I could barely get out of bed the next morning. My lungs still burned whenever I took a deep breath. I'd gone to bed as soon as I got home and slept until my father woke me up for school. I lay there for too long, thinking I'd be better off dead. I dressed slowly and I was still carrying my shoes when I got into the car.

"You didn't eat?"

"I'm not hungry," I said.

"What's wrong with your feet?"

"They're sore. Not use to running that much yet."

"You can walk around in your socks all day?"

"No, sir," I said, running out of words.

"You need to eat if you're going to be on a team."

"Yes, sir."

When I carried my shoes into Aunt Regina's, she forced me to take off my already soiled socks. She took me into the bathroom and fixed my blisters. She put big square bandages on each heel so I could wear my shoes again. I ate some toast and drank some coffee and that finally warmed my insides some. Aunt Regina was the archetype mom and something I had no experience with. She always knew what to do to make things better and there was no arguing with her if you knew what was good for you. I'd often wonder why childhood was such a turkey shoot, when it came to the parents you got.

Walking to school wasn't all that bad with my repaired feet. The weather wasn't nearly as harsh as it had been the day before and the morning was starting off crisp and clear. The first thing Tommy wanted to know was about the track team. He knew of my apprehension and was concerned.

"What's the team like?"

"I don't know. All I found was a fat guy and a bunch of clowns. A few were okay. I'm not sure about the coach."

"Yeah, that's probably why they don't do all that well. Maybe they'll do better now that you're on the team," he said, offering me encouragement that no one else gave me. "Jackie has Mr. Becker for history. He thinks he's a cool guy. He doesn't like that many teachers."

"Yeah, he seems fine. I just don't know that I want to run track."

Tommy watched me talk but he didn't make any attempt to influence my thinking. Tommy knew why I joined the team and he agreed I should honor my word to Mr. Q. He pretty much knew everything worth knowing about me by then.

We no longer had the afternoons to wander and ponder the meaning of life and that had to be weighed against what track offered me. So far frozen innards and torn up feet didn't quite get it. My friendship with Tommy was by far the most important thing in my life, so anything that interfered with that was on shaky ground in my book.

The day was way longer than usual. I was exhausted before I reached practice. I had the same dilemma, once I reached the end of the hall, but since I now had the sweat suit, I thought I needed to give it a chance. I did spend time wondering about what Tommy was doing and how much better that had to be than this.

I sat silently dreading the outdoors even with a sweat suit and better weather. I was never a big fan of cold and even less so after the previous day's experience. I stayed close to the heaters as I waited for practice to start. No one bothered me.

Coach Becker appeared out of the hall that led to his office. There was another short comedy routine between Johnny and him. They both talked excitedly about this and that before Coach Becker took control.

"We'll break up into small groups today. I want the leader of each group to lead exercises indoors. My distance men will go out and run the cross-country course, the field men workout in the weight room, and my sprinters will stay inside and use the halls. Johnny, you know the routine. You can take charge of the sprinters for now. Don't annoy anyone and stay at this end of the school. We don't need any complaints."

"Sure, Coach," Johnny was happy to agree.

That was a relief. In fact, we had seen the last of the outdoors for some time and that made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Sprinters were known to be temperamental beasts that took unkindly to extremes. I could relate to that concept.

After a short meeting we broke up into groups. The seven sprinters walked away from the gym, turning left down the first long hall and stopped at a utility closet. Johnny yanked the door open and started handing out tumbling mats, which I thought was odd.

Johnny Green, Whitey Sheldon, and Bob Droter all took charge of a mat each and Tom Beaudreault, David Ditmar, Tony Junta and I followed them. We went to the very end of the hall where they propped the mats up against the dead end wall.

"What's that for?" I asked, not having a clue.

"You'll see. Just hang with us and we'll teach you what you need to know," Johnny said, while he was checking the placement of the mats.

The conversations and demeanor of the sprinters were far more to my liking than the jocular attitude of the team at large. It was easier being with members of my own species. While Johnny was always making light of things and going for humor, his joking around was somewhat muted among the sprinters. We were all pretty quiet, save Johnny, who was the tallest and probably the biggest, but not by much, as none of us could be considered big.

Tom Beaudreault was maybe the quietest and least sociable on the first day the sprinters practiced together. He had very blond hair and was a bit larger than me. Junta was the smallest guy with black hair and eyes and he was quiet, maybe more so than Tom. David Ditmar had brown hair and eyes and he went with the flow and seemed to be most comfortable with Bob Droter. Bob was a little taller than me with brown hair and seemed thin. He was the easiest boy for me to be around.

Whitey was the athlete among us. He had distinctive muscles and looked impressive. He put me in mind of a California beach boy. I was also blond and most similar to Whitey in build, but I had none of his muscle. None of us except for Whitey was all that distinctive. Johnny Green was the oldest and only senior. I was the youngest and only sophomore. Everyone else was a junior and we were all pretty regular guys if a bit high strung on the days of track meets, but even there, we were similar in our preparation for competition. That day each sprinter was a mystery to me and I did my best not to do anything to bring attention to myself.

As a group all of us would have looked at home in the library or the Latin Club. We just weren't outstanding in a visible way. It was somewhat reassuring to be around a quieter group. I had not been impressed the day before and if things had continued in that vein, I doubt I would have stayed around for long. My first day was no fun at all and the second day was vanilla at best, but I was a vanilla kind of guy.

While training indoors, Johnny was always the leader of the pack in all respects, although he was pretty easy going. We started off with him leading some mild exercises and then we did some stretching. We jogged together in the halls once we were loosened up. My feet were sore but far better than before Aunt Regina got to them.

Most of us left our shoes down near the mats. Sock feet were easier than tennis shoes on the tile floors. They also had a certain slide factor that you couldn't benefit from while wearing tennis shoes. This seemed to be important for most of the sprinters. I'd become better acquainted with the more readily practiced peculiarities as time went on.

I suppose all teenage boys have a certain amount of disposable energy and engaging in physical activity couldn't help but also create a situation where we had to burn up more and more of the energy each day. It was a certain recipe for trouble, but not right away. When we couldn't get outside for the rest of February and into March, we became creative in our efforts to burn off the excess energy by the time practice was done. On that first day we were content to stay close to the long empty hall that ran down beside the gymnasium.

I found surprising how much entertainment one can derive from applying socked feet to polished floor at high speed, braking to avoid a collision with the wall. In most cases it was the wall with the mats plastered against it, but not always. There were times when we couldn't contain ourselves to "our" hall, and we ended up extending our runs deeper and deeper into the school, chasing each other at breakneck speed in spite of the warning of our coach.

After a half an hour excursion the first day, we ended up back in the hallway where we'd left the tumbling mats and their purpose became perfectly clear. Johnny and Whitey took off first. After walking almost out of the hall and accelerating back toward us, they slowing abruptly just before colliding with the mats. Bob and David took off next and ran with Kamikaze abandon, crashing into the mats with a loud thud, laughing as they returned up the hall to do it again. Tom sat off to one side unimpressed. He never made a run at the mats that day and neither did I. It didn't seem to bother anyone. I found myself doing what either Tom or Whitey did.

Johnny Green would spend time sitting next to me and explaining things without me asking. Of course, they'd all been sophomores once and there had been things they didn't know and had to learn. It wasn't easy taking instruction from Johnny by virtue of his age and status. Up until that time there had been a distinct delineation between upper classmen and sophomores. This wasn't true at track practice, at least not for me. I didn't understand that there was a difference, but there was, and so Johnny took time to sit and talk to me when I had that vacant look. Why he took so much time with me was a mystery I hadn't solved back then.

As we ran around the halls of Suitland, ever expanding our range each day, it was obvious that Whitey and Tom had the most flat out speed. Whitey was much more reckless while Tom almost always maintained a tight control, letting up first any time there was a question of space and matter, and never running flat out at the mats.

There were times when Tom lagged behind, unmoved by the other boys' bursts of speed. Almost any time one of the boys threw down the gauntlet, you could expect three, four, or five other boys would be quickly at his heels. It was curious behavior that I watched more than participated in, following Tom's lead here. I had nothing to prove. My speed was a given that I had no desire or need to prove to anyone, but the other boys knew speed as I knew speed, and there were no secrets in that department.

I had never had anything to prove as far as my life was concerned. For most of the early years I was a zero. I had nothing and gave nothing away. Once I did have something, it was too late to worry about what others thought about it or me. I had been a joke, a clown, the boy everyone laughed at early on, and that worked until I was ten or eleven. Then I struck out at my tormentors, making sure they knew that laughing at me came with a price.

I marked out my territory as one of the hoods or a greaser in the vernacular of the day. It took little skill and furnished me with a certain amount of insulation for my ignorance. I maintained the status and the acquaintances, mostly other hoods. It was safe but not very fulfilling.

Once Mr. Warnock helped me to locate my brain, at which times I could no longer be a member of good standing in the hood kingdom, having betrayed the brotherhood once my name became associated with the Honor Roll, it created another entirely different set of problems. I was once again without a clan.

Becoming "the brain" created another set of problems and some social isolation came with them. The other brains saw me as pseudo-intellectual, which was how I saw myself. I was not smart even though my grades seemed to belie that. I was certain that I was doing it with smoke and mirrors, still relating more to the old labels than the new.

Without Mr. Warnock to constantly encourage and praise me, I was just a kid with a lot of random capability and nowhere to put it. I was an angry kid who didn't belong anywhere, except when I was with Tommy. I certainly didn't belong with a collection of boys who ran in circles and didn't do it very well. Except for the promise, I wouldn't be there at all, and so being there was no easier than being anywhere else, but at the same time it was no more difficult, and so I followed the boys through the halls, having no good reason to quit yet.

I made every effort never to play second fiddle to anyone when possible but joining the track team had me playing third fiddle in a way that made little sense to me, but it seems third fiddle was an important place to play. By virtue of my seldom used speed I had been labeled third fastest among the sprinters. There was no denying the facts and they created certain truths that didn't need explaining, because we all ran together every day.

There were two open spots in the sprints, the 100 and 200 meters. I would do my best as the third fastest runner, but there was no value in running third, or so it seemed to me. As time went on it became apparent that there was a place for the third fastest man as well as the fourth. These were the facts that were revealed by the end of the first week of practice.

Johnny was quick but not as quick as I was. I knew the rest of them weren't a problem to me, although Droter could give me a run for my money any time he wanted to get me going and it took all I had to keep him behind me. It was impossible not to take a challenge, when someone wanted to give me a try. What I didn't know was that we were always being tested, even when it seemed like a friendly competition for a few dozen yards. It took no more than that to learn the truth.

Only Whitey and Tom had no interest in my speed, as I had no interest in anyone's speed but theirs. They were the only competition but I had no great yearning to take either of them on. I knew it would not end well for me. Everyone knew the same things I knew and probably a lot more. Toward the end of the first week of practice, Johnny showed up with a little silver cylinder. It was six inches long by one inch in diameter, hollow in the middle, and made of aluminum, which made it extremely light. He immediately handed it to me.

"Here, hold that," he said and I did.

We did our exercise and when I tried to put the cylinder down to do my pushups, Johnny stopped me and said, "I told you to hold that."

"Why?" I questioned, thinking it made no sense.

"Because I said to hold on to it. Don't put it down is all," he said firmly.

I was the only one singled out for this duty but I was the only one that didn't know anything about anything. Some lessons are taught differently than others and it doesn't always make sense.

We went about our routine as usual, spending more time running in the halls. We ended up in the dead end hall with everyone but Tom and me running recklessly at the mats. It served no purpose that I could see and so I ignored invitations to throw my body at the mats with the rest of them. I wasn't sure why Tom had no interest in this exercise.

Johnny came over after he made several runs. He was out of breath and sweating as he stopped in front of me. Turning to lean his back against the pale stone tiles, he slid down until he was seated beside me.

"That is a baton. Get accustomed to it. You'll be running the relays."

"I'll be running what?"

"Relay races. One man hands a baton like that to another man. There are four guys on a team. You'll run the 4X100 and 4X200 relays. That's four guys each running a 100 or 200. We haven't decided on your position yet. Probably third man, because that's the safest leg for a new guy. That'll put you between Bob and Whitey and they'll take care of you."

"Take care of me?" I said, looking for Bob and Whitey, who had shown no signs of being interested in taking care of me. I didn't even like the sound of it.

"Yeah, they'll look out for you. If you make a mistake during a race they'll bail you out. I'll show you how to use that later. Just get used to holding on to it. The one thing you never do is drop the baton. "

"Got it," I said, examining the baton anew as Johnny moved on.

The baton exchange was an "art." I wasn't much of an artist. Johnny made me aware of the "technique" for handing off the baton before practice ended that day. It seemed simple enough, except we did it jogging in the hall and he tapped me on the shoulder when he wanted me to take it from him.

What this had to do with running track was a mystery. Running should be about speed. Why introduce something that created so many variables that couldn't help but complicate things? That was my thinking before the concept was codified by virtue of practice. There was no way for me to calculate how important that little cylinder would become to my track and field future. It would be the source of anguish and controversy for the guys that were charged with getting it around the track. It looked so harmless to me then.

