Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Jimmy Springer, November 1^st, 2013

Slowly he trudged through the slop. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was going. But he liked that. When he ran through his neighborhoods at home, he would wander aimlessly, hoping to get momentarily lost before eventually popping out onto a street he recognized. His feet splashed gently into occasional puddles as he continued on his way. There was something almost peaceful about the scene. The tip-tap of the rain on his jacket created a pleasant rhythm. A natural pre-race music routine.

Continuing on his stroll, he spotted a crowd of people gathered near the bottom of a large hill. The sounds of cheering floated to him and, as he squinted for a closer look through the precipitation, he could just make out figures running up the hills. Curious, he walked forward to the site of the commotion. A string fence with flags hanging from it separated the spectators from the athletes. As he got closer, he determined the runners’ were girls: their longer hair was a giveaway.

This must be the Large School Girls Championship, Jimmy thought to himself. He positioned himself a few yards above the base of the hill so that he was facing the competitors. He wanted to watch their expressions change as the reality of their painful ascent set in for the first time.

After a couple seconds of watching, he realized there was a puddle in the small valley before the hill. Most of the runners dodged it, running tight around the turn and causing a pile up, but occasionally a particularly plucky girl would run wide, splashing straight through and up into the incline. These same girls were more likely to attack the hill head on rather than wilt at its feet.

Jimmy fixated on one runner with long, black hair that was tied up with a red hair tie to match her uniform top. She came flying through the valley before the hill, somewhat madly racing through the mud. It splashed off her feet and onto a few other competitors who cringed as the ricocheted dirt flew in their direction. The girl in red tried to sprint aggressively, straight into the hill, but the slick ground caused her to slip and fall. Around her, the crowd groaned as she lay sprawled on the wet ground, her face catching mud kicking off other’s shoes. But surprisingly, as miserable as the fall looked, she smiled. And Jimmy watched in awe as she rose back to her feet and once again began to sprint into the hill with the same reckless abandon. He watched as far up the hill as he could, counting the number of girls she passed as she went. 2 … 3 … 4, 5 …

“Wow,” a voice said quietly from just behind Jimmy. He whipped around, slightly scared and looked up into the hooded face. Its eyes were following the same girl plow through the field. Slowly, she disappeared out of sight. “C’mon,” the man said, beckoning for Jimmy to follow. “If we leave now, we can probably catch the finish.”     

Chris Cline, September 2016

Chris dropped his backpack to the ground and flopped sideways along his living room couch. His father was watching a sports talk show, “Pardon the Interruption”, while his mother prepared dinner in the kitchen. Inside his pocket, he felt his phone vibrate, but made no move to open it. Instead, he moved his head onto one of the couch’s decorative pillows and let his heavy eyes close.

His first week as a distance runner had been far from a smooth transition. On Tuesday morning, when Chris climbed out of bed, he nearly fell over. His legs were incredibly sore from his first day at practice. Half asleep, he forced himself into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt before catching a ride to school from his neighbor, Jacob Naughton. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, Chris had gym class periods, which, due to his injury, he was instead filling with extra one-on-one film sessions with Coach Groff. From the passenger’s seat of the car, he pondered what would be more painful: the film sessions or his fatigued legs. He incorrectly picked his legs.

After a miserably long day at school, he kept his fingers crossed in hopes that this afternoon’s cross country practice would be better than his first. Technically, he supposed, it was. Although a couple runners had seemingly deliberately given him bad directions for their training run, Chris ran with Sam for a makeshift four-mile loop. With proper pacing advice from the freshman, he was able to complete the run without stopping. It wasn’t much, but it was progress.

On Wednesday, Chris experienced his first cross country workout. Coach Finley had used some type of measuring wheel to track 1,000 meters around the school’s baseball fields. Then he explained that they would be doing repetitions of this loop with a rest period of 90 seconds in between each hard effort. The team was organized in four groups of five runners, each ranging in ability levels and age. Group One, the top group of runners, was assigned six loops.

Chris, on the other hand, was relegated to group four. His group was assigned just three loops. Sam had been placed in group three, meaning Chris was dealing with a collection of new faces. After the first packs were sent off, they lined up across the starting line, waiting for Coach Finley to blow his whistle. On the far left was Jason Rosenwasser, a senior who seemed genuinely disinterested in cross country. He waited for the start slouched and practically standing. Alongside him was Thomas Partridge, a spacy junior who, politely put, marched to the beat of his own drum. Next was Connor McIntyre, a timid freshman who Chris had yet to hear speak a single word. And then finally, to his immediate right, was Nick Meyers, a sophomore transfer student who had moved from North Carolina this past summer.

Although Chris had been to only two practices, as a proud and accomplished athlete, he had still seen his grouping as a bit on an insult. The runners in his troop either showed little passion and drive or were routinely at the back of the pack for drills, strides and distance runs. Therefore, when the workout began, he took the first repetition as an opportunity to prove himself. He powered through the first loop and finished first from his platoon by nearly 10 seconds. In fact, he was gaining ground on the five-some ahead of him.

