field that should give us a chance to get our feet wet before we have to really dive in to the season.”

Jimmy’s expression remained sulky. Great, another race against a bunch of no names, He thought miserably. What a waste of time.

“What kind of chance do you think we’ve got?”

The question dragged him out of his head. “You’re kidding right?” He sneered, his mouth twisting into a malevolent grin. “We’re going to get dead last.”

“Now, c’mon. I know we aren’t the best team, but we-”

“No, you don’t get it. We don’t have five guys. You need at least five finishers to get counted in team scoring. So like I said: dead last.” He turned and walked toward the locker room. “Looks like you’ve got some more reading left to do in that book.” Feeling smug, he pushed open the door and disappeared.

That afternoon, Union Valley meandered up to the track for the first workout of the season. The assignment was five 1,000 meter intervals with a minute rest in between each one. Jimmy was tasked with running the repetitions starting at 3:12 and trying to work his way down to faster marks by the end. This equated to roughly five minute mile pace.

Keeping with his team mentality, Coach Wall built the workouts for Reed and Drew around Jimmy. Reed, Drew and even Coach Wall himself would alternate through 200 meter subsections of Jimmy’s intervals, trying to keep up with him as best they could. In theory, each would benefit as they pushed each other to keep pace.

On the first rep, Jimmy started a little too quick, impulsively trying to drop anyone who attempted to keep up with him. However, he eventually relented to a more controlled effort and learned to appreciate the support. It had been years since he had worked out with anyone else and he had forgotten how much easier things could be with even the smallest amount of company. After the trio completed the final interval, sprinting hard over the last 200 meters, everyone’s spirits were high.

“Great job,” Jimmy said, high-fiving Drew and Reed, “Thanks for your help out there.” His teammates smiled back appreciatively.

“That was incredible. The fastest I’ve ever felt,” Drew said, walking back and forth as he tried to catch his breath, “Is that just what you feel like all the time?”

“Haha not quite,” the senior replied with a grin. As the three continued to converse, Coach Wall wandered over, tucking his stop watch away in his pants pocket.

“Alright, gentleman,” he said as he approached, “Time for a 15 minute cool-down jog. We can run to Pinetown Road and back. Jimmy, as usual, feel free to go at your own pace. We won’t hold you back.”

The Union Valley stand-out considered the gym teacher for a moment before responding. “Actually, I think it might be a good idea for us to run this as a team.”

Chris Cline, cont.

With their muscles warm and their shoes laced, the boys stripped down to their maroon and white uniforms. Then, as a unit, they trotted over to a spray painted start line some 200 yards away. Chris fidgeted with his uniform uncomfortably. He felt ridiculous in his baggy looking short shorts. Even the extra-large size still didn’t extend far enough to cover his knees. At least it might distract from my cleats.

The Downingtown West team was waiting for them, some stretching or hopping around nervously, others standing steady and stoic. They wore blue jerseys with a white “D” on the front and paired their tops with dark black shorts. In terms of scale, both schools had approximately the same number of competitors at the start. But in terms of physical size, West’s runners were mostly shorter and the tall ones were skinny and gangly. The North harriers more muscular and strong.

The teams lined up alternating every other for the first five runners. Will Aldrich, Brandon McGee, Jack Lowry, Andy Eggleston and Matt Schmidt filled these slots. Chris positioned himself just behind Andy and Matt alongside the freshmen Sam and Connor.

Two usual varsity runners, Ricky Collins and Austin Lynch were both resting this week. Wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, the resting captain came by and high-fived his teammates, giving particular encouragement to a select few runners who he, apparently, felt needed a little extra push. Austin stood with a clipboard in his hand, waiting aloof on the field’s perimeter. Chris imagined his expression on the sidelines of a football game must not look any happier.

“Good luck,” Sam said, extending his hand to Chris. He took it and gave a strong shake, destabilizing the tiny freshman. He kept his balance, but one of the sleeves of his oversized singlet fell off his shoulder and down his arm.

“Sorry,” Chris mumbled. He reached down and undid one of the pins that was helping keep his shorts up. “Let me fix that.” He twisted the two straps together behind Sam’s back and pinned them together so the uniform top fit more snugly on his tiny frame.

“Thanks,” he said appreciatively, swinging his arms and testing the alteration.

“No problem,” Chris looked out across the field toward the starter who was playing with his pistol. “But if I end up streaking across this course, you better run a PR.”

Bang!

As the gun sounded, the athletes sprinted out across the grass. Cline followed Andy and Matt as best he could, running just in their wake. He watched as Will took up the lead, flanked by the first Downingtown West runner and North’s McGee. The pace slowed from their relax sprint, down to a more rhythmic cadence. Feeling strong, Chris took a few quick steps and moved around his junior teammates toward the front. He felt his adrenaline surge. The pass made him a little more confident, a little stronger. He pressed a bit more and advanced even further ahead. Now he was running on Will’s right shoulder. Sensing his presence, the captain checked back from the corner of his eye. He shook his head dismissively, but otherwise continued his pace.

