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.
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.