However, the 90 seconds he was allotted for rest went by in the blink of an eye. Before he could completely catch his breath, Coach Finley was already ushering them back into line for their next repetition. His thirst to prove himself still unquenched, he went out hard again as the second interval began. But he tired much more quickly than he had a rep earlier and, thus, faded slowly back to the pack over the final 400 meters. By the third, he was out the back of the group, wheezing horribly and struggling to even finish. Coach Finley pulled him from the workout after that, so Chris could only watch the fourth, fifth and sixth repetitions. He marveled at the controlled, smooth power of the top group, particular their senior captain Will Aldrich. He glided effortlessly through each rep, looking like he could go plenty faster if necessary. However, the top pack of runners finished together at the end of each interval.

“I know you’re frustrated,” Coach Finley had said, pulling Chris aside at the end of practice. “You’re a competitive guy and you’re used to being the best. I get it. But you have to remember, these kids have months or-quite honestly-years of a head start on you. Even someone as talented as you isn’t going to make that up in only a week.

“But if you give me one month-one month of complete faith-I can promise you, you will be a varsity runner on this team.”

Coach Finley didn’t wait long to test Chris’s faith. On Thursday, he had him go for a run with the girl’s team during practice. He couldn’t help but feel humiliated as the boys team trotted out the gates first and he, instead, sat on the ground with the girl’s team awaiting the second set of instructions. There was some conspicuous pointing and giggling from his teammates as they left. For a brief moment, he sat angry and embarrassed before trekking out with three members of the girl’s varsity team.

But to his surprise, he had a productive run. The top tier girls were just as fast, if not faster, than many of the junior varsity boys. He was able to run at the front of the group, which gave him an extra shot of confidence. And although he was uncomfortable running along in awkward silence, he at least didn’t feel like the people around him hated his guts or were actively rooting for him to fail.

By Friday, he was in a rhythm. His legs were less sore in the morning and his runs were less painful. He and Sam even had company on their run as the quiet freshman, Connor McIntyre, opted to join them on their run. Although, he didn’t say anything, it was still nice to have another training partner. It wasn’t much, but it was progress.

Jimmy Springer, cont.

They jogged together side-by-side through the rain. Jimmy paid particular attention to the puddles, taking extra care not to splash the man beside him. The rain and wind made enough noise to drown out the silence between the pair. After a few minutes, they reached the apex of a steep hill lined with spectators. It was the race’s final and most grueling challenge, “Cardiac Hill”, and Jimmy remembered it well from his first trip to the course. He did not have particularly fond memories of it.

“This hill sucks,” Matt said, pushing forward to get a better view, “And it looks like it’s extra sloppy today.” He touched the ground with his hand and tracked a thick streak of mud.

“Awesome,” Jimmy said sarcastically, looking at Matt’s dirty hand apprehensively.

“It kinda is though,” Matt replied, seriously, a slightly manic grin stretching across his face, “Everybody is going to be so psyched out dealing with these conditions. All those kids with the fancy gear and carefully constructed race plans? They got no chance today. This kinda stuff,” he held out his hand, “It’s a great equalizer.”

As Jimmy considered his words, a string of cheers pierced the air from the bottom of the hill. The first few girls were racing into sight, making their final surge for a state championship. A girl in orange with dark black arm sleeves was leading, followed closely by one in a dark blue singlet. They battled hard with one another through the climb, both gritting their teeth and pumping their arms furiously. Next was a runner in green with short blonde hair, a small gap, a pair in black and then, gradually, more and more girls began flooding the course.

Standing out among the group was a familiar girl in red with a matching hair tie. She was sprinting quickly through the herd, rolling past the other runners. While the others around her were merely specked with small globs of dirt, her jersey and face were caked in it. But she didn’t seem to care. As she came up the hill, Jimmy found himself cheering for her, trying to will her forward passed even more runners. Once she crested the incline, he turned to follow her sprint down the last straightaway.

“Did you see that?” Jimmy exclaimed, looking around for Matt, who had removed himself from the crowd, “What did she get? Like 12^th?” His smile faded as he made eye contact with Matt.

“Don’t do it, Jimmy,” he said seriously, looking the freshman straight in the face.

“What?” He looked back, startled by the abrupt change of tone.

“Don’t go out there and sandbag this race.”

“Um … I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he lied.

“I know you’re pissed at me. You might hate me for a while for going at your boy again-”

“-He’s not-”

“-But I’d hate myself even more if I let you throw away a chance to do something great just because you might think it’s going to help the team. There’s no reason to hold anything back. Every point counts, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, but it’s different-”

“Why?” he said emphatically, “Screw Glenn. Screw Ames. In this sport, everyone goes out and fights until they can’t fight anymore. And at the end of the race, when you shake hands with the guy who finishes next to you, there’s a mutual respect between you. It doesn’t matter who finished first. That’s not why you respect the other guy. You respect him because you know that he pushed you to the limit. And he respects you because you pushed him right back.

“To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.”

They stood face to face, Jimmy seemingly at a loss for words, Matt clearly finished with his. The cheering of fans thundered around them as runners continued through the finishing straightaway. Then, Jimmy stepped forward and embraced his friend. The rain fell across his face, mixing with a single tear.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” he said faintly.

“Are you kidding me?” Matt said as the two broke apart, “I’m not. I’ve got my swagger back thanks to you.” He put his arm around Jimmy and led him back towards the tent. “And you better watch out, ‘cause I’m coming for you today.” 

Jimmy smiled up at the senior, “I don’t know man, after that pump up speech, I’m feeling pretty fired up. That was one heck of a line at the end. ‘To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.’ Damn. Did you come up with that on your own?”

“Jimmy, how much do you know about Steve Prefontaine?”

“Steve Charlemagne? Never heard of him.”

“Then to answer your question, yes, I came up with that quote all on my own.”

Chris Cline,cont.

Buzz … buzz …

Chris awoke in surprise as the phone in his pocket vibrated furiously. Shaking his head to try and wake himself, he sat up from the couch and looked around the living room. The TV was off and his mother was standing a few feet away, putting food on the dinner table.

“What time issit?” he asked, stretching his arms above his head. Then, reaching into his pocket for his now motionless phone, he read the time across the screen. It was almost seven o’clock.

“It’s dinner time,” Mrs. Cline said, pulling out her chair and taking a seat. “Would you tell your father to come down, Chris?”

“How is it already seven?” he asked, scrambling to his feet. “I didn’t even realize I had fallen asleep …” As he walked up the stairs to the family’s computer room, he flipped through his missed texts and calls. There were fifteen unopened messages, two missed calls and a voicemail. “She’s crazy …”

“Hope you aren’t talking about your mother,” Mr. Cline said, appearing at the doorway opposite his son.

“What? Oh no-it’s … never mind,” he turned and followed his father back down the stairs to the kitchen. “Are you guys going to the game tonight?” He asked, still flipping through his unread messages.

“I think we were planning on it,” his mother replied. “And no phones at the dinner table, please.” She took his plate and spooned some pasta from the center of the table onto it.

“Sorry,” Chris replied, hastily stuffing his phone into his pocket. “And thank you.” He accepted the now full plate back. “Do you think I could get a ride with you guys?”

“You ‘anna go wit us?” his father replied in surprise through a mouthful of food. A piece of meat flew across the table and landed next to the salad.

“Scott … really?” Mrs. Cline replied, annoyed but smiling. Chris barely managed to contain his own dinner as he choked down a laugh.

“Sorry, honey,” his mouth now clear, he turned back to Chris, “None of your friends are driving over?”

“They’re basically all on the team aren’t they?”

“Admittedly, that’s a good point.” He forked another meatball and carefully chewed before continuing. “Well … your mother and I would be happy to bring you.”   

“It’s just like the old days on JV,” Mrs. Cline said, “You remember those?”

“Yeah-barely,” Chris smiled, “You remember the Avon Grove game that year?”

“Of course. That’s one of the best games I’ve ever seen you play … Uncle Chris and Aunt Jill came down for that one, too, right?”

“Yeah, they did. I always seem to have my best games in front of them. Like you know the basketball game in middle school where-” his phone once again began buzzing furiously. Melissa was calling again. “Mom, can I take this real quick? I think it’s about plans for the game tonight.”

“Sure, Chris,” she said with a smile, but her expression couldn’t completely hide the small sadness in her voice.

“Thanks, Mom.” He stepped away from the table and jetted upstairs as he answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Oh my god-where have you been?” the voice of his girlfriend, Melissa Fredricks, came loudly back to him through the phone, “You haven’t answered, like, any of my texts.”

“Sorry … I fell asleep and then we had dinner so-”

“Whatever, you can apologize to me later … You’re coming to the game tonight, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Who’s driving you?”

“I was probably just gonna get a ride with my parents since they’re going too-”

“Ew, no. That’s definitely not happening. Gabby’s boyfriend Seth is driving us. He can just get you on the way. We’ll be there in, like, 10 minutes.”

“Um … ok, I guess I can be ready by then,” he checked his hair in the mirror across from him and sniffed under his armpits. He hadn’t been able to shower since cross country practice ended.

“Perf. See you soon, babe!”

“Bye,” Chris hung up the phone and went straight for the bottle of cologne Melissa had given him for his last birthday. He sprayed it quickly up and down his body, coughing slightly as the fumes hit his face. Then he stuffed his wallet in one pocket and his phone in the other before returning to the dining room.

“So what’s the pl-holy moly, Chris, did you just fumigate your bed room?” Mr. Cline said smelling his son’s cologne from a few feet away. Chris grinned sheepishly.

“I was trying to kill a fly, but I missed him a couple times.” He joked.

“Well none of them will come near you any time soon …” he paused, watching his son check out through the window, “So what’s the plan?”

“Oh …” he snapped his head back to the dinner table, “Um … is it cool if I get a ride with Melissa and one of her friend’s to the game?”

His parents exchanged a brief look before his mother granted permission. “Sure, sweetie. Are they giving you a ride home, too?”

“Uh … good question,” he took out his phone and typed out a text as he walked off to grab a sweatshirt. “Can I let you know later tonight?”

“No problem … We’ll be there if you need us.”

“Thanks, mom,” he replied, still without looking up from his phone. Then, throwing the coat around his arms, he opened the door to wait outside. “See you guys later!” As he stepped out, he looked back at his parents and waved. His father had grabbed his mother’s hand and was stroking it gently. With a sad smile, they waved goodbye to their son.

After waiting in his front yard for 20 minutes, a black Audi arrived in his driveway, prepared to transport him to the stadium. The driver, Seth Hammerstein, had graduated West Chester North the previous June and was now a freshman at West Chester University. It was close enough that he could still visit home on weekends.

Chris didn’t particularly like Seth. He was a bit pretentious and liked to brag about his wealth whenever possible. At the pair’s most recent meeting, Seth had purchased a variety of designer clothes at the local mall while boasting to Chris about how much alcohol he had drank the previous weekend. And it wasn’t any of the cheap stuff either, Chris remembered him saying. Riding beside Seth was his girlfriend, Gabby Shepard, one of Melissa’s best friends from the cheerleading squad.

When Chris first arrived in the car, Melissa immediately played with his hair, styling it to her own personal preference. Then, after she documented their reunion with a snapchat, she turned back to her friend. To Chris’s relief, the two girls dominated the conversation, allowing him to drift off freely. He seized the momentary independence to text his friend Ernie about Seth’s new driving gloves.

But his reprieve from colloquial duties was short lived. Once they reached the high school, Seth dropped the two girls off by the entrance to their locker room and the two boys were alone without a female buffer. There was an empty seat in the front which Chris was unsure if he was supposed to fill. They would only be driving another minute or so before parking in the nearby lot. After a short, awkward pause, he tentatively unbuckled his seat belt, just as Seth decided to put the car in drive once again. Chris rolled to his left before steadying himself and re-strapping.

“Sorry about that bro,” Seth said, after he parked the car, “It’s an Audi so … you know how it goes.”

“No problem,” Chris said flashing his best fake smile, “I’m just grateful you had those driving gloves to help you control things!”

Together, the two boys walked to the stadium and entered through the ticketing gate. Having been recognized immediately, the attendant let Chris get in for free but, to Chris’s great pleasure, Seth had to not only pay, but pay full price as he was no longer a student at West Chester North.

“How lame was that?” Seth said as they continued toward the student section, “That old hag charged me ten bucks just to get into the stadium. I only graduated like three months ago!”

“Man, that does suck … Good thing you’re rich!” This time Chris didn’t have to fake his smile. Unfortunately, he didn’t get to enjoy his companion’s misfortune for long.

“Yo Seth-Chris!”

As they made their way up into the stands, they were flagged down by a group of Chris’s classmates: Bucky Lassiter, Anthony Hawkins and Mike Mizzanti. All three were wearing different colored polo shirts. Bucky wore a light blue knit cap that wasn’t covering his ears and a pair of lightly worn jeans. Of the trio, he was the most loud and obnoxious. Hawkins was a bit more reserved. He kept his hair cut clean and his face well shaven. Everything about his appearance, from his scarf to his shoes, seemed carefully calculated and well organized. Mizzanti took more after Bucky than Anthony. He was wearing a pair of sunglasses, despite the fact that the sun was down, and he was carrying a small water bottle that Chris suspected wasn’t filled with water. It was a group of people that, even a few years earlier, he never would have dreamed of sitting with. And, to be fair, they probably never would have wanted to sit with him.

“Seth-bro-how have you been?” Bucky said, pulling him into a brief hug. “We’ve been trying to carry on y’all’s legacy here at North.”

“I’ve been having a blast, man. College life is wild,” Seth sat down in between Bucky and Mike while Chris sat on the end next to Anthony. “My frat has mad parties.”

“When you say ‘mad’ do you mean ‘mad’ as in, like, ‘a lot’ or ‘mad’ as in like ‘rad’?” Mike asked in a dreamy, far-off voice.

“That’s the thing, bro. I mean it both ways.” And the two laughed and high fived.

“And how’s the tail at college? I bet there are all sorts of fine honeys around.”

“You know it. I’m all up on those dime pieces like FDR.”

Chris looked around in shock, hoping there was someone else would could share his amusement at the absurdity of the conversation happening beside him. When his search came up empty, he turned his attention to the field. This game can’t start soon enough.

At eight o’clock, the West Chester North Warriors kicked off to the night’s opponents: Avon Grove. The defense looked sharp early, led by Jacob Naughton. He was flying around the field on the game’s first series, posting a tackle for loss and a sack. That set up the Warriors’ new quarterback, Drew McDermott, with excellent field position. He stepped out onto the turf with the offense to the cheer of the home crowd. Compared to the senior offensive linemen, it stood out how young and small the sophomore was.

On the first play, he handed the ball off to running back Pete Washington. Washington hit the hole hard, but the opposing defense was prepared and contained him well. Based on their defensive formation, it was obvious to Chris that Avon Grove wanted to force the young quarterback to beat them with his arm. “They’ve got nine in the box,” Chris explained to Anthony, “Should run some play action or something here.”

“Nine in the box? Sounds like my Saturday nights, am I right?” Bucky called to the perverse pleasure of his friends.

Chris shook his head in shame and turned to the fans behind him, “Please don’t judge me-I don’t even like them.”

McDermott turned to hand the ball off once again, but this time, he pulled the ball back at the last second and instead looked down field to pass. The defense bit hard on the fake as Ernie Tyrell sprinted wide open behind the safety. McDermott wound up and launched a pass in his direction, but, due to nerves, he overshot his target and the ball fell a couple feet ahead of the receiver.

“Oooo … aww!” The crowd groaned slightly as the team walked back to the huddle after the missed opportunity. Drew hung his head, but Ernie came over and said something to him briefly, before slapping him on the backside and returning to formation.

On third down, Drew went right back to Ernie on a short slant route. This time, he hit him right on the hands and Ernie hauled in the pass in stride. After breaking his first tackle, he spun out of reach of the safety and dashed for a twenty-five yard gain. The crowd roared its approval, screaming and stomping their feet. From then on, the young quarterback looked much more comfortable and the Warriors were able to dominate the first half of play on both sides of the ball.

At half time, the conversation among Chris’s section, returned almost instantly to drinking and girls. So, claiming he was headed to the snack bar, Chris exited the stands and began to wander around the football stadium. Surprisingly, the walkways were packed tight with Warrior supporters even though Avon Grove was far from one of North’s most hated rivals. Usually this sort of crowd was reserved for match-ups with Coatesville or perhaps one of the Downingtown schools.

As Chris walked, a few fans stopped him to shake his hand and get his opinions on the offense. Some even asked for an autograph or a picture. At first it was flattering, but eventually he became a little frustrated. Although it was annoying to consistently put his plans on hold, that wasn’t what bothered him most. He was finding it increasingly painful to discuss the game, knowing he was standing powerless on the sidelines watching another kid do his job.

After a slew of conversations, he smiled awkwardly for a selfie with an elderly couple before finally escaping into the snack bar line. The West Chester North football team was already making their way back onto the field, meaning the second half was not far from starting. With a deep sigh, he waited to advance to the front window. Then he ordered a soft pretzel and wandered over to the bottles of ketchup and mustard. Standing by the mustard was a group of girls, the closest of which he recognized from his most recent run with the women’s cross country team. Trying to remember her name, Chris thought back to earlier that day.

“You coming to practice tomorrow morning?” Sam asked, looking across at Chris as the two stretched on the turf.

“We have practice tomorrow?” he responded in surprise, pausing from his hamstring stretch.

“Yeah, we have optional practices on Saturdays.” Sam pulled his two legs together into a butterfly stretch. “Not everyone goes-I was just looking to get a ride from someone.”

“What time do we meet?”

“We usually meet at 8 o’clock.”

“Oooh, I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it.” Chris said, standing up and stretching his quad muscle. “I got some stuff going on tonight.”

Sam looked questioningly back, but decided not to press the subject. Instead, he got to his feet and stretched alongside Chris, looking out to the home straightaway. A girl with light brown hair was lacing up a pair of pink and blue Ares spikes.

“Hey, who is that?” Chris asked as the girl finished tying her laces and began a smooth, controlled stride. “I think she is one of the girls I ran with yesterday.”

“Yeah, that’s Sarah,” Sam replied. “She looks really good, don’t you think?”

“Well I mean-I have a girlfriend so-but I guess, you know, objectively speaking-” Chris said awkwardly, caught slightly off guard by the rather forward question.

“I wish I could look like that.” Sam said, turning away from the straightaway and walking toward the goal post to do some leg swings.

“What do you mean?” Chris asked, following in his tracks, and feeling very confused.

“Her running form,” Sam replied, looking back over his shoulder with a perplexed expression of his own. “Isn’t that what you were talking about?”

“Right-yeah, of course. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

“Hi Sarah,” Chris said politely as he approached the group of girls. “How’s it going?”

“Hey Chris,” Sarah looked slightly surprised to have been acknowledged, but otherwise kept her expression straight. The two girls on either side of her, however, were not so coy. The girl on her right, a slightly shorter girl with curly brown hair and glasses, let out a tiny, high-pitched shriek in response to his appearance. The girl on her left, who was taller with dark blonde hair, was slowly crouching lower, as if trying to disappear into the corner wall.

“Er-These are my friends,” Sarah said, blushing ever so slightly at their reactions, “This is Maggie,” she gestured to the girl on her right, “And this is Alexa,” the girl on her left, “Guys, this is Chris.”

“Hi … nice to meet you …” Chris gave an awkward wave. Maggie beamed widely while Alexa continued to sink backwards nervously, her eyes cast down. “Could one of you pass the mustard?”

“Of course, anything for you, Chris,” Maggie said, grabbing the mustard hastily and offering it forward. However, in her eagerness she accidentally squirted some out of the bottle, splattering the condiment across Chris’s shirt.

“Oh my gosh!” She said, turning bright red and frantically snatching napkins, “I’m so sorry,” she hurried forward and started dabbing at Chris’s chest.

“It’s ok …” he said, looking down awkwardly, holding the pretzel at his side. “I don’t really like this shirt anyway … You can … um …” Maggie was now dabbing at his right bicep which, as far as he could tell, had not been hit. “You can probably stop now.”

“Right, sorry. Really sorry.” Maggie backed up awkwardly, nearly running into the table. Sarah was trying her best to not break out in a fit of laughter. “I’m just going to … um …” she straightened her slightly askew glasses on her face, “What was that Alexa?” She looked desperately at Alexa who had, very clearly, not made any noise. In fact, she looked horrified to have been addressed for the second time. “Um … ok,” Maggie said, pretending as if Alexa had responded, “We’re just going to head back to our seats. We’ll meet you there, Sarah.” And she pulled the tall blonde by the arm away from the snack bar, back in the direction of the stadium.

Chris grinned broadly as they scampered away. He stared at Sarah with his eyebrows raised.

“Sorry,” she said, smiling, easily handing him the mustard.

“Haha, it’s cool,” Chris said, squeezing carefully onto his snack, “I probably should have been more explicit about the fact that I wanted the mustard on my pretzel.” He gestured at his fresh yellow stain.

She laughed at his joke. “Maggie’s actually super sweet … she was just a little nervous because-well-you know-you’re the ‘quarterback of the football team’ or whatever.”

“Eh, right now I’m not,” he looked back over his shoulder at the football field. The second half had started and West Chester North was driving again. “Where are you guys sitting?”

“We are with a couple other juniors near the twenty-yard line,” she replied, the two now walking off in the direction she indicated. “There’s some guys from the team there if you want to join.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea … I don’t think they like me very much.”

“Oh, they definitely don’t.”

“Well that’s great to hear,” Chris replied sarcastically.  She laughed. “What’s so funny?” he said slightly upset, but with a trace of a smile.

“Oh c’mon. You don’t actually care what they think,” she said as they reached the stairs. “Aren’t you just on the team so you can keep your football scholarship?”

“No … well-yeah, kinda, but-how do you-”

“If you really want to be part of the team,” she said, walking away from him, up the stairs and back toward her seat, “I’m sure you will be.” And she disappeared from view, obscured by the rest of the bleachers. The crowd erupted into cheers as West Chester North scored another touchdown.

Jimmy Springer, cont.

The final hour before the race was the slowest of Jimmy’s life. They pushed their warm up routine back as far as possible to maximize their stint under cover, but eventually it was time for the ceremonial fifteen minute trot. Ames had them jog through the parking lot to try and keep away from the mud and so they traversed the perimeter of the large, concrete space.

While on their jog, they crossed paths with many of the other top programs including the District One Champions, Coatesville. They were the early favorites for the state title and the school Glenn had preached about all week in practice. The Coatesville team, dressed in matching black uniforms with the Ares insignia in the top left corner, attempted to look fierce and stoic as they passed the Union Valley boys. Their front runner, Dan Capriotti, looked quite convincing. He was surprisingly bulky and muscular for a distance runner and had a particularly imposing presence in a race. But Jimmy noticed a few other runners near the back of the pack who were unable to hide their discomposure in the storm.

A short while later, they came across the Catholic League Champions, Bonner. Jimmy recognized a couple of their faces from the Pre-States Invitational he had raced in September. Unlike Coatesville, they waved and smiled at the Union Valley team. Just after they passed, Jimmy heard a splash and turned to see that one of the Bonner runners had purposely stepped in a puddle to try and soak his teammate. Naturally, his target mounted a retaliation. He felt the laughter from their team nicely accented the tense, melancholy tone in the parking lot.

“Such immature idiots. They’re going to get themselves soaked,” Glenn muttered to himself, “We don’t have to worry about them beating us, I’ll tell you that.” Matt looked as if he had a retort in mind, but he bit it back and replaced it with a smile, continuing the jog in satisfied silence.

Somehow, Matt managed to maintain that smile throughout the Viking’s pre-race preparation, despite the disastrous final minutes. The weather continued to be miserable and there was little relief available other than their small tent. So they had to continue most of their prep in the elements. Reggie Armstrong slipped and face-planted during the team’s plyometric drills. Shortly after, while they were changing into spikes, Everett Paulson lost his balance and stepped directly into a mud puddle, soaking his left sock.

Due to the storm, the PAL had suspended the usual restrictions on team clothing. That meant each runner was free to wear mismatching long sleeve shirts, running tights, or pants, as long their official race singlet was the top layer. Jimmy decided to wear a hat and gloves, but would otherwise wear only his customary singlet and shorts. Most of his teammates added long sleeve undershirts while Dan Scatena donned a pair of dark blue tights. Matt opted to sport the official team uniform with no additional clothing. Depending on who you asked, he was either the stupidest (Glenn) or the bravest (Matt) of the bunch. When everyone eventually stripped down just before the gun, he had to hop up and down and rub his hands together to keep from shivering.

Jimmy was so distracted by the uncomfortable cold he was standing in that he had nearly forgotten he was on the verge of the biggest race of his life. Just before the gun, as the starter called them into a crouch, the familiar nervous energy and adrenaline kicked in. He smiled, took a deep, calming breath and then, just like any other race, they sprinted off the line in a wave of bodies.

Despite the depressing conditions, the crowd erupted into massive cheers like Jimmy had never before experienced. He fought the urge to sprint all out for a brief moment of glory at the front of the state championship and instead followed just behind Glenn, gliding along like his shadow. He could feel his teammates just behind him, all taking an aggressive approach to the start. Union Valley’s starting box on the far right meant most of the field would be collapsing down on them, so Jimmy ran with his elbows out, protecting his position. A pack of runners in red and white jerseys ran beside him, trying to slip into the ever narrowing path. As one of them tried to fight in between Jimmy and Glenn, the freshman stepped hard and stuck his elbow directly in his chest. He felt a hand on his back as others ran up from behind, but there was no pushing and he was able to maintain his balance.

After the opening 800 meters, people seemed more comfortable in their spots. Jimmy began to look around for familiar jerseys, particularly Coatesville. Looking ahead, he saw Dan Capriotti running in 2^nd place overall, trailing in the wake of another runner in a red, black and yellow jersey. The pair had already opened up a small gap on the rest of the field and Capriotti looked a little uncomfortable with the aggressive pace the leader was setting. However, he seemed determined to keep him close. Two other Coatesville runners were near Jimmy as well. He monitored them as best he could from the corner of his eye.

They made a slight right turn and runners began to wobble tentatively in the slop. Edging to his left, Jimmy made sure to take the turn wide and avoid the pile up on his inside. As he did so, Glenn caught sight of him running in front. For a nervous second, Jimmy watched Glenn, trying to gauge his reaction. To his relief, Glenn appeared unphased. With the tiniest of surges, he dodged the traffic and led a path for Jimmy to follow through a few more runners.

They approached the mile marker that sat at the bottom of the course’s first steep hill. Although he had been mentally preparing for it, he also had spent a lot of energy getting into the lead group. He never started anywhere near this quick. As they made the turn into the hill, he scanned the side path for the clock. The rain fell on his face, causing him to squint. A string of beeping filled his ears as the horde of runners cycled across the timing mat that had been positioned at the one mile marker. Shoot, he thought as he cleared the mat and charged into the hill, I missed the split.

“4:55 … 4:56 … 4:57 … 4:58 …”

He caught the string of numbers, coming from a coach behind him. I must be at least three seconds faster than that, he thought, So 4:52? Is that right? Can’t be. He took the number with a grain of salt. Even still, he understood he was running very fast through rough conditions. Which made him feel better about how tired his lungs were.

At the top of the hill, they made a quick right. On the turn, he looked back down the hill and watched as a sea of bodies traversed the incline. A few orange jerseys were peppered near the front. Plenty of black. A patch of green. He didn’t have time for anything more than that. When he had turned his head, he subconsciously slowed and the runner directly behind him nearly crashed into him. For a second, he wobbled in a slick patch of grass before miraculously staying on his feet.

“Focus, Springer!” A familiar voice shouted from somewhere behind him. Internally, he scolded himself and set his sights ahead, searching in the pack for Glenn. Fisher had run the hill hard, opening up a small gap and pushing into the top ten. The lead two were still clear, but they had not expanded their advantage.

The field rolled into a downhill and Jimmy moved to the outside once again, opening up his lengthy stride. He felt slightly out of control, especially when the ground was so slick, but he raced on fearlessly, passing those too afraid to fully utilize the elevation advantage. By the time the course flattened out again, he was back on Glenn’s shoulder, riding the chase pack toward the front of the race.

The second mile was grueling and, after their aggressive start, the lead pair was really slowing. At one point, Capriotti looked back over his shoulder and let himself be swallowed in the pack, seemingly unwilling to lead the pursuit efforts any longer. The other runner in red and yellow, realizing he was now alone, decided he should attack the next hill and try to put away the field. The chase group held steady.

The wind was hitting them hard in this stretch, whipping rain in their faces and punishing whoever chose to set the pace. Jimmy noticed a few runners rotate to the front and then, realizing the conditions were poor, slow down and essentially beg their competitors to assume the pole position. No one felt comfortable leading the race and as a result, the pack around him was growing in size as more and more runners surged into the mix thanks to the pedestrian pace.

They went back down the hill and Jimmy again tried to move wide and take advantage. But this time he was boxed in. There were runners on all sides, most of whom were tentatively navigating the decline.  With his eyes up, he chopped his stride, waiting for an opening. For a split second, a gap between a runner in yellow and black and another in maroon opened and he seized it. Springer stepped hard and slipped narrowly through their shoulders. As his second foot came down, it skidded slightly, but the runner in maroon reached out a hand and stopped his momentum, helping him stay upright. Jimmy gave the runner a small nod of thanks, but then they raced on as rivals.

That was close, he thought to himself, If you’re not careful, you’re going to fall … The thought of tumbling combined with his location on the course, jogged his memory. He was coming up on another steep hill, perhaps the toughest of the course. Earlier, he had watched the girls’ race from the bottom of this hill. Witnessed a girl fall directly in a massive puddle of mud.

Suddenly, he had an idea. They approached a hard right turn. This stretch of the course was on a small section of slanted ground. The lower ground was practically a moat as rain and mud had run down to it the whole day. Therefore, most of the field was pinning themselves to the inside. But at the base, Jimmy swung wide and splashed his way through the bottom section. As they completed the tight turn, the group who had taken the inside ran straight into a massive puddle of mud. The exact one Jimmy had been waiting for.

He took off hard around the turn as the frazzled pack tripped over themselves to navigate the puddle. One of the runners in blue tripped and those closest to him were hampered as well. In an instant, Jimmy had opened a gap on the chase pack and was now all alone in second place. His adrenaline spiked wildly as he looked up the hill at the last man he had to pass.

He poured as much as he could into his ascent, knowing he had a huge mental and physical advantage that he could not afford to waste. He was closing quickly on the leader, who, after his front-running escapades, looked completely spent. It was an incredibly taxing obstacle. Jimmy’s legs were screaming in protest, but he pumped his arms and let his emotions carry him.

As they crested the beast, Jimmy drew even with the runner in red and yellow. They looked at each other. He looked as tired as Jimmy felt. They were approaching yet another sharp downhill next and Jimmy wanted nothing more than to take it easy through this stretch and catch his breath. But instead, he shot off down the hill as fast as he could, flying frenziedly down the sloppy surface. The runner beside him forced himself to follow. His leg turnover was quicker and he was able to match Jimmy’s momentum. As they approached the bottom of the decline, he advanced ahead. With the lead reopened, he seemed to be gaining steam.

Then, just after the base of the hill, the leader fell. The course took a deceivingly harsh left turn that both runners had completely forgotten. As Jimmy watched the boy careen wildly to the ground, he was able to adjust and slow his momentum just enough to negotiate the turn cleanly. Upon clearing the bend, for the first time in his life, he was winning a race. And a half mile stood between him and the state championship.

His bold surges through the mud combined with his opponents’ misfortune while battling the elements had created a suddenly large lead for the Union Valley freshman. It was a perfect storm of good luck. Most of the top names had been slowed or perhaps completely fallen in the chaotic conditions. Any step on the messy, wet course could be your undoing. But as Jimmy pressed on through one final down-hill, the number of steps he had left to take were dwindling.

He approached the bottom of the final hill with an unbelievable amount of noise rushing to his ears. The rain was splashing hard against his aching muscles. The crowd was cheering maniacally. He could feel his body beginning to quit as he emptied everything he had left into the final hill. Once you can see the finish, it will get easier, he lied to himself. You’ll find another gear. Don’t save anything here.

He topped the incline and made the final turn of the course. The finishing banner stared him directly in the face. There was no one between them. The cheers seemed to be increasing in volume. Increasing in urgency. He strained through the noise, listening for any hint of challengers around him. But it was nearly impossible to utilize that sense under the circumstances.

His strength and his energy were depleted. And for the first time in his life, there was no runner ahead of him to chase. To inspire that furious kick. So he thought back to his first invitational. He thought back to the final meters where Matt had put in one last ditch surge to nip him at the line. And in that moment, an orange and blue jersey appeared at his right shoulder, ready to strike.

“Aggh!” he screamed, digging deep within himself for one final gear. He elevated his sprint and with the extra acceleration he powered through the finish tape, breaking it clean in half. Three bodies came across the line, just behind him. One dressed in blue and red. One dressed in red and white. And one dressed in black. There was just one orange and blue jersey at the front. And it was his.

GO TO CHAPTER TWENTY ONE