Although it was all quite civilized while in the hallways of Suitland, it would be a different matter once we got to the track and introduced our speed to the equation. It was an "art" if done right, but something entirely different when it wasn't. I was oblivious to all that then and was content to keep Johnny happy by passing the baton back and forth when his whim ordered it.

Each day thereafter, we walked through the baton exchange. Tom always started this process and seemed less than enthused. Bob took it from Tom and was always enthused. I was next and Whitey made four. It was something to do. It seemed pointless but it was easy enough and to me pointless was fine as long as it was painless.

I continued to watch and listen and learn the basics.

It was well into March, when we got the idea of sprinting down the long upstairs front corridor. Johnny, Whitey, and Bob could always be depended upon to do this at breakneck speed with David bringing up the rear. Tom jogged well behind me, pretending he was on a different track team and bore no responsibility for the activities of the speed racers. I also had the feeling this was going to end badly but what did I know. I had no interest in the mad dash competition and so trotted well off the pace.

The front upstairs corridor was as long as the school and it was so brightly lit as to be almost irresistible when compared to our narrow dark hall, where we couldn't possibly be expected to confine ourselves for three entire weeks. And so it was that we ventured into new and forbidden territory, racing the length of the main upper corridor. I want to set the record straight: I had been told that no one occupied those English and History classrooms that time of day, even though I knew instinctively that we were heading for trouble.

It happened at the straightest part of the hall, one classroom beyond the main entrance, where the thick glass façade stretched from just over the entrance to the roof. It was here that the three human torpedoes were reaching top speed.

The door of the very next classroom swung open at that precise instant. Johnny veered into Whitey and they both went sliding down the hall as Mr. Lavene emerged from his English classroom. His notebook and papers headed skyward as David sprinted past, and it was then that I came upon the scene as papers cascaded down all over the floor and even floating into the large central staircase. This was not good.

Mr. Lavene grabbed me by my arm as Tom split down the staircase behind me, leaving me to face the music alone, until the teacher's edict was yelled for all to hear.

"Halt! Halt you miscreants. Bring me your coach at once," he blustered.

David and Bob were just then skidding around the far turn, making good their escape as Tom sheepishly returned to the scene of the crime. Needless to say, Mr. Lavene was not amused.

Tom and I were picking up papers when Coach Becker and Bob arrived. Coach was immediately dressed down for the "misdeeds of his charges." Coach stood silently listening to the complaint being leveled against us. He agreed wholeheartedly that the halls were no place for the likes of us and right there and then, he banished us back to our hall, not that he hadn't made it clear several times before the incident.

The rest of the sprinters joined with us as we went back toward the gym. I waited to be told my services were no longer needed. I accepted that when you were told something by an adult and then chose to disobey, it was at your own peril. Therefore, it only made sense to me that Coach Becker would take being addressed in such a demeaning manner as something that demanded discipline. Of course with me being the new kid, maybe he'd start with someone else.

Once we turned the corner, leaving Mr. Lavene behind us, Johnny burst out laughing and replayed the details of our misadventure. He had even Coach Becker in stitches as he described Mr. Lavene's entry onto the track during a particularly competitive race.

"Okay!" Coach Becker alerted us as we reached our place. "Don't leave this side of the school or we'll be dealing with Principle Warthen next time."

That was all he said about the incident and he left us on our honor, expecting us to be the gentlemen he thought we were.

It was difficult for seven energy-charged kids to stay confined in one spot, but we didn't need too. A couple of days later spring sprung big time and the sprinters were gathered outdoors for exercise, wind sprints, and handoff practice. The team would exercise together and then break up into groups, and we never worked out indoors once we went outside.

It was far nicer than the first day. We hadn't had much contact with Coach Becker for the first few weeks. He'd address us just before we broke up into groups and a couple of times he came to observe us in our hall.

Now he was everywhere. He spent time with each group of boys, taking an inordinate amount of time with the field men. Their events were far more complicated than the running events, but Coach Becker took a considerable amount of time explaining the science of the handoff to us. At full speed it was nothing like when you walked through it.

Of course I'd never see it at full speed, until the first track meet. We isolated areas to practice it but rarely got faster than three-quarter speed, spending most of the practices at half speed. It just wasn't a good idea to open up on a track that looked more like a grenade range, after years of abuse. Knowing no better, I was content running at any speed.

While Coach Becker was on top of everything, once we were outside, he did nothing to improve the condition of the track. It didn't escape me that the track was an integral part of what we did. The lack of attention it got seemed consistent with the amount of attention the team got in our school.

Both the baseball and La Cross ran laps on "our" track, come rain or come shine, wearing their cleats and taking pride in tormenting us, whenever they could. After heavy spring rains had softened the dirt under the few cinders that were left, it created even more ruts.

Coach Becker never once complained to the other coaches about the lack of respect for the track team. Arguments that erupted when the other teams ran rampant through our practices were usually resolved with us being told to get over it. Of course, it never occurred to me that a History teacher that was a track coach, didn't get a lot of respect either, especially when the track team wasn't very good and both the baseball and LaCross teams were respectable.

The other tricky piece of sprinting was the start. I knew no more about regulation starts than I did about the baton exchange. While the baton exchange was an important part of every practice, I rarely got near the starting blocks. On the other hand, Tom isolated himself down at one corner of the faded gray bleachers at the furthest point possible from the rest of us, and he spent most of each day practicing his starts.

Bob and I watched from a distance and I was advised casually not to crowd Tom. I wasn't sure why but it sounded like good advice. Tom tended to stay to himself and I could relate to that. Our only communicating thus far was done with nods and grunts. Tom was most like me by virtue of posture. He stayed to himself, except for when Whitey or Johnny walked down to where he practiced.

The other person that made the pilgrimage to where Tom sequestered himself was Coach Becker. His mission was less social. He stood beside the starting blocks for long periods of time, calling out the commands, ready, set, go. When there wasn't a lot going on, you could hear Coach doing this over and over again. Tom would launch himself out of the block and run twenty yards up the track before returning to do it again.

Bob became the buffer between Tom and I in a literal sense and so Tom and I never came into contact. My position on the relay team, third leg, was set. The decision was without consulting me. I don't know how Coach Becker knew what he knew about me, because he'd only seen me run the day of tryouts and there was no sprinting involved there. My placement must have something to do with my speed but I wasn't sure.

Bob was charged with getting me the baton, adjusting to whatever I did. Whitey's chore was easier, but taken no less seriously, getting the baton from me no matter what I was doing at the time.

I was merely the guy that moved the baton from Bob to Whitey. I didn't see my assignment as a factor and accepted the third leg chore as a menial assignment that had little to do with victory or defeat. The idea you can't run a relay without four equally focused sprinters never entered my thoughts. Victory or defeat was in the hands of my teammates and as naïve as that belief was, it was no doubt factual at the time.

These were older and wiser boys and I was thankful that they were a lot more forgiving of me than I was of them. Bob took his job seriously and always kept the adversity away from me. Whitey was a little less conciliatory about an attitude he didn't particularly care for, losing patience with me at times, but always guarding me on the track, making sure I was not in doubt about what I was supposed to do.

Tom was Tom and we had little to do with each other. Bob became the buffer between Tom and me, because I needed a buffer if there was to be peace. I was not one to let a perfectly good opinion go to waste, though I had not earned the right to be critical of anyone else. Since I didn't really want to be there, I didn't hesitate speaking my piece.

As much as we were alike in my mind, I didn't think I liked Tom, but he was in good company, because I didn't care for the attitude of most of the boys on the team. The sprinters were okay though.

Johnny continued trying to mentor me, giving me instructions regularly. He seemed sincere even if the relationship made me uncomfortable. I'd rather have Bob or Whitey explain the details involved in the relays, but it was almost always Johnny, who paid little attention to my attitude.

As the first track meet approached, we were still talking about the technical aspects of getting the illusive baton from one man to the next without having it skitter across the track. Half of each practice had something to do with the baton exchange.

Along with the hopeless condition of our track, there was the sorry condition of my legs to contend with. The first day might have won me friends and influenced coaches but my legs had yet to stop hurting. On the cold days they ached relentlessly. I tried to ignore them but it was becoming obvious they weren't going to ignore me. On the warmer days they were fine.

Toward the end of March, getting ready for the Prince George's County Relay Championship, helped me to understand why we spent so much time on the baton exchange. The first track meet was all relay events. Each day Whitey, Bob, and I spent more and more time on the baton exchange. Tom spent a lot of time taking starts, adjusting his block, and leaning on the front of the bleachers, watching us. On the week of the track meet he came over to practice the handoff with us, usually this came right after a visit from the coach.

When Tom did practice handoffs with us, he liked to complain. Bob started too late, too soon, or didn't hold his hand right. When the coach got tired of hearing us argue, he'd move on to attend to other events, and Tom would disappear back to his blocks. Whitey was patient with us, refusing to intervene at first, Bob didn't complain, and I complained for both of them. Whitey suggested I shut up and leave it alone. It didn't seem fair. Tom got to complain.

We were certainly getting off on the right foot.

Later on, as I was mouthing off about Tom's lack of cooperation, Bob did express his opinion.

"Charles, you're only making it worse. He's obviously going to complain no matter what I do. The more you complain about him, the worse it gets. Just leave it alone or I'm going to quit. This is hard enough without us being at each other's throat."

"Why doesn't he have to practice the handoff if we're a team?"

"You see what he's doing?" Whitey asked, impatience filling his voice, as he joined the conversation.

"Yeah, he's standing over there leaning on the bleachers. Damn good at it, you ask me."

"You see that starting block, Charles?"

Whitey turned me so I couldn't miss it.

"Sure."

"He's the best when it comes to that business. If that's what he thinks he should be practicing, leave it alone. Bob'll take care of Bob. He's a big boy. Whitey will take care of Whitey, because he's a big boy. If you take care of Charles, and worry less about Tom, t hat should keep you plenty busy for the rest of this season," Whitey scolded, leaving no doubt I had said enough. Since I didn't know anything about anything anyway, I decided that was good advice. Coming from Whitey made it an order, but I wasn't sure how we were going to pull this relay deal off, if we didn't work together.

The coach came over toward the end of practice and watched us going through our handoff. He got into the middle of it, taking Bob's place and instructing me how to hold my hand properly. He then took Tom's place as we ran the length of the football field, handing off. Tom glanced our way a few times and stayed where he was.

At about five we were told that was enough for the day.

I came out of the shower drying my hair and was surprised to see Johnny standing beside a huge broken-down cardboard box.

When he saw me, he said, "Grab a shirt and a pair of shorts. If you hurry you might find something that fits."

That was wishful thinking.

As I went through what was available in school running uniforms, I'd never seen any thing like it. The shorts were the ugliest color of red I'd ever seen. The leg holes were huge and made my legs look feeble. I figured the previous track teams must have been composed of linebackers. The white tank top running shirt had a thick stripe that ran askew across the chest. It was supposed to match the shirt but the color had gotten horribly out of control. The red stripe had faded badly, creating a color much like a shade of lipstick I'd seen once and hated. If the red was no longer red, the white was no longer white either, now looking a little like the underwear you end up with after washing your best underwear along with your red Suitland shirt and shorts.

The uniform was a disaster. I'd definitely keep my sweats on when I wasn't running; maybe when I was running, too.

The day of the track meet we got out of class after second period. I thought that was pretty neat and track was looking better to me if I could only forget the running uniform. We ate lunch before going to dress and getting on the bus for our trip to Northwestern High School.

The bus ride was much like the first day of practice, loud and rowdy. I sat in the back and tried to relax but couldn't. Guys were jumping from one seat to another and no one shut up for the entire forty-minute ride. When we got there, High Point and Oxen Hill were already there. Bladensburg and Fairmont Heights were the other two schools invited.

Northwestern was king of the hill in Prince George's County. We could be found near the bottom of the heap in track along with Fairmont Heights and Bladensburg. After the bus came to a stop, Coach Becker stood and finally shut everyone up.

"Gentlemen, this isn't a good match for us. We can't field pole vault, high jump, hurdle, shot put, and discus teams with the four boys required in each event. If any of you would like to try your hand at one of those events, well, we might make a point here or there. Because you all have events I didn't do much practicing to cover the events I mentioned.

"On the other hand, our sprinters are ready. We don't have enough distance men to compete either. I've picked the relays where I think we'll do the best and spent most of our time preparing for them.

"For those of you who are new to track this is our first track meet each year. It's called the Prince George's County Relay Championships, because each event requires four competitors. In the running events these are standard relay races which we run in every track meet. The field events require four competitors because you add each of the four participant's best effort together, divide by four to get your score. In most of the field events we only have two or three guys that can participate. In that case they'll add those scores together but you still divide by four no matter how many guys participate. As you can see we don't have the horses for a relay track meet.

"Being a small team is a disadvantage, but I expect each of you to do his best. This is good experience and, while we won't score well today, we will get a look at the competition. The good news is that from here on out it'll be regular meets and we'll be better equipped to compete. So, let's get out there and do our best."

We piled out of the bus. Johnny Adrianne hit Kirkpatrick in the head with the pole vaulter's pole. Kirkpatrick took offense and they had words but were separated by Ron Payne who then got hit with the errant pole.

"Hey! Hey!" the coach said, separating the parties involved, trying to keep order as we made our first appearance off campus as a team.

There was still discord and mumbling among the troops as we moved toward the fence that protected the track, and it was all downhill from there.

When we reached the gate that led us to the Northwestern "athletic complex" the guys in front stopped short, startled by what they saw. The guys bringing up the rear, being less than attentive, walked into the inert boys who were leading the way, or, in this case, no longer leading the way. Adrianne let his pole get away from him once again, but his teammates were ready for him, shoving him backward until he was one pole length behind the rest of us.

Kirkpatrick pointed one large finger at Adrianne before saying, "Watch it."

"Jesus! Who are these guys?" Dave Ditmar asked, being the first to step through the gate and into the pristine athletic arena.

The sleek white goalposts were wrapped in the school colors, blue and white, making our bent and rusted version seem pathetic in comparison.

Oxen Hill and High Point were already in the bleachers. Both teams looked pretty sharp in what looked to be fairly new uniforms. When Bladensburg showed up, they looked every bit as faded as we did. Their uniforms were exactly like ours, only maroon, and I no longer felt so bad, because even our rude red looked better than whatever that color had turned into.

Fairmont Heights showed up after the rest of the visiting teams were already in the bleachers. They were an all black team and their uniforms looked worse than Bladensburg's, and I was starting to feel better about my appearance. Even though there was plenty of room for them in the bleachers, they chose to settle down beside the bleachers, just below where I sat, observing all the unfamiliar sights and sounds. It was obvious to me by this time that all track teams were not created equal.

Fairmont Heights had a small team, like ours, but they were quiet and stayed to themselves, taking up little space and I wouldn't have known they were there if I hadn't watched them enter.

"I'm Henry," a tall thin black boy said to me as I watched them with my chin leaning on the railing at the very end of the bleachers.

"I'm Charles," I said as he looked back at me through thick black-rim glasses.

"You fast, Charles?" Henry inquired.

"Yeah, that's what they tell me. It's my first track meet. I don't know if I'm fast or not."

"It's your first track meet. Me, too," he said, giving me a big smile and I could see all of his teeth.

"I'm not that fast. We aren't very good," Henry advised me as some of his teammates gave him long hard looks.

"Shut up, Henry," a muscular black boy said.

"Well, we're not," Henry defended.

"Don't feel bad, Henry, I don't think we're very good, either," I said, making sure none of my teammates were listening before I spoke.

He laughed and I laughed, too, and then went back to wondering about what happened at a track meet. Henry and I would be on the track together later but neither of us took any animosity with us and we'd always wish each other well.

Once Northwestern made their appearance, none of us looked very good. Their uniforms were brilliantly colored and they looked like a million bucks. The blue was a clear deep blue and the white was a crisp white. There was no doubt what the colors were as they ran from the school in a single straight line. Crossing the track on the second turn, they immediately ran out onto the football field, positioning themselves directly in front of us, forming a circle and continuing to run, until everyone had arrived, and there were plenty of them.

The visiting teams all watched as they did calisthenics with everyone calling the cadence. They put on quite a show but it just made me angry to see the discrepancy between us. For the first time I wanted to beat someone but the reality of the situation said we'd be lucky to escape without serious embarrassment.

"What a bunch of showboats," Johnny said, turning his back to the performance once he'd had enough.

"That's what it's like when you have money," Todd said. "Look at this place. How do we get a track like this?"

Northwestern had always been the class of Prince George's County. Their section of Hyattsville was upper middle class and adjacent to Maryland University and almost on the Montgomery County line. They looked the role. It was obvious to me that Northwestern's dreams had all come true.

Our sprinters left the bleachers to warm up together, after the coach told us we would be running soon. He'd already scratched the hurdle relay team when he could only come up with three guys that could actually get over the hurdles. In the relay running events it served no purpose to field a team with a missing link. You lost if you ran or not and there was no point in risking injury by letting an inexperienced, albeit willing, boy run.

The 4X100 relay was run right after the hurdles. We practiced a few handoffs in slow motion out beside the bleachers, beyond the Fairmont Heights team. Their sprinters watched us studiously, jumping up a few minutes later to practice in a similar fashion.

I was nervous, mostly because I didn't know what came next. I didn't want to look bad or do anything to make my team look bad. I still wasn't sure what a relay race was all about. We'd gone through the motions in practice, being warned never to open up for fear we might step into one of the ruts, holes, or on a random rock that came out of the ground that had once been part of the sand and gravel pit.

I knew about all the parts involved in running a relay race but this was the first time we would put it all together at full speed, and I wasn't sure I could do it without making a mistake. The more I thought about it the more nervous it made me.

I asked questions. Mostly I asked the same question in several different ways, wanting to be reassured I could do this. Each of my teammates was preparing his own race and had little time to help me prepare for mine. Our practice had calmed me down somewhat but my insides were unsettled and it seemed as though the cheese sandwich I had eaten a few hours before had reconstituted itself and was now sitting in the middle of my stomach as lazy butterflies flew around it.

I didn't like the effect or track and field for that matter. I couldn't remember what I was doing there or why I was subjecting myself to something that had been thoroughly unpleasant so far. I stopped my chatter, when my teammates simply ignored it as the babbling of an underclassman.

"You'll do fine," Whitey remarked, going back to what he was doing almost immediately after he spoke.

It was then, I watched him for some clue of what I should be doing between now and when I stepped onto the track. He was stretching and looking very much like he was somewhere else. Wherever he was, he was by himself, even with his three teammates close at hand.

I turned my attention to Tom. He was always the most distant before a race. He also seemed to be very much by himself but he was only a few feet away. He stretched his legs into some strange configuration, with one straight out in front of him and the other tucked up under his butt. Both of his arms were stretched forward as far as they would go as he held his and at the same time he placed his nose on his knee. It was all done quite gently but when I tried it my legs didn't bend that way.

Whitey stood to do some exercises but mostly it was bending and reaching. Droter lay closest to me, chin in hand, lost somewhere in his own mind. He had a calm expression on his face and they all looked the same that way.

I knew this race would be far more intense than anything we'd done in practice, but my teammates were far more relaxed. There was no one to keep giving me instruction and reassurance. I longed for Johnny to come and tell me everything was going to be okay. I was apprehensive and ill at ease, feeling like the outsider. I wanted to get it over with.

I went with Whitey and Bob to watch the low hurdle race, but Tom stayed aloof. When we came back we stripped out of our sweats and revealed our peculiarly colored running uniforms. Fairmont Heights had to feel better once we did, but no one seemed to notice us.

After the 4X100 relay was announced, Bob wished me well, shaking my hand, Tom turned his back and walked away toward his starting position, and Whitey grabbed my arm and steered me into the center of the football field.

"Okay, Charles, you know what to do. Pick a spot when Bob's coming at you. Make it a little sooner than usual. Let your instincts guide you. We all run faster in a meet. I'll take care of the timing on our handoff. You just get the baton to me and I'll do the rest. You'll be okay," he said, patting my back and turning to walk to his position on the third turn.

Easy for him to say!

I felt like I'd just been thrown into the deep end of the pool. I became dumb and not able to remember anything we'd practiced.

What was I doing here?

A million thoughts ran through my mind but none I could grasp.

I was desperate to process everything he had told me but it was all a big jumble and it was a little late for helpful hints from Whitey on the science of the baton exchange. I'd heard all of it a hundred times. I no longer needed to remember it. I had to do it.

This was no fun at all.

In that moment of awkwardness I turned to locate Tom at the starting line. I looked for Bob as he walked up the inside of the track toward the first turn. I turned and watched Whitey walking casually away from me.

I was alone and it was up to me to do what I had been training to do. I got angry about my confusion. Life had always thrown me curves and I let it upset me every time. I wasn't going to let it happen this time.

"Just do it," I said to myself as another runner turned to locate whoever it was I might be talking to. "Shut up!" I added to the instructions to myself. "Great, now I'm talking to myself. Get a grip." I ordered.

I walked toward the position where my race would start. We had drawn the second lane and in the 4X100 you stayed in the same lane all the way around the track, so that was easy enough. I stared straight ahead, walking the last few yards to where the white curbing separated the football field from the track. The white lines that marked the lanes were still pristine, since no one had run on that part of the track yet. The lanes were laid out in startling contrast to the black cinders. My mind was on nothing, on everything, but once I stepped over that curbing and onto the track, I was transformed.

There must have been some energy field that was contained in the white curbing. As I stepped across it everything changed. The world closed in around me. I looked back to see the second turn, where Bob would first appear. I saw it happening in my mind, although I'd never seen it happen yet. There was an abrupt clarity to it. I heard it happening and I envisioned him coming toward me. I turned to look ahead of me to the turn where I'd find Whitey. I saw myself running into that turn. My lane was the only lane in play. It didn't matter what was happening in the other lanes. It all became clear to me in that instant and a calm came over me.

I could do this.

I went up on my toes, bouncing, stretching my ankles in an exaggerated motion, more aware of myself than I had ever been aware of anything. There was something building inside of me and it wasn't the cheese sandwich. That had disappeared and the butterflies had gone with it. The clarity in my brain was something new. The usual clutter and static was gone.

It was all about my race now.

I breathed deep, closing my eyes, and I smelled the cinders and the oil that had been sprayed on them. I could smell the lime they used to mark out the lanes. I heard the crunching as my feet continued to bounce on the cinders. It made a sound similar to when I stepped on new fallen snow.

Everything was clear to me now. It was all about this moment and where I fit into it. I knew what to do.

I waited.

By this time other runners had come onto the track. One brushed too close but as soon as the physical contact ended, he was no longer there. I looked back again at where I'd first see Bob. It was fine. I would be okay. There was no fear. I knew how to run. I knew how to hold my hand. I knew how to take the baton. I knew how to give it away. It's what all the training had been about and I knew I could do it.

The noises around me faded and even the track narrowed down to me and my lane. I could feel the other runners but they weren't in the same dimension with me. I wasn't sure about this state of mind but I didn't fight it. My mind and body were completely in touch with what I was about to do. Nothing else mattered and I became incredibly at peace with myself. I'd never experienced such focus. All the doubt and confusion deserted me.

I waited.

Once I heard the starter's gun discharge, echoing down the front of the school. I bent at the waist and the knees and I started my count.

"One Mississippi. Two Mississippi."

In my mind I could see Tom approaching Bob as I reached ten. I turned my head to wait for Bob to appear. I could hear my heart beating faster as I breathed deeply to maintain my calm. When I reached twelve Mississippi, Bob was bursting out of the second turn and charging toward me.

It did not look good. Almost everyone was in front of him. I knew about the stagger, although this was the first time I'd seen it. Since the guys in the outside lanes ran farther than the guys on the inside lanes and were staggered ahead to make up the difference. By the time they came out of the second turn, half the stagger was made up, and the rest would be made up in the third turn, but that didn't explain Bob's deficit.

Something had gone wrong and in the 4X100 relay an instant is the difference between first and last. There was no time to recover from a mistake. There would be eight seconds from the time he came into view until I took off. I picked out a spot and as soon as he hit it, I became jet propelled, launching my body forward, throwing back my hand when I reached the halfway point in our passing zone.

Just as I stared to doubt that we'd connect as expected and was ready to look back to find Bob, which I had been instructed not to do, the baton hit my hand between the thumb and index finger. My hand closed around it.

As I switched hands automatically to have the baton positioned properly for my handoff with Whitey, I was crossing out of the passing zone, running for all I was worth, hearing bursts of air escaping from me as my pounding heart tried to keep up with my sprinting legs.

A surge of energy ran through me like nothing I'd ever experienced. My entire body was electric, filled with power and purpose and focus. Before there was time for anything resembling conscious thought to enter my mind I was closing in on Whitey, handing him the baton, feeling the spray of cinders as he tore off after the four teams that were still ahead of us.

I stood watching Whitey, a picture of power, for the instant it took for him to disappear into the curve. My first race had been run. I had taken the baton and given it away successfully.

My view of the finish line, was obscured by inconsiderate spectators, and I did the only thing I could do, take off across the infield, still supercharged with extreme energy. I had to be at the finish line to see what we had done. My race would never be completed until Whitey had finished.

Once I reached the finish line the excitement drained out of me. Tom was jawing at Bob in the middle of the track and Bob was jawing back at him. Their handoff hadn't gone well. Tom blamed Bob and Bob blamed Tom, citing his lack of practice as evidence. Whitey got between them and Coach Becker took Tom off into the bleachers.

We'd finished fourth and scored no points. There was no pride in that. I was left with the letdown that comes with defeat. Whatever energy I had, left me. I went back to wondering why I was there.

The hope that we could prove ourselves as good as the rest, was gone. My doubt about being on the track team was back. If this was all there was, I wasn't sure I needed it. I remembered what had happened to me just before my race. I did like that part of it. I'd wait to see what happened in the next race.

I tried to talk to Bob but he stormed off and climbed to the top of the bleachers to be by himself. It wouldn't be the last time he and Tom had angry words. Later, I went up to sit near him. We weren't scheduled to run again for half the track meet, although we had to jump in the long jump and the triple jump, but we had all day to do it.

We were shut out of the discus, the pole vault, and the shot put because we didn't have four guys to do these events. We had a similar problem in the distance events. We had one or two competitive runners and the quality of performances dropped off sharply after that. We ran some but not all of them. The other small teams had the same problem.

Northwestern had no trouble with manpower. In several events they fielded two complete teams, eight men, and twice they finished first and second in an event. High Point and Oxen Hill were fairly competitive but lacked the manpower to stay with Northwestern at the end of the day. It became a track meet of attrition with Northwestern running away from the rest of us.

A track meet is a living organism with events going on for hours in every corner of the complex. Bob and I would go to the jumps together. Neither of us particularly liked or understood the mechanics involved, but we did our best. Whitey was somewhat better than we were and Tom was the best jumper, although for the life of me I couldn't understand how he got so much speed or power out of his dough boy body. He had no muscle you could see and yet he was the fastest over a short distance and he could out jump all of us.

"Did I do okay?" I asked Bob after sitting silent for too long.

He sat with his legs dangling over the back of the bleachers and his back to the track, looking like he was a long way off.

"You did fine. You aren't the problem. I know what to expect from you. He needs to practice with us more. I was responsible. I should have started earlier, but instead of adjusting, he just ran right up on top of me. Then I almost dropped it. Our timing is off and it'll take practice to get it right."

"Didn't we already know that?" I asked, trying to let him see that I didn't think it was his fault.

"Yeah, I guess we did." Bob laughed. "He was maybe running second, Charles. We could have won it if it hadn't been for that handoff. You did good though. I thought you were going to turn around and look, but you didn't," Bob said, turning to look at me.

His smile said I did okay and that helped.

"I almost did," I confessed. "I wanted to."

"Yeah, I know. But don't. I'll get it to you. Don't worry. I'll let you know if it isn't happening."

"I didn't. I knew you would."

"Yeah," he said wistfully.

"We'll do better next time," I said, being unusually optimistic, since I didn't know what I was talking about.

Before we got ready to warm up for our second and last race of the day, Coach Becker called us together on the bottom seat of the bleachers. We sat obediently, waiting to be scolded.

"Okay, the handoff needs work. Each of you ran a good race. Charles, you did fine. Just what I expected. Tom and Bob need to work on their exchange, but the speed is good. We gave it away on the first handoff. Whitey looked good. Strong leg, Whitey."

Well, maybe if we practiced that particular handoff we might do better, huh, I thought to myself, biting my tongue and looking at Whitey so I didn't spit it out there.

Coach Becker had a different idea. While he babied Tom, because he was the most temperamental among us, he wasn't letting him off the hook. That was obvious by what he said. He scolded no one and said good things about what we had done. He dismissed us to go warm up and it was about the same sequence as for the 4X100.

In the 4X200 I stayed at the start/finish line and ended up directly across the track. In this race I got to see what Tom did. The first thing he did was talk to Bob, just before Bob walked away. It was all quite cordial and there was none of the intensity that existed directly after the last race. Tom nodded at me, acknowledging my presence before he went about settling into the blocks. There was no smile or any sign of any message in the nod, a simple recognition of my presence. He stretched and casually practiced his start a few times before he settled into the blocks.

The pistol shot startled me, as the starter was only a few feet away.

Tom came up and out of the blocks first. He ran smoothly in the middle of the track. The 4x200 relay was staggered around the first two turns, at which time the runners cut to the pole before handing off to the second man. The second leg would then sort out what place their runner was in and get in a suitable lane to take the baton.

I watched as Tom cut to the pole one stride behind the Northwestern runner, after coming out of the second turn, moving down the backstretch toward Bob, who was directly across from the starting line. Bob brought the baton back to me and I took it back around to Whitey, and he ran the anchor leg bringing it back to the finish line.

This race unfolded slower. Tom fell to third during the handoff with Bob. Bob had started too soon and then had to slow down to get the baton before they crossed the disqualified line.

I cringed before stepping onto the track to watch the turn so I could pick a lane to start from, Henry smiled at me, saying, "Good luck, Charles."

"You too, Henry," I said, trying to smile back but I'm not sure I succeeded.

I wasn't able to focus the same way in the 4X 200 relay. There was more to do and variables that didn't occur in the 4X100. I was more aware of the entire track and the other runners, but beyond that, the world was a blur. Once Bob had the baton, all of my attention went to the forth turn. Once he came out of that turn, I had to decide what lane to be in to give him the easiest and most direct path to getting me the baton.

The other competitors were doing the same thing at the same time. When Bob was in any position but first, I moved to the third lane, where Bob would have no trouble finding me. Most of the boys wanted to be on the inside lane to cut down the distance they ran but often got in each other's way, forcing one or more of them to move into the outside lanes at the last second, confusing the runner trying to get them the baton. By taking the third lane I never had to move and Bob knew I where to find me.

Bob came out of the corner in third, and Northwestern and Oxen Hill made their exchange on the inside of me before I got the baton. I charged after them. I found it exciting as I closed in to within five yards of the Oxen Hill runner by the time we reached the first turn.

Whitey was already poised in the third lane as I came off the turn and moved outside the Oxen Hill man to give him something to think about. Whitey tore up the track, staying in the third lane as he blew past him into second place, but Northwestern was another thirty yards ahead of him.

Once again I was way too far away from the finish line, so I ran back across the football field. I didn't bounce off as many people before hearing the cheers go up for the victor. I pushed my way onto the track.

Whitey finished second, ten yards in front of Oxen Hill, which gave us three points. Tom registered mild objections to Bob's handoff but neither of them was as vocal as before. Bob stood sideways to Tom and listened to his complaint. He promised to do better before walking away. I could tell by the tightness in his face that he wasn't pleased, but at the same time, yelling at each other wasn't going to help. I let him have all the room he wanted for a few minutes before I went to offer him my support.

It had all ended too fast. I'd spent a total of 30 seconds competing in my first track meet. It was an interesting experience. I liked the 4x100 best by virtue of how it all unfolded. The 4x200 relay was the proper distance for me and there was time to make up for mistakes. We'd also finished second, which was nice, but it wasn't first.

While sitting with Bob and discussing the errant handoff that day, Coach Becker ran all of us to the long jump and triple jump pits to take three jumps a piece. The triple wasn't too bad but I didn't like the long jump. We didn't do well enough to score any points, but Tom out leaped us on every try. Whitey was the second best, muscling his way to moderately good jumps. None of us were thrilled about these events.

By the time we finished our field events the track meet was winding down.

I spent some time with Bob and he seemed fine. We had gotten some experience and no one had expected us to do well. Eight points and next to last place wasn't a great finish but it was another reason to be grateful for Fairmont Heights, who finished with three points.

The bus was in chaos most of the way back. You would have thought we had just won the Olympic Games. Northwestern won. I didn't think there was anything to celebrate. Fifth out of six teams was losing to me.

Just as we entered the long driveway that would take us behind the high school, Coach Becker stood up to face "his" boys.

"Gentlemen, I didn't expect we'd do all that well. We simply don't have the horses for that kind of track meet. I think we did find a few things out. Todd, good job. That was your best mile ever. The 400 men did well but the handoff did us in there. Needs work. Field events, well, Kirkpatrick and Mulligan did pretty well. Not enough depth to get any points. You both should have a good season. You're competitive. Good job.

"Merrill and Gorely, both solid performances there. Thanks.

"My sprinters!"

"Such high hopes in the 4X100, such low production. Good job in the 4X200, but the four of you are capable of running with anyone in either of those events. You're fast. I've never had four faster guys on one team. You're lightning in a bottle, gentlemen. The trick is in getting it out of the bottle and onto the track. The handoffs need work. I don't like repeating myself, gentlemen, but in this case I'll make an exception. The handoffs need work. They are called relay TEAMS for a reason. Tom, Bob, get together at practice and work it out. Do not try to work it out at a track meet in front of our competition. We've got to run these guys again. "You're my sprint relay team. Anyone who doesn't run the relays can't run in the open races. I want 100% a 100% of the time. Work on it.

"Charles, nice job. You didn't disappoint me. Whitey, great run in the 4X200. You made up twenty yards on Northwestern. Great job. But for one handoff, I think you'd have had a shot at winning that relay, and you were running against an all senior team. That was their fastest sprinters. Excellent times for both you and Charles and your handoffs look good.

"Okay, gentlemen, we knew going in we couldn't match up with the bigger teams in a relay meet. That's behind us. We are competitive in every event, except the pole vault. Needs serious work. I expect each of you to take practice seriously this week and find me a high jumper. We need those points. If you bring me a boy, I'll make him competitive.

"The next track meet is at Bladensburg with Oxen Hill. We can win there if you'll put your heart into it. Let's go out there with that attitude and build on what we learned today. Hit the showers. Take tomorrow off. Practice the same time as usual on Monday. Have a good weekend."

The bus had pulled to a stop about the time the coach was done. The grab ass started immediately with jocks, shorts, and random discarded pieces of uniforms flying around the bus as we disembarked.

What a bunch of bozos!

I didn't know much about being on a team and I didn't know that I liked it but whatever these guys thought they were doing had nothing to do with my idea of what a team did.

Some of the baseball guys passed along the side of the bus and couldn't wait to get the word out.

"They lost. What do you expect."

When I showed up at Tommy's, he wanted to hear all about the track meet and my part in it. I tried to make it sound better than I really thought it was because he so much wanted me to succeed. I told him of the thrill I got from competition and how it was nothing like practice. He thought that was cool and asked me to tell him about my races a second time as he consumed each detail.

Things went back to normal the following week. Tom stayed down at the corner of the bleachers with his starting block, except when Coach Becker fetched him to practice with us. He was never happy about it. Once again, we ended up practicing with Coach Becker as much as we practiced with Tom, and Coach might have been a speedster once upon a time, but he'd lost a step along the way. He did take a lot of time talking us through the handoff. He insisted this was some kind of key.

Using Coach in place of Tom did bring peace to practice but I somehow didn't think it was the same thing. Bob was more willing to talk to me after the first track meet. He knew I always took his side and agreed with him. I did believe that the distance between Tom and me had something to do with the fact that we never came in contact with each other during the race. I got to watch him start the second time we ran together but our races never came together and so we never worked together. I did develop a new appreciation for his starting power. The guy was fast out of the blocks.

Later in the week I was introduced to the starting blocks. The first thing I noticed was that they were no friend to my legs. Each time I got down into the starting position, it made the soreness in my legs worse. They already ached any time the sun didn't shine.

I came to feel about the starting blocks as Tom felt about the handoff. Any time I could avoid them, I did, and lucky for me, it wasn't a priority. Both Whitey and Tom would run the open sprints, leaving me as the first backup in accordance with our flat out times, but with Bob being close to as fast as I was, I had a hunch that he would get the nod by virtue of him being a junior with experience.

Bladensburg High was in Bladensburg, Maryland. It was also located in a working class to lower middle class area. The intimidation factor we'd experienced at Northwestern was absent at Bladensburg. I wasn't embarrassed by my appearance, although I was aware of how we looked as a team and it wasn't pretty.

The second track meet was way different from the first. Oxen Hill was no doubt the class of the field. The meet started almost as soon as we arrived. Tom won the 100 and Whitey came in second. We were quickly preparing for the 4X100 relay while leading the track meet. Everyone shook hands and enjoyed our front runner status.

I wasn't as excited as I had been at the first track meet and yet there was a similar reaction once the starter's pistol fired. The world narrowed down to my place in it and what I had to do. Bob and I had a good handoff and before I knew what was happening, Whitey had the baton and was tearing up the track. His muscles bulged and cinders cascaded back over me. He resembled a charging bull and it looked impressive to me.

A fresh surge of excitement ran through me. I took off so I could see the end of the race. I bounced off this guy and that guy, anxious to find out what happened. Being the third man, I was always furthest away from the finish line. Bob and Tom were already there, waiting for him, but I was always running to get there to find out the results, and this time it was worth the trip.

When I stepped onto the track, Tom and Bob were jumping up and down, hugging each other with Whitey joining in. We had won our second ever 4X100 relay race. It was a good feeling. This was more like it.

I was immediately swept up into the celebration and I lost myself, becoming delirious with the rest of them. For a few seconds it was just the four of us, victorious. We were quickly gathered up by Mulligan and Kirkpatrick, who charged out of the bleachers to greet us. Todd, Gorely, and Johnny charged at us and helped us celebrate the win. There hadn't been much to celebrate at the first track meet and we were extending our points lead in the second. We could win a track meet, I reasoned. Maybe Coach was right, the meet the week before just wasn't fashioned for a team like ours, and this one was.

Coach Becker stood to one side with his hand thrust into the air. I noticed the stopwatch but was too busy having fun to wonder what it meant. He smiled broadly and enjoyed our celebration. This was one more indication that he was right about us. We could win if we worked together.

After the excitement of victory ran its course, Coach Becker brought us the watch.

"School record, gentlemen. Nice job. The handoffs still need work, but you guys can run with anyone."

Even Tom couldn't deny victory. Winning a relay race made him a happy member of the team. There were no complaints and even if only for a few minutes, we were a team for the first time. I felt closer to my teammates by virtue of our victory. We shared something special and I liked it. Track seemed more palatable to me, at least until we got back on the bus with the lunatic fringe.

The relays were no longer races without meaning. They were an important part of a track meet and a place where I could shine. It was good to have everyone happy for a change. Tom and Bob spoke of getting the handoff right and all was right with the world. I looked forward to our next race.

Whitey won the two hundred. Beaudreault took second. It was another victory celebration that had the team rushing onto the track once again. Oxen Hill had pulled ahead in the track meet by that time, winning most of the middle distance and distance events and several of the field events. We pulled back close to them with the one, two finish and I was sure we could win the 4X200 relay. It seemed to me like we were in an excellent position to win the track meet.

Tom was focused and didn't acknowledge my presence as he readied himself for his start. I still felt closer to him and started to see him as an important part of what I did. He was up in a flash and no doubt had the lead as he sprinted into the first turn. My insides were jumping with excitement. I was ready for my race.

Unfortunately, the two dozen people in the infield couldn't block my view as I studied Tom breaking to the pole, leading the race and my adrenaline was flowing and I couldn't wait to extend our lead for Whitey.

Bob studied his approach and sprinted into motion as Tom closed in on him. I thought, he left too soon and the baton exchange went bad before it started. Bob almost stopped half way through the passing zone, once he realized his mistake and saw that Tom wasn't going to catch him before he reached the disqualification line, and to make matters worse, they bobbled the baton before Bob snatched it out of Tom's hand.

I cringed and saw Whitey with both of his hands holding the sides of his head as he had an up close view of the mishap. Things had gone beautifully all day in my mind, all the sprint races had gone our way, but none of it could make up for how this made me feel.

I was twenty yards behind the Bladensburg guy, in last place, when I got the baton. I closed some of the distance before handing off to Whitey. He had passed the guy before entering the third turn but Oxen Hill was already on the front stretch.

In spite of running an excellent race and doing all he could to straighten out the mess, Whitey was angry and refused all contact with his three teammates. I felt helpless but not so helpless that I wanted to get near Tom or Bob for the next hour.

Oxen Hill took the lead in the meet for good.

I had never been in the race. There was no focus, no energy, and no joy in running from so far behind. The days successes were shattered by yet another failure. Winning wasn't all that big a deal if it could all fall apart that fast. I took my time walking across the infield, after my race was run. I had no desire to get back to the team. I hadn't done anything wrong, except not try, but I felt guilty of something.

The arguing started anew and we were right back where we started, except I stayed out of it. Tom and Bob went to neutral corners, Whitey sat down between Coach and Johnny, and I wandered around in back of the bleachers, looking up at Bob each time I passed as he sat with his legs dangling as he leaned on the railing.

"Don't jump," I said, after the disappointment started to fade. "It's not as bad as it seems."

"Yeah, I totally screwed up. He just runs different in every race. I can't read him."

By the time I went back to where the team sat and climbed up to the top to talk to Bob, Whitey stood up in the front row and told us what was on his mind.

"We're better than those guys, damn it."

What else could be said? We were and the worst part was that we all knew we were.

Winning accomplished one thing; it made losing intolerable.

The ride home was every bit as chaotic as the previous week's. Coach spoke to us about our victories and our strong points and conveniently didn't dwell on our shortcomings. He was still hoping we'd find a way to put it all together. We were now running the weakest part of the schedule and this was the time we could make some mistakes and still recover because the competition wasn't any better than we were on paper.

Coach tried to smile about our progress but it was obvious to me the smile was forced, and Coach Becker was at a loss at how to handle his four thoroughbred sprinters, but he didn't call us to task in front of the team. We'd get another week to sort it out for ourselves but I could see his disappointment by now. He had spent hours working with us, trying to get us to see what we needed to do, but in the end we went back to our old habits. Whitey and Tom both had their individual wins, but Bob and I didn't. The relays were our business and business wasn't good.

Finishing second out of three teams was better than finishing last, but it wasn't victory. Winning seemed like a reason to stay on the track team, not winning didn't. Not winning wasn't something you celebrated either, but most of the team didn't feel the same way I did. I thought I detected a slight reduction in chaos, but not much.

We once again had three days off and no track meet until the following Thursday when we would run Frederic Sasser and Bishop O'Connell. The days leading up to that track meet went about as usual with Tom avoiding us as much as possible. When he did come over, he brought his attitude along with his baton. The tension between us was always present. I don't know if it was just me or if it was all of us. I got that he was the best starter and the best hundred man. What I didn't get was why he was pissed off at us?

Coach Becker seemed oblivious to the strife that was driving his relay team to self-destruct. None of us were happy by this time and there didn't seem to be a solution. Very little was said during our short handoff sessions. Even Whitey had lost his usual enthusiasm and it took an act of congress to get Tom away from his blocks. Coach Becker had stopped interceding and only came over toward the end of practice each day.

We started off like a house of fire at Sasser. Tom won the 100 going away and his relay team was there to greet him first. He was all smiles and the victory seemed to renew his confidence. Ron Payne came in second in the hurdles.

Once again Tom ran over top of Bob in the 4X100 and we never recovered, finishing well off the pace with Whitey tossing the baton angrily into the stands after finishing last by some distance.

Coach Becker watched his star anchorman, shook his head in despair, and was about to speak to him about his display of temper, but then simply walked away. We had once again disappointed him in a big way. He didn't even waste his time giving us a pep talk. I wondered if he had given up on us.

Maybe Tom was right. Why should he waste his time running races that always seemed to go badly. He could win the 100 any time he raced. That had to be far more rewarding than running the relays.

I had lost my focus by the time I got the baton in the 4x100. My race was the best I had to give but I didn't feel it as I had in previous races. Everything was on the outside and it was all too distracting. The 4X200 was no better, in fact for me it was worse. Not only did Bob and Tom have a bad handoff, Bob and I had trouble with the baton exchange for the first time. I left too soon and almost stopped when the baton wasn't there half way through the zone as usual. Bob slapped it in my hand and pushed me so I'd start running in the right direction, at the same time I was in the middle of turning around to find out where he was. It was really bad.

By the time I got to Whitey we were so far behind there was no way he was going to catch the second place runner. To show his displeasure, he stood still and didn't move, making me stop in confusion before he yanked the baton out of my hand. He sprinted off, leaving me to feel like it was my fault we were losing.

I knew it wasn't me, or at least I didn't think it was, but it was like he had slapped me. I wanted Whitey to respect me and I didn't think he did, He didn't have anything to say to any of us for the rest of the day. The friction between us was spreading. Track, a questionable activity at best, had gone seriously downhill for me. There had been a single glimmer of light and the rest was one disaster after another.

O'Connell had class distance men and swept the distance events and got most of the points. We ran neck and neck with Sasser for most of the track meet, except we handed them both of the sprint relays on a silver platter. Todd came in second in the mile and both Kirkpatrick and Mulligan won their events. Whitey had done his usual and won the 200.

On the cooler days, and they were all cool this time of year, I went to the starting blocks with both Whitey and Tom, and I retrieved their sweats, taking them to the finish line so they didn't have to walk back after them. It made me feel useful and gave me more contact with two guys I looked up to and wanted to be like, well, in some ways. It was the only time I felt close to Tom. It also kept my mind off of my events and the increasing worry that went with them.

Coach didn't have much to say to us on our return to school. We had found our level and finished last. Even the celebrating was muted. No one seemed very happy with Suitland's track team, especially the guys on it. I couldn't wait to get out of there once we got back. I headed for Tommy's and refuge, but even he couldn't help. He didn't like hearing the bad stuff.

"Look, you need to quit. You're not having any fun. I think, if you're on a team, you ought to have some fun."

It was the first time Tommy shocked me. He'd done nothing but encourage me up until then. While I had considered quitting at least once a day since joining the team, hearing the words coming from someone else, especially my best friend, made me wonder if I should. I didn't bring it up again.

I always enjoyed our three days off after a track meet. It was becoming the best part of the entire deal. Little did I know, with three days away from us, Coach Becker decided he was going to solve the problem once and for all.

He ordered the track team into the bleachers and paced for a time, checking his clipboard frequently before speaking to us the following Monday.

"Pretty poor performance Thursday. Not much to brag about. Some events were well run and some boys did what they were capable of doing. We could have won the track meet, gentlemen. We had it in our grasp and let it slip away on events we should have won. So, it's back to the drawing board. I need to find a combination of guys that can and 'will' run together, especially in the relays, but there is room for improvement across the board. There isn't anyone here that can't improve beyond what you've been giving me.

"If you didn't see the chart in the locker room, I'll fill you in. I'm changing the sprint relay team. I'm moving Charles into the open 400. He's proved he's a competitor and I don't want to waste him. My sprint relays will be reorganized. It is our biggest disappointment, my biggest disappointment. We have the talent and speed to win but not the heart.

"Every event is now open. If there is something you would like to run and you haven't had the opportunity, talk to me and I'll set up a competition with the boys I consider to be the best in that event.

Tom'll stick to his 100 and 200 races. Johnny'll start both sprint relays from here on out. I want Ditmar in place of Charles. Bob will run second. Whitey, I want you to continue your anchor assignment on both and run whatever else you want to run. You're doing a fine job but you're putting too much pressure on yourself. You can't win a relay race alone and maybe I can give you the help you need.

"As soon as exercise is done the four guys I just named practice handing off a few times and I'll run you in a time trial. We'll see what we've got and if I need to make more changes. You have a few days to practice before the next track meet Thursday.

"Gentlemen, you are capable of a lot more than you're giving me. From now on, you'd better perform, or I'll start cutting guys. You better give me all you have or I don't want you on my team. That's it. The meet this Thursday is with Northwestern and High Point. They took us to the cleaners the first time around. If you want to keep getting beat, it's up to you.

"I can lose with anyone, gentlemen. I'd rather lose with guys who give me all they have. I don't care how good any of you think you are, this is a team, and a team pulls together at all times. Pull your weight or take a hike. Exercises Johnny. You see me before time trials."

"Yes, sir," Johnny said obediently. "Hit the infield for exercises. Let's go."

For the first time the only one talking during exercise was Johnny, and he was calling cadence. Everyone else kept his mouth shut and Coach disappeared back into the gym with a determination in his walk that hadn't been there before.

A half an hour later he returned and started setting up competition. I ended up running the 400 against Gorely, Merrill, and Farrell, who were the regular 400 guys.

I had no desire to run the 400. I was a sprinter and the 400 was out of my range. I had too much time to think about it before he called us to the starting line and the longer I thought about it the less I liked it. Change was not my favorite thing. I was still trying to figure out how to run the relays and now I was off the relay team.

"You got two options, kid," Johnny Green told me as he intercepted me on the way to the starting line. "You can run flat out all the way around, get distance on these guys, and hope they can't out kick you. The last hundred will be a killer, kid. Or, you can try to stay with the pack, start kicking as you come off the forth turn and hope you have enough guts to pass them before the end."

"I won't have anything left to pass anyone after 300 meters," I said.

"Yeah, I figure the same way. Run like hell, Charles, and hope they don't catch you at the end. When you hit the front stretch, you'll be out of gas. Just gut it out and run through the pain. That's about all I can tell you."

"Run through the pain?" I questioned.

"Yeah, you'll tighten up, won't be able to breathe, and your legs will feel like lead, but you can gut it out," he said confident in his plan for me.

"Gut it out?" I said, looking at the coach who stood waiting with my competition as all three of them watched my briefing, looking to me like a pride of lions considering an antelope for dinner.

Johnny walked me to the starting line, patting my back as he deserted me. I'd have dumped the entire deal right then if everyone hadn't been watching me. This was getting further and further from what I wanted to be doing with my afternoons.

The day was fairly warm and my legs felt fairly good, but I'd never run the 400 all out before. I was left to wonder why Johnny spent so much time explaining things to me? What did he care if I made it around or not? Why was the coach doing this to me? I'd done whatever he asked.

"Ready ... Set ... Go ... !" The coach said, catching me by surprise as I pondered my fate. Everyone started running and I had to catch them.

Remembering my plan, I immediately sprinted past the other runners. I figured I could hold off Farrell, but this was Gorely's race, and Merrill was a better 800 man, even if he could run a decent 400. As I reached the corner I was putting yards on all of them but I became aware of another problem on the horizon. My father was parked at the fence, twenty yards beyond the first turn.

Why me?

What was he doing there so early?

We hadn't talked much about track since the season started. I didn't mention how disillusioned I had become and how different it was from what I had expected it to be. Now he was watching me do something I wasn't sure about. If he was going to watch me run I would have preferred he watched me run a race I was familiar with.

I immediately picked up my sprinter's speed, disregarding the distance, only wanting to put as many yards between Gorely and me as I could. Checking over my shoulder, they were all running together at a relaxed pace. Had they tried to keep up with me, it would have been to my advantage, but this was their distance and they weren't going to run the rabbit's race. They knew the rabbit would come back to them as the race progressed.

This was the meat of my race. I could blow down the backstretch at full speed, adding yards to my lead, and probably keep that pace into the third turn. If I ran strong enough Gorely, thinking he was beat, might not mount his usual sturdy kick. It was only practice after all, but this was his event, and I wouldn't let anyone outrun me in my event if I could do something about it. He wasn't going to let me run away with it without a fight. No, he'd be there at the end and we both knew it. He was biding his time and I was using mine.

The pain started as I was coming out off the fourth turn, as Johnny predicted. My legs didn't want to keep churning and each stride made them heavier than the last. Even worse, the slight breeze blowing into my face felt like a gale. With all that wind I still couldn't get a full breath of air. My lungs burned and my arms weighed a ton.

It was then that I heard the footsteps closing in behind me. The substantial lead I had built down the backstretch was evaporating as they closed in for the kill. I searched for a kick, but there wasn't one. It was all I could do to continue moving forward as they reeled me in. I didn't need to look to know what was happening behind me.

Ignore the pain! Ignore the pain! Ignore the pain! I told myself as I was coming within reach of the finish line, where a dozen of my teammates stood on and near the track, watching the spectacle. I could hear the breaths gushing out of Gorely as he was closing in on me. I crossed the finish line as he swung out to pass me, but I had beat him by a step, stumbling into the infield on rubber legs, unable to go further as I collapsed with Johnny there to keep me from hitting the ground unobstructed. He held onto my arm until I had twisted onto my back and he eased my weight down.

I couldn't breath. My stomach was churning in a most unpleasant way and my body ached from the beating it had taken.

"All right, Charles! You won," Johnny said in some warped sense of accomplishment.

To make matters worse he tried to get me up onto legs that weren't about to hold me. I was quickly back on my back, rolling over on my hands and knees to barf between the Coach's legs as he bent to show me his watch. I had to turn my head so I didn't barf on it and his hand.

"Fine time, Charles. 53.2. That's pretty good on this track, you know. You're a natural 400 man," he said, smiling at me as I looked to see if the man was serious. I barfed at the sound of his words. "I think you need to work on your conditioning though."

"Tell me about it," I said coughing, as dry heaves hit me.

I rolled onto my back again, once my stomach was empty. I felt like I was going to die and was afraid I wouldn't. When I opened my eyes, numerous faces stared down into mine.

"53.2! That's okay," Johnny said, reaching to pull me onto my feet once again. "Respectable time."

"Go away. Leave me alone," I said, knocking his hand away as I heaved once last time.

"Come on, Charles. Your legs will tighten up. You need to walk it off. I'm only trying to help."

"Nice race, Charlie," Gorely said, looking down at me through his black-rim glassed, while extending his hand down to shake mine.

"Yeah," I said, letting him shake my limp hand. "You almost caught me."

"…But I didn't," he said, walking away as Johnny was back trying to get me onto my feet.

"Leave me alone," I groaned.

The coach called for the new 4X100 relay and that meant Johnny. He gave instructions to Bob and David. Whitey stood off to one side. Johnny pulled off his sweats and went over to grab Tom's shiny aluminum starting block, taking it to the starting line.

Tom leaned on the front of the bleachers and watched the events playing themselves out in front of us. After a minute he walked across the track directly to where I was leaning back on my elbows, still fighting off the urge to barf. My condition had me thinking about walking away from the track team if I could only get up. This was getting out of hand.

"You okay, Charles?" Tom asked, stopping a few feet away. "You should walk it off, you know. You're going to tighten up."

"I know! I know already! I'll be fine," I snapped, not wanting him to suddenly get friendly, since I already decided I didn't like him.

"What's he up to?" Tom asked, as if he thought I had the answer.

"How in hell should I know. He doesn't consult me, Tom."

"What do you think it means?" He asked, giving more thought to the 4X100 relay than he had appeared to in the past.

"I think it means you screwed up. I think it means you won't practice with us and he's going to find someone that will," I said in an unfriendly fashion that had me forgetting my pain.

Tom looked shocked by my opinion and he turned to walk away.

"What do you know? You're only a sophomore."

For some reason his words struck me as funny. I wasn't going to fall down laughing but I was amused as I watched him walk back across the track as he watched the drama unfold.

For the first time Tom seemed involved with something that was going on at practice beyond his starting block. If I didn't know better I'd have thought he cared about what was going on.

"Ready ... Set ... Go ...!" Coach said loudly, and my attention went back to the track as I sat up to watch the race.

Johnny's start was respectable. He was no Tom but he looked good and ran smoothly.

The exchange between Johnny and Bob went well. They never slowed down, and David took the baton from Bob and it continued to look smooth, but it didn't look fast to me, especially David. Once Whitey got the baton, he tore the track up and charged past me with thighs bulging and his arms churning as he finished fast, ignoring the ruts and crevices he ran against. His lean was picturesque as he threw both of his arms out and thrust his well-developed chest at the imaginary tape.

It was the only part of the race I enjoyed seeing. I never got to see Whitey's finish because I was the guy that handed off to him. As impressive as he was running away from me, he was every bit as impressive coming up the front stretch, filling his lane, charging the finish line. He was awesome and if there was anyone I wanted to be like, it was Whitey Sheldon.

"Good job! Good job!" Coach said loudly as Tom stepped away from the bleachers to get a little closer to the activity. "That beats the time the team ran at Northwestern in the 4X100. Good job! You're my team."

Johnny and David came over as Coach finished his comments. Neither of them looked like anything important was taking place as Coach walked away still looking at his watch.

In the mean time, Bob had come up from behind and was staring down at me, when I first noticed him.

"Did we win?" Bob asked me cheerfully. "Did you see that handoff?"

"Very funny," I said without humor.

"Don't get mad at me, Charlie. I'm not the one doing this."

"I can run rings around David. Why me? I do what I'm asked. Tom I understand. He's a jerk, but I do what I'm told. I never asked to be on the relay team. I didn't complain about it."

"Come on, Charlie, don't be that way," Bob said. "Let's take a walk. I'll tell you a secret."

"Tell me now. I'm not in the mood to walk," I ordered, looking up over my shoulder at him as I leaned way back on my elbows.

"Just come on," he said, reaching his hand down for me. "You've got to get up before you tighten up."

Being curious to know his secret, I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet, only my legs weren't ready to hold me. Just below my knees they were suddenly on fire. I reached for the pain and sat down, trying not to show him I was in distress. I winced while trying not to. When I looked up to see if he saw, the sun blinded me. I had to shade my eyes to see him watching me.

He saw.

"What's wrong with your legs, Charlie? Don't be pulling up lame on me. You're the only part of the relay I can depend on."

"I got a cramp is all," I said without conviction.

"Cramp hell. You got shin splints," he said as I rubbed my shin absentmindedly.

"I got what?"

"Shin Splints. Sprinters curse."

"I don't got those," I said, not having a clue what we were discussing.

Bob squatted down beside me and grabbed my left leg below the knee with one hand, squeezing slightly with his thumb on my shin, sending a sudden shock wave of pain right up through my skull.

"Cut it out," I said, rolling onto my side and knocking his hand away.

"You got 'em all right. Bad ones," he said, shaking his head and looking at me sympathetically. "Why didn't you tell someone?"

"I don't got 'em," I argued.

"Charlie, you have shin splints."

"Don't tell anyone," I said.

"Charles, you need to take care of them. They can ruin a good runner."

"Don't tell the coach. I don't need any more grief."

"Come on, let me help you up. We'll take it slow. You've got to get up now or coach is going to come over to see what's wrong with you."

Bob pulled me to my feet and walked beside me.

"What did you want to talk about?" I asked, trying not to limp.

"Well, I'm not supposed to tell you this but I have a feeling I better tell you or you're going to complicate my life even more," he said, trying to find some words to say what was on his mind.

"Yeah," I said, looking down the track toward the junior high school.

Standing there looking back at me was Mr. Q, his fingers woven through the fence as he looked my way.

He could have come over. The gate was only twenty yards away from him but he showed no interest in getting any closer.

"I'll be back," I said. "I've got to see someone."

I walking toward the fence and left Bob standing there.

"I've got something you need to know, Charlie," Bob yelled.

"Hi, Mr. Q.! How are you?"

It was like seeing an old friend. I hadn't seen him since track started. I forgot about my legs, my anger, and Bob's secret.

"Charlie, you're Charlie now?"

"Not that I know of! They've just started that one."

"How's practice?"

"Not so hot."

"I saw your race. Better stick to the short sprints. You're not a 400 man. You don't have the stamina."

"Tell Coach that."

"Coach Becker knows what he's doing. He says you're pretty good but he didn't have to tell me that. He seems to think he's got four excellent sprinters."

"Mr. Q, I don't like running track. I mean I like it but most of these guys act like it's a picnic or something. I don't like it and I don't like being around guys that don't take things seriously. They should want to win and hate losing, but everything is just a joke."

"Well, everyone isn't going to act like you, Charles. You have exceptional talent. You work hard at it. Sometimes you work too hard. Sometimes you've got to relax and just let things happen. You can't expect twenty teenage boys to act like you want them to. You've only been at it a for a month. You can't know in a month."

"Yeah, but I keep thinking I want to quit. I mean it's nothing like I thought."

"Why don't you quit then? You don't want to spend time doing something you don't enjoy. Not if you don't get anything out of it, Charles."

"Yeah, but you made me promise you, I'd go out for track."

"And you did that. If you tried it, and you don't like it, it's okay to quit. I don't want you to feel like you need to stay on the team because of me. You're a special kid, Charles. Remember that day you cleaned me out playing golf?"

"Yes, sir. I'd never played golf before," I confessed.

"Yeah, I know, and you remember what you did to me?"

"Yes, sir," I said, laughing at the memory. "I cleaned you out."

"You cleaned me out," he said, smiling with his eyes. "I just want you to understand you can do anything you set your mind to do. It might not be track but I think you should finish what you started. That boy seems to like you. A lot of the team came over after you ran. A team is a funny thing, Charles. Sometimes you've got to give them a chance. It all takes time but you do what you think is right for you."

"Charles, I've never seen anyone pick things up as fast as you. You're a natural athlete and I made you promise me to go out for track so you'd be sure to keep using your skills. It's not about track. It's about you using your assets. Track was to help you see how you can put that speed of yours to work. I think you can do anything you want."

"Coach Becker and I are friends. When I knew you weren't coming back to my class, I wanted him to coach you. He's a good man. I wanted him to see what you could do. I thought you two would work well together."

"You've done what I asked, Charles. He'll be sorry to lose you but you've got to do what's best for you. I think you're making a mistake but it's not up to me, son. I'm running late but I wanted to say hello. That was a hell of a race, Charles. Nice talking to you."

He left me feeling like a jerk. He told me that he thought I had talent and I told him I was a quitter. It didn't set too well with me and I was sure it didn't set well with him. I'd never been a quitter, but I'd never been a joiner either. I'd always been on my own, until track.

"Hey, Charlie, come up here," Whitey yelled as he stood on the outside of the fourth turn where I'd died a few minutes before.

Bob stood nervously with him, not looking at me.

"What?" I asked, as I left the fence.

"Sit," he said, while I was walking toward him. "Over on the grass."

"What grass?" I argued.

"Sit down on the dirt then," he ordered in a harsh voice.

"Stand up! Walk around! Don't tighten up! Sit for what? Why is everyone bossing me around?"

Whitey looked at me unsympathetically as he pulled a blue and white can out of a brown paper bag he was hiding behind his thigh. He looked around before popping the top off the can. He set it down beside my legs, once I was on the ground.

"Atomic Balm," I read out loud as he held it in front of me.

"Yeah, this'll take the soreness out of your shins. Some of it anyway. It'll help. You'll see. Dip two fingers in like this and smear it around on your shins."

He dipped two fingertips into the orange goop, plastering it on my left shin to get it off his fingers.

"Do that. Smear it around to cover each shin. Then you can lay back and relax for a couple of minutes," he instructed. "We don't want you out of action for the relays on Thursday."

"He told you? I asked him not to tell anyone," I shouted, looking for Bob, who I found hiding behind Whitey. "You told him."

"Shut up, Charles," Whitey said, standing up and wiping his hand on his sweats.

"I'm not on the relay team anymore," I said.

"You didn't tell him?" Whitey asked as Bob stepped out of his shadow.

"Haven't had a chance. He keeps giving me a hard time about helping him."

"Do you want help or not, Charlie? I won't tell the coach but you've got to treat them or they'll only get worse," Bob said. "We all get them. It's from running in the halls. Running that 400 on this track probably didn't do them much good."

"We all get them," Whitey said softly. "Relax for a few minutes and let it take effect. You'd better tell him before he blows a gasket. You're right, he's worse than Tom."

I laid back on the dirt. It was helping even if it did make my legs glow orange.

It felt good when I closed my eyes. I was exhausted. The race and worry had worn me out, and for the first time in a month my legs didn't throb while I was at track practice.

The world disappeared for a few minutes as I relaxed well out of the way of everyone.

Charles! Charles, you in there?" Bob asked, standing over me and looking down curiously.

"Tell me what? I'm not worse than Tom," I said, feeling better. "You told Whitey?"

"No, actually I told Johnny. Johnny told Whitey. He had the extra can of Atomic Balm."

"You told, Johnny. I asked you not to tell anyone, Bob."

"Yeah, well luckily I don't listen to everything you have to say. You've got to get up and walk around now, or I will tell the coach," Bob said, knowing how to get a rise out of me.

"I'm getting up," I said, taking his hand and letting him do most of the work as I got my legs solidly under me. "Tell me what? Whitey said tell me and I'm not worse than Tom."

"Yeah, maybe not. I'm not supposed to tell you this but I'm tired of seeing you pissed off at everyone," Bob said as he walked beside me. "You aren't going to run the 400, Charlie."

"You don't have to tell me that. I'll quit first. I'm not running that race. Why are you calling me Charlie, Bobby?"

"Gorely called you Charlie."

"Well why is he calling me Charlie?"

"Shut up," Bob said as he grew impatient with me. "You're going to be right where you belong Thursday. You tell Coach Becker that I told you that and I'll break your legs and you won't need Atomic Balm."

"What are you talking about? Everybody seems to know what's going on but me."

"You and Tom," Bob said. "You run your mouth too much. That's why you didn't get told what was going on."

"You tell him?" Whitey asked as he stepped onto the track next to us, after looking around to see if anyone was watching us.

"Coach is working on Tom's attitude about the relays. Typically he puts whoever is available in the relay races. He thinks we're a pretty good combination but he needs Tom to get with the program."

There it was. I was a pawn in Coach Becker's chess game.

"So when was I supposed to find out?"

"Calm down. I only told you, so you'd quit looking like someone just shot your dog."

"Charlie, we're a team. A team pulls together. No one is out to get you," Whitey said. "We're trying to help you."

"Okay! Fine! Why doesn't the coach just tell him to run the damn relay? It worked with me."

"If he can get Tom to want to run the relay, that's a whole lot better than making him run the relay," Whitey said. "And by the way, next time the coach asks you to do something nutty, don't win, okay? Don't give him any more ideas. We need you in the relay, Charlie. I need someone I can depend on to get me the baton. That's you."

"Hey, how are the shin splints," Johnny said as he stepped off the infield to join us.

"You told Johnny," I protested, turning on Bob again. "Maybe there's someone you didn't tell, Bobby?"

"Shut up, Charlie," Whitey said. "Why can't things ever be easy."

"What's that smell?" I asked, sniffing the air.

They all started laughing.

"What is that?" I said, turning up my nose.

"Get used to it. It'll follow you everywhere. Atomic Balm is deadly in confined spaces," Whitey laughed, handing the paper bag to Johnny.

"We're outside," I said.

"Yeah, wait until we're not," Johnny laughed. "The main thing is that it'll help take the soreness out of your legs. You won't leave home without it until those shin splits heal. That might be after the season ends. You have 'em bad."

Tom stood at the corner of the bleachers, watching us talk and laugh. He had that longing look on his face, like he wanted to walk over and laugh with us, but he couldn't close the distance between us and I didn't know how. We walked past him but no one else looked his way.

Coach was talking to David Ditmar and Charlie James and didn't suspect that I'd been informed about the conspiracy.

After my legs and I were feeling better, I hit the showers, realizing my father was still there, watching everything I did. After coming out of the shower, Johnny came over. He was already dressed in street clothes.

"How are the legs?"

"Better. Not as sore," I said. "That stuff really works, huh?"

"Good," he said, setting the brown bag down beside me. "This is Whitey's can. I liberated it from the supply cabinet last season when I had them bad and passed it on to him when he got them. We don't need it anymore, so it's your can now. Keep it in your gym bag. Put it on before you dress. Use it at night before bed, in the morning when you get up, and after you shower each day. Once the pain stops you won't need it."

After drying myself off, I applied the orange glowing substance, trying to wipe it off my hands before I got dressed. I put the can in my gym bag and left.

My father started the car as I came out of the gym. He was now parked next to the door.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"I don't think you should be running that distance," he said.

"I won," I said, being proud of it now.

"Your lungs aren't that strong. With all the trouble you've had breathing, I think you better tell the coach you can't run that distance," he said. "We can't afford to have you get sick."

"Yes, sir," I said, knowing orders when I heard them.

"Good," he said. "What's that smell?"

My father sniffed the air and realized there was a foul odor afoot that came with me. I was becoming oblivious to it already but not the company I kept.

My father had given me the out I needed if I decided to quit the team. Mr. Q. had done the same thing earlier, except I wasn't so sure I wanted to quit now. I wasn't sure about what my options were, but I would give it a few more days before I made up my mind.

The next morning I went into Tommy's house at 6:30 to wait for him to finish getting ready for school. He came into the living room buttoning up his shirt as his brothers all roamed in and out.

"What's that smell?" He asked.

"Came in with him," Richard said, leaning into the living room. "I was polite and didn't mention it, but I'm not his best friend."

"It's Atomic Balm," I answered. "I've got shin splints."

"Well they can't be as bad as that smell," Tommy said.

"Yeah, they are," I said, enjoying the fact my legs didn't ache, even though there was serious damage done to my social standing.

In home room and through the first three periods there was a lot of random sniffing of the air and people looking around at one another to see if they could identify the source from which the odorous smell emanated. Atomic Balm, being worthy of its name, prevented them from narrowing it down to anything closer than my vicinity. They had their suspicions. I employed an old friend and played dumb, sniffing along with everyone else and enjoying the mystery.

Practice was no different than the day before, only I wasn't intimately involved. Pretty much I stayed out of the line of fire, jogging on my own, thinking about what Mr. Q. had told me. I thought about how Johnny and Whitey treated me, saying things that made me feel important. I was suspicious of their motives but no more suspicious than usual. It was difficult for me to trust anyone. It was difficult for me not to notice people going out of their way to be nice to me. Maybe that's what a team did, giving you someone to trust. It still took a lot of work and the rewards were elusive.

Bob came over to talk on numerous occasions and he walked with me around the track, inquiring about my legs. I didn't have any trouble believing Bob was sincerely concerned, but I don't know what the difference was. We simply got along once dramatics weren't upsetting everything around us. Bob was the guy on the team I trusted most and I didn't know why that was either.

I spent a considerable amount of time wondering about that week's track meet, but Bob and I didn't talk about that. What was I going to run? Coach hadn't put the chart up with the assignments on it Monday. I didn't know if I was going to run or not, but on Wednesday all questions were answered and he made everything clear.

Once again the coach came late to practice, after Johnny had led the exercises. Just as we started to break up into our smaller groups, Coach Becker came striding across the corner of the football field. Johnny told us to get into the bleachers as soon as he saw him coming.

"Gentlemen," Coach Becker said sternly. "Tomorrow is a three team meet. Once again we can win if we give it our best effort. The sprint relay teams … the 4X100 relay team and the 4X200 relay team are back to the same team we've run all season in track meets. I've thought it over, gentlemen. This is my best team. These are my best runners and that is why they've been running those two relays. They've shown signs that they are capable of winning but they haven't put forth their best effort for the most part. I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to run my best boys in every event at every track meet. If those boys don't want to put forth their best effort, that's up to them. If you want to embarrass yourselves, that's fine, too. I'm the coach and next year I'll have another team and the year after that. You boys only get this season to be the best you can be. Maybe you'll be back next season, maybe you won't, but I'll be here, and I'll continue to run my best boys in each event and hope they choose to give me the best they have. But if they don't, I always get next year. I know this isn't all I get, so I'll take what you give me, no matter if you give me your best or not. That's it. Light practice. Loosen up. Go through handoffs, jog through your events, no one strain today. We don't want to injure anyone before the meet. The bus leaves at eleven tomorrow. You'll leave class after first period and follow our normal meet schedule. Thank you."

When I went into the infield, where we practiced the handoff, and no one was there but me. I looked back at the bleachers and both Bob and Whitey were standing with Tom as he adjusted his starting blocks. I waited for them to come over but they ended up leaning on the front of the bleachers staring at me.

What was this about?

"Charlie, we're going to practice here in front of the bleachers. Tom wants to come out of the blocks, he'll run twenty yards and handoff to Bob, and Bob will run twenty yards and handoff to you, and the same thing with you handing off to me. Just go through the motions to get the feel of it," Whitey said, leaving no doubt about what we were doing.

I could have said something and started up the wrangling again but I didn't. I did look at Bob to see what he thought, but I couldn't read anything into the way he looked back at me.

Well, if you can't get Mohammed to the mountain, take the mountain to Mohammed, I thought.

We spent a half an hour in this activity. Tom did not object once. He did practice starts each time we left him a few minutes to himself. He was more focused than usual, but quiet. It was difficult for me to maintain my displeasure with him under the new circumstances. He was trying.

After I handed off to Whitey one time, I turned around and almost ran into Tom.

"Excuse me," I said.

"It's okay. How are the legs? You'll be okay for tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. They aren't as sore."

"Good," he said, standing there long enough for me to believe he meant it, and then he turned and jogged back to his blocks for more practice.

We were told to call it a day right after that. I'd kept my sweats on over my orange shins so the coach wouldn't notice. It only took a few seconds to put the stuff on after showering, and I was good to go and on my way home with Coach Becker being none the wiser.

Except he startled me as I walked out of the locker room.

"Charles, come here a minute," he said, while checking his clipboard.

"Yes, sir."

"You'll run the relays tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir," I said uncomfortable with the question.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I said, standing with only my head in the office, trying to keep my legs downwind of him.

"You're my man for the third leg. You know that? You've done a good job for me."

"Yes, sir," I said, anxious to escape.

"Okay, see you tomorrow, ten o'clock. The track meet starts at noon."

"Yes, sir," I said, heading for the front doors.

It was cool and overcast the next day. It wasn't a sprinters day.

I walked Tom and Whitey to the starting blocks for the 100, right after the hurdles race. They both seemed distant as I waited for them to take off their sweats before I carried them to the finish line.

The day became cooler, once Tom lost the 100 to a pretty fast Northwestern runner, finishing a solid second with another Northwestern guy coming in third. Whitey finished fifth behind a High Point runner.

Whitey thanked me when I gave him back his sweats. He patted my shoulder and smiled. Tom brushed past me, almost knocking his sweats from my hand. He gave me a hard look, taking them as he walked away.

The meet moved right along and the four of us did some casual practice with the baton before the relay. We were all relaxed but distant. There was no chatter. In the first leg of the relay, Tom was up against the same guy who had beat him in the 100. He mentioned it to Whitey as our call was getting closer.

"Don't worry about it. He was lucky the first time," Whitey said confidently. "This is our relay. You guys get it done and we'll give them all they want."

We stood near the starting line waiting for Whitey to come back with our lane assignment, and it was time for Tom to speak.

"Don't screw up," he said.

He wasn't looking at Bob or me when he said it, but we both heard the same warning. We looked at each other. I was sure he meant us. I brushed it off but Bob looked grim.

Luckily Whitey came back and we would run in the third lane. That wasn't necessarily good for Tom but it was good for me. We all shook hands and Whitey walked me into the infield.

"Just give me your best race. Don't worry about the handoff. We can beat these guys, Charles."

He left me a little more than halfway through the infield to walk to his position. He patted my back and gave me that Whitey smile. I watched his muscles ripple as he glided away from me.

My focus was there almost as intense as the first time I had run on that track. My heart was pounding and I was ready to run. My world slowly narrowed in around me. There were no pleasantries or handshakes with the other runners, which was good, unless they tried to break through my concentration and couldn't. It didn't worry me. They didn't worry me. I knew what I needed to do. I knew how to do it.

Bob came at me fast but it wasn't a problem. With only two other teams, it wasn't difficult to see we were neck and neck with Northwestern, but we were outside of them and by virtue of the stagger, that meant they were leading us by several yards. I had the baton before we were half way through the 20 meter passing zone. I wasn't sure if I had started late or if things were just faster than usual. This time I could clearly hear both runners, though I didn't look at them or for them.

I knew which runner was which by the sounds I heard and I knew Northwestern had gained a yard or two in the handoff zone, because I could see him out of the corner of my eye and he was a couple of strides ahead of me. The High Point guy was running on my shoulder, probably two or three strides behind me.

It was like my race was ending at the same instant it started in the 4X100 and those thoughts were all there was time for me to have in the ten seconds I had the baton all to myself. I say thoughts but it was more a knowing or an understanding of the race as it was. I never consciously was thinking about anything when I raced.

Whitey took the baton boldly and left me standing there as he went off in pursuit of the Northwestern runner, who was already coming off the curve and onto the front stretch. I had no trouble seeing Whitey closing in on him as the High Point boy fell further behind the front runners.

There were maybe fifty people watching the mid-day track meet. The Northwestern guy had five or six yards when Whitey came off the turn. I felt good about my race and we were competitive and I wasn't aware that we had made any of the mistakes that had dogged us in other meets. Once the High Point man brushed past me, I dodged the third leg competition to charge off into the infield, needing to see what was the result of our effort.

Racing straight across the infield, I wanted to get to the finish line before Whitey, but I never did. Northwestern's runners were engaged in a victory celebration. Whitey was climbing into the bleachers, baton still in hand, looking a bit worn. He hadn't caught the guy and we took second.

Whitey was almost always sitting near Coach Becker during the meets. I sat down behind them and listened, while they discussed what we had done.

"I should have caught him," Whitey said, leaning back with his elbows on the seat behind him as his muscular legs were resting on the railing in front of the front row seats.

"You ran a respectable time. Each handoff was solid. I'd rather you run second and get a clean race out of you then have you win sloppy. You guys can win, Whitey. I have no doubt about it. You're running together now and you need to get a few more races under your belt to perfect your timing and build some confidence.

"Tom looked good today. He's running with you guys now. You ran against two of the fastest hundred men in the state on an all senior team that has been running this event for two years. I've got three juniors and a sophomore with a couple of races together, and you lost to them by two steps. Whitey, that's as good as winning to me. You guys are coming. The wins are out there."

"I don't like losing," Whitey advised. "We could have beat those guys."

"You will. We'll see the same guys three more times before the season is over. You're improving and they're at the top of their game. You'll have plenty of shots at them."

Whitey looked at Coach Becker and smiled at that news. He would have run them again right there and then, but we still had another relay and it would probably put us against most of the same guys.

I took the words to Bob, who wasn't as interested as I was in what Whitey and Coach had to say about our race. He agreed that the race had been run without a serious gaffe and he wanted to stay focused on the next race. He was quiet and we just sat silently as Northwestern won one event after another. I remembered what Coach Becker told Whitey, and the thought of beating those guys was okay by me.

With high hopes my excitement grew, while I was waiting to run my next race. I was sure we could win.

The 4X200 relay had the usual problems. Bob started to run away from Tom, slowed down to wait for him, and Tom ran over top of him, during their exchange, which barely happened before they reached the disqualification line. Bob was trailing the Northwestern guy badly by that time.

Bob's handoff to me ran smooth and I imagined I gained a few yards on the High Point runner and my handoff to Whitey went fine. Whitey took off in overdrive but the race was already lost. This time I was in no hurry to get to the finish line. I didn't need anymore hostility. We just weren't consistent.

Whitey closed in on the High Point guy, who seemed to be standing still as Whitey blew past him, making up twenty yards once he came onto the front stretch. Northwestern had won the race by that time.

I skipped the finish line and climbed into the corner of the bleachers some distance away from most of the team. As I sat down I caught site of Tom walking up the inside of the track toward the first turn. It was a slow stroll he was taking. It was better than hearing him complain but worrisome.

Whitey sat next to the coach, seemingly unperturbed that his teammates had once again failed to give him the baton with any hope of victory. Perhaps getting beaten by a mile was easier than getting nipped at the tape? Bob sat just above me and looked off over the side of the bleachers, disconnected from the rest of us.

I stayed to myself until after Todd finished second in the mile and then Coach Becker assembled the four of us in the row behind him as the track meet was winding down. He turned around and leaned his back against the railing as he surveyed us quietly. The scrutiny was discomforting and the silence was less than golden. He didn't seem as agitated with us as he had been earlier in the week.

Sitting there watching the coach think made me nervous. The words open 400 came to mind, along with the words I quit.

"Okay, the 4X100 is better. Each handoff was solid. I'm not worried about your speed. You're all fine there. You're trying too hard, gentlemen. You can do this if you stop thinking about doing it. It's time to let it happen. Trust yourselves. Trust your teammates. Quit pressing so hard. Just do it. This is the best competition in the county and it's not easy going against experienced and older guys. Quit worrying about them. The more you go through the motions the easier it becomes.

"Relax! Do what you do in the 4X100. You have more time in the 4X200 but you aren't using that time wisely. Things don't unfold as quickly in the 4X200. Tom is starting too slow at the very end."

"I'm not!" Tom protested feebly.

"You are," Whitey said with conviction. "Don't forget I'm standing there watching you too take each other on."

"Gentlemen! Bob, let him take one extra step before you start. When you think it's time to go, wait for one count. One one hundred. Then take off. That'll make up the difference and you'll get the baton at the point Tom is finishing his race. Let your instincts guide you. It'll take discipline to hold still as he is coming at you but it should make the difference.

"To get the most out of the 4X100, you can do just the opposite, only for an instant though. When you know it's time to go, hesitate, then go. Make Tom stretch it out for a few more yards and then he can't run over you. You hesitate too long, and it'll look like the 4X200. Feel the surge of adrenaline that tells you to go, hesitate. Go!"

"You all ran excellent races. You were the fastest team out there, gentlemen. You lost a single second in one passing zone and that's the difference between first and last in a three team race. That's it. Work on it."

Bob faded away to the top of the bleachers as the coach went back to finishing out the track meet. I followed, giving him a little less time than I did after a race. I always intended to cheer him up, because he seemed to take everything to heart.

"You okay," I asked, after sitting next to him for a few minutes.

He was standing with his back to the track looking off into the distance.

"Yeah, I guess. My job is to make sure I've got the baton before crossing out of the zone. It's what I did," Bob said, sounding certain and yet disappointed. "I did start too soon. I keep thinking he'll run over me. Then I slow down and he does."

He bowed his head, shaking it from side to side as he replayed one of his less than perfectly timed handoffs with Tom.

"I never worry," I said happily. "Well, the first time maybe. I really wanted to turn around to see where you were, but you guys kept telling me not to do that, so I didn't. Once the baton was there that first time, I stopped worrying. I know it'll be there and it always is. I've never had to look for you."

"Yeah, I wish it were like that with Tom. I keep thinking I'm going to screw up and then I do."

"You heard him say that to us?"

"Yeah, I heard him. Don't screw up. Who does he think he is?" Bob complained.

"Quit thinking it. Do it like you do in the 4X100. Just do what Coach says. When you think it's time to rock and roll, wait for him to take one more stride. That'll make the difference."

"Yeah, I guess. You almost stopped. If I hadn't pushed you last week, you'd still be standing there. You were about to look for me, Charlie my boy. You can't fool me. I'm the guy that hands off to you."

"No I wasn't. Not so much anyway. It wasn't much of a race, but I trust you, Bob. I know you'll get it to me. Sometimes I get scared I'll screw up, leave too soon, run away from you, but then the baton is always there before I can look. I think we're okay."

"Let's stop thinking about screwing up, okay?" He said for both of our benefit.

"Yeah, let's stop doing that, but if we do, you know, if that ever happens, it'll be my fault."

"You've done okay so far. You do pretty damn good with all the turmoil going on around you. Last year, when I was a sophomore, I wasn't nearly as sure of myself as you are."

"Me? Self assured? I don't think so," I said, remembering all of the uncertainty that swirled around my life at all times, except maybe after I stepped on the track at track meets.

Talking to Bob always helped me feel better about him. I thought I was cheering him up but he usually ended up making me feel better. I wasn't sure that's why I stayed so close to him. I respected Whitey a whole bunch but Bob was always good at making me see the entire picture.

We lost another track meet, finishing third out of three teams. As the bus turned into the driveway the coach stood to say his piece.

"Some improvements, Gentlemen. Todd and Gorely, best races of the season. Payne, good race. Mulligan had a couple of good throws today."

Coach Becker's voice took on a pleading quality and his face with the strained smile told the story, "We still need a high jumper. If anyone knows anyone who can jump, get him to me. I'll make him competitive. Pole vault, well we won't go there. Sprinters, some improvements but the handoff still needs work.

"Bob, as long as you don't leave the zone without the baton, we have a race. Tom's starts are really good. Northwestern has two state caliber hundred men, so a second to these guys is a good finish. Nice job. You ran against the same guy in the 4x100 relay and you outran him. Good meet, gentlemen. We'll get them next time. These are good teams and we stayed in this track meet. Have some patience and we're going to get better.

"Gentlemen, our next track meet isn't until next Saturday. It gives us nine days to prepare. Our light day will be Friday. We're going to Baltimore County. We'll be running five teams from the Baltimore area. We'll get away from the teams we know and we'll be running in a fine facility. Let's work on our weak spots, so we don't embarrass ourselves."

The coach's timing was superb. The bus stopped and the doors opened as he finished his speech. School had just let out and baseball players were lingering around the bus to find out the results and for a minute or two it was almost like being on a real team, but it always went down hill from there.

"They lost of course," a tall skinny annoying looking kid yelled at a couple of his teammates as they were going through the gate onto the baseball field beside the school and everyone in the parking lot looked at our bus and then ignored their bruised and beaten combatants. It made me wonder why I was still on the team. No one cared. Half of my teammates acted like they didn't care.

It hadn't been a good year for sports at Suitland and our average baseball team was the only hope for any modest respectability, winning about half their games.

I went off with Tommy, who had waited for the bus's return. I hadn't showered and I wore my track uniform so I could take it home to wash it. Tommy always wanted to know how I did but by that time I could no longer separate my performance from the team's. He'd always try to cheer me up and I was usually pretty distant until I could forget about track.

Tom practiced handoffs with us Friday, and for a little while each day the following week as well. He wasn't all smiles, but then again he wasn't complaining either, so it went better than usual. I wasn't ready to join his fan club, but no one had to ask him to join us. He brought his baton over and joined in. One day he asked that we practice in front of the bleachers, because he wanted to do it with the start. He was very quiet around me and we never had much to say to each other, although he asked about my legs a couple of times. It seemed to me that had more to do with running track than any sincere concern for my well being, but it was something and it was different and it took some of the pressure off of us. Every time things seemed to be getting better between the four of us, reality struck during the next track meet and things always went back to the way they had been.

I still winced whenever someone suggested I should practice some starts, but it wasn't something I had to do often. My shin splints still kicked up when the sun failed to make an appearance or if it was really cool and I kept applying the balm. They were still sore to the touch but I didn't spend much time touching them.

At Tommy's house one of his brothers, Gary, took to spraying deodorizer in the living room any time I came in the house. He'd make a big production of spraying the doorway, the path I took into the house, the air in general, and finally, he'd end up spraying all around where I sat. It was kind of funny. The smell that accompanied me had become a standing joke, one that Tommy failed to find any humor in. He got very angry with them, when he thought they were laughing at me, but it was only a joke.

Gary, the deodorizer, was also the brother that took most offense at my constant presence at his house. Except during track season, I was there when he got up, when he got home from school, and almost up until super time every school day and then all day Saturday on some weekends. We mostly all got along but Gary didn't get along with anyone too well. I didn't let him bother me as long as Tommy was there, and I could no longer image not having him there to bounce things off of and he was protective of me in a way that comforted me. Our friendship was the most solid substance in my life up until that point in my life. It didn't matter if people laughed at me as long as Tommy stood by me, and I knew he would no matter what. I trusted Bob to keep things in balance for me on the track team, and that was unusual to for me to depend on anyone for anything. I trusted Tommy with my life.

It's difficult to describe having a friend like him, but even in my track endeavors he'd given me an out if I need it. The subject didn't come up again and I stopped complaining in front of him about my team, because he told me how it made him feel. Anything that hurt me hurt him and his friendship kept me on track at a time when I could have easily split from the program.

Practice on Friday was light and we spent more time talking than usual. A heightened concern had entered Coach Becker's preparations and so I figured this wasn't your average track meet. He came over to talk to his four sprinters three different times, asking each of us if we were all right. We were easy to pin down for a change as the relay team stayed together for the entire practice with hardly a sour word spoken among us.

It was only during track meets that everyone got out of sorts. Having the extra few days after the last debacle proved beneficial. I thought we should just skip track meets all together, and hang out, and then I'd really like track.

There was some discussion about going so far to get beat again. Since we always lost, it wasn't much of a reach to see the following day's defeat and a long bus ride back. I must admit that the thought of going all that way didn't thrill me. I loved traveling, but not to go to lose a track meet and then listen to the lunacy of my teammates for hours on the way home. I didn't like losing at all but I liked my teammates reaction to it a whole lot less.

Even Tom, with his super fair skin, spent time sunning himself with us on the warmest day of that spring. It was only after we'd been dismissed for the day that I stopped at the gate. Turning for some reason, I found myself watching Tom setting up his starting block down at the furthest corner of the bleachers. Everyone else had gone.

A half an hour later, with the light fading as I got into my father's car, I stopped for a few seconds to watch Tom all alone in his little corner of the universe, making one start after another.

He was consistent.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

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