“Stay relaxed, boys!” Ricky Collins called as they passed him just before a slight left turn. “Steady pace!”

“That means you,” Brandon said angrily to the quarterback as he passed him back and overtook his position as the team’s number two. Chris could feel himself starting to slip back now. He noticed the heaviness of his breathing for the first time. A pair of Downingtown West runners moved ahead. Then Jack Lowry came by. His adrenaline stream was evaporating and fear was settling in to its place.

In the chaos of the afternoon, he had somehow managed to overlook the fact that today he would be racing his first ever 5,000 meters. Despite his diligent training and physical improvements, nothing could truly prepare him for the realities of the cross country course. Regardless of practice time, he was still just a rookie scrambling uncomfortably in the pocket. In this first moment of adversity, he had reverted to his very first mistake and started at a pace well over his head.

The packs were narrowing slightly as the runners prepared for a hard right turn. A flag at the corner of the West soccer field marked the spot. Chris tried to cut it tight, but one of the runners in blue just ahead of him knocked the flag, causing it to swing back and forth and hit him square in the face. He sputtered and shook his head, trying to reorient himself.

Come on, Chris, he thought, If anyone can handle going out too fast, it’s you. You’ve been doing it since you first started running. He took a deep breath and continued along the course away from the soccer pitch and toward a small wooded area. As he ran, competitors from both sides continued to surpass him. Each time, he tried to latch on to their pace, maintain contact as long as possible. It kept his mind engaged on racing rather than the increasing pain in his chest and legs. His toes hurt worst of all, pinched uncomfortably in his unsuitable cleats.

The course seemed to stretch on endlessly. Around every blind turn, he hoped the finish line would be hiding, but instead more grass greeted them. He was starting to lose his fighting spirit. More jerseys blazed past as he turned and watched them go, mouth agape, strain stamped onto his eyes. Then, when all he had left was the last wisps of motivation, a short, loping freshman came up on his shoulder.

Sam didn’t say anything as he ambled ahead. He didn’t even look in Chris’s direction. But something about his appearance had been the match the rookie harrier needed to reignite the competitive flames dimming inside him. He fought again to latch, but now with a renewed vigor. His body was still fighting his efforts. But this time he found it easier to fight back.

However, Sam was not willing to simply drag Chris along as he drafted behind him. The freshman battled forward, surging as soon as he felt Chris begin to draw even. Despite the pain, Chris didn’t back down. Now that he had pushed himself to this next tier of aggravation, he found it easier to maintain his effort. He and Sam jockeyed for position, pushing one another to go faster.

Cline’s legs burned as he fought to lift them. Looking beside him he couldn’t help but feel like the shorter freshman had much more left in reserve than he did. As they made a sharp left turn, Sam opened up his stride and created a gap between the two. His breathing sharp and wheezing, Chris doubted he would be able to catch back up give the significant tempo change. His competitive flame flickered.

Then he saw it. The finish line, marked with a streak of white spray paint just as the start had been. A crowd of runners was already assembling there, having recently completed the 5,000 meter course. Just a few more strides and that would be him. Realizing he was only a minute away from the end of his struggle, Chris put his head down and charged forward. He was pumping his arms vigorously, his muscular frame carrying him along the final straightaway. He sprinted by a runner in a blue jersey and then surged triumphantly ahead of Sam, powering through to the white line. As he took his last steps, he shuffled off to the side of the finishing shoot, ducking under a flagged rope and dropping to his knees.

A few seconds later, Sam joined him, gasping for breath. The pair looked at each other and smiled. Or at least Chris hoped that’s what he had done. It was hard to control his facial expressions in his fatigued state.

“Good jah,” he said through his panting.

“Thanks, you too,” Wikler replied, equally winded. After a bit more rest, they pushed themselves up off the ground and shared a brief embrace. “Remember when you asked me what a kick was?” Sam asked as they trudged back toward a pack of West Chester North runners behind them.

“Yeah,” Chris said, wiping a trail of spit from the left corner of his mouth.

“Well you’ve got one … A pretty darn good one, too.”

“Thanks, man,” Chris grinned again, this time feeling much more confident his appearance accurately reflected his emotions. Then, unexpectedly, he felt his stomach lurch uncomfortably. “Hey, if I puke right now,” the senior said, stumbling slightly as he drifted to his left, “That’s normal right?”

“Well I don’t know if I’d say normal, but-”

Chris dropped to his knees as his lunch reproduced itself from within his stomach. He panted, feeling embarrassed yet relieved. From behind, he felt a pat on his back. A bigger, stronger hand than he was expecting.

“Welcome to Cross Country,” a voice said. Chris looked up to see its source. “Gotta admit, you looked like you belonged.”

“Thanks, Ricky,” Chris replied, shakily getting back to his feet. But the senior captain was already walking away, his back turned, his attention on a different clump of runners, rushing toward the finish.

GO TO CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT