On Winning by Rick Beck    On Winning Book One
 A Companion to Gay Boy Running
 by Rick Beck
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On Winning by Rick Beck
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High School Drama

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Coach Becker explained the schedule. We would have ten minutes lead-time after the announcement to report to an event. Only one man was to report to the scorer's table for lane assignments in the relays. Coach reminded us to stay together to alleviate any chance of missing an event. We weren't going far. "If there are any questions or if you are confused about the time you should report, see me immediately. If you become confused about where you are supposed to be, see me. I'll go over it again as many times as necessary. We can't afford to miss any events. If you're not where you're supposed to be, when you're supposed to be there, it will be an automatic disqualification, gentlemen. They won't wait and they won't send out search parties." "There is one thing you need to remember. All of this looks impressive. It's not anything we are accustomed to, nor are we likely to run in a facility like this again. Let's make the most of it. We run one event at a time. They run one event at a time. They throw, jump, and run, just like we do it. Go out and give your best performance and we'll be fine. You can't worry about what we don't have and what we can't do. We're here to compete, and now let's give it our best. It's a nice day for a track meet, gentlemen." He paused for a moment to look around before he pointed his finger at the relay team. We always started out sitting in close proximity. "I think you have an excellent shot in the sprint relays. You've been practicing all week. You look good. Vast improvement. Just give me what you've given me in practice and it'll be good enough. Dundalk and Catonsville have the strongest sprint teams. Try to keep them behind you. They have better times but look at what they run on. You should run your best times today. All of you should run your best times today. "Whitey, Tom, it's only a two hundred. I know the straightaway is intimidating to look at but remember, it's the same distance. You may have a tendency to tighten up if you watch the finish line from the start, so don't. Run your usual race. There won't be anything going on at the finish line until Whitey gets there." The coach smiled broadly at the imagery. Whitey blushed as he placed the needle spikes into his running shoes while boys around him patting him on the back at the coach's suggestion. "I'm ready, Coach," Whitey advised. I could feel the heavy atmosphere falling away from the team as we came together, relaxing in our small section of the stands. It was only a track meet. A little grab ass erupted toward the back. It was almost pleasant to see the guys coming to life as the starting time approached. There was nothing left to do but run our events, and the sooner it started the faster we could get out of there. "Whitey, Dundalk has a man with a faster time, Catonsville is close to Dundalk, and the Randalstown man has fast times. He's a junior, so you'll be seeing him again. Best you let him know who's fastest today. Tom, your hundred times are consistent with the times posted for the best sprinters here. Both of you have a good shot today. You'll never have a better place to give me your best times. "Field men appear to be competitive on paper. Mulligan, you'll have to give it a good effort to finish in the points. Kirkpatrick, you're competition is closer to your best throws. My distance men, you'll need to push it up a notch if you're going to compete with Owens Mill's distance guys. Catonsville is strong in everything. Keep them behind you whenever possible. It's their track meet for a reason, gentlemen. Let's not give them anything they don't earn out there today. We can finish well if we give our best performances." I watched the other teams moving around the stadium as I listened to Coach Becker's analysis. I felt envious of how good they looked in those snazzy uniforms. I wondered if Suitland would ever rate such first class treatment. I wondered why we didn't rate it now. Why was it Baltimore County and Montgomery County spent so much more in showing off their teams, while no one cared how we looked? If we had uniforms like that and a track like this one, we'd have a hundred guys trying out for the track team and not twenty to thirty. Don't embarrass Suitland? Our uniforms were an embarrassment, an embarrassment we both wore and felt. We were seen as second rate no matter where we went. I checked out my baggy faded shirt. The white wasn't quite pink but it was a good imitation. I knew that when I ran my shorts would balloon out, making me look like a human kite attempting liftoff. The day was becoming brighter as the sun rose higher, but the trees still shaded the bleachers and a large portion of the track. The loud speakers came to life several more times with announcements and the call came for field men to report. The field events were held in a grassy area above the stadium. It took five minutes to get there from the bottom of the stadium. We were told not to go there unless we were participating. Bob and I went together to the pits to qualify before the hundred was run. We chased each other over the plush lawns to get back to our spot in the stadium for the hundred, after taking a couple of minutes to admire the beautiful grounds, stopping to admire colorful gardens. It would have certainly been a nice place to go to school. It made me question the concept of equal education under the law. Catonsville seemed a lot more equal than Suitland. With a school like this I wouldn't have nearly as much trouble going. It would have been easy for me to get sidetracked, since my mind was always wondering away with me, so I stayed close to Bob, who always knew where we were supposed to be and when we were supposed to be there. Very little escaped him once a meet got going. Whitey led the sprint relay team onto the neatly trimmed infield as quick as we got back to our seats. Picking out a spot where we could practice a few handoffs at half speed, while butterflies revisited my stomach. The spot we picked was in the infield on the back stretch and more and more people were filling in the empty spaces now that the rest of the stadium was all but full. The infield remained relatively peaceful with only runners, coaches, and officials allowed to cross the track. We had been asked to stay off the infield except when reporting or return from events, but our preparations demanded the space we took. Several times other boys stopped to watch us working off steam. We repeated the exercise for two lengths of the football field, going from goal post to goal post on the rich carpet of grass. It calmed me down and got my mind off of what I was supposed to do as well as how I looked. We crossed the track and found a quiet spot in front of the scoreboard, settling down to wait for the first event. We did our stretching exercises together and away from most of the activity. Ditmar and James joined us but they stayed off to one side, maintaining some distance and there was no communication with them. After a few minutes we laid back on the cool grass. It was the warmest day for a track meet so far. We stayed to ourselves but had nothing to say to each other. That's when the loud speakers broke into our free time. "Runners for the low hurdles and the hundred yard dash, please report to the scorers' table for your lane assignments. This is first call. First heat in the hurdles will be run in ten minutes at eleven o'clock." Bob returned to the bleachers, while I walked with Whitey and Tom to get their lane assignments. Ronnie Payne finished third in the hurdles. We'd scored our first point. There was a great deal of backslapping and congratulations from the team that still sat close together in our little portion of the teeming bleachers. The one hundred started in the same chute as the hurdles and later on, the 200. This meant the hundred, one of the premier events, ended in the middle of the track, where the most people were positioned to see it. It was a good configuration for the benefit of the spectators. I accompanied my guys to the starting blocks, where the officials were anxious for me to, "clear the track if you aren't participating," but this was part of my ritual so I could maintain my calm. I ignored the official request to finish what I'd come to do. The sun had risen just above the treetops, bathing the entire front stretch in sunlight. This was a sprinter's day and I would come to appreciate each one we would be granted from this day forward. I shook Whitey's hand and wished him good luck. "Thanks, Charles," he said, patting me on the shoulder just before he turned to face the starting blocks. I offered my hand to Tom, and he took it half-heartedly, not too interested in the gesture. "Good Luck, Tom. Give 'em hell." Tom nodded to someone and almost smiled but he never looked at me. He was somewhere else. I thought then, I understood what took place inside his head was probably something like what I experienced. He wasn't really there with me. He wasn't so much arrogant as he was intensely committed to what he did. I wasn't anyone to judge someone else, but Tom did make things hard on all of us at track meets. It was like there was something burning inside of him that no one else knew about. I remembered the fading light at Suitland as I was getting into my father's car, and Tom was still out there, practicing his starts after the rest of us had gone. I turned to go back to the team. There were no sweats to carry this time. I wanted to be there so I could see my guys finish. I decided to walk up on the infield so I could avoid the crowd. It was while making my way up the track, walking on the infield grass, I came to where the coaches stood in a group. As soon as I paused to acknowledge my coach, someone in a sports coat with an official looking red tag dangling from his belt invited me to take my leave. I was only passing through. "Son, we don't have enough room for everyone to stand at the finish line. Could you please sit with your team until your event is called?" the man suggested with authority in his voice. I'd already have been there if he hadn't interrupted my flow. Coach Becker immediately handed me one of his watches, informing the official, "He's okay. He' my official timer." And all the other coaches looked at me with doubt in their eyes as Coach gave them his best smile. Now Coach Becker was a coach, and a history teacher to boot, and I was a kid, and never the twain shall meet in my experience, beyond our official capacity as coach and kid. I was surprised when he trusted me with one of his watches and what seemed like an important chore to me. This was the worst part for me, waiting for my guys to run, and having something to occupy my time was a good thing. Being allowed in the area with all the coaches was even better. I was going to be at the finish line when Whitey and Tom got there. How cool was that? The official looking official turned and walked away and suddenly I was more involved in track and field. "When you take the time on the start, go with the smoke, Charles. The sound takes an instant longer to get to us, so watch for the starter's arm to go into the air. He'll fire the gun almost immediately after you see his arm go up. You get the second place man as he crosses the line. I'll take first and third." Now I was worried if I would do it right or not. Coach didn't seem to have any such concerns. His eyes focused down the track. The crowd was starting to stir as the time neared for the first heat to be run. People stood up in the bleachers so they could see the start and the excitement was obvious as the buzz started to grow. The one hundred was one of those events everyone came to see but if you didn't pay attention, you could miss the whole race. The entire affair took little more than ten seconds. It was pure excitement, even for the spectators. I gazed up at the bleachers and into a sea of colorful uniforms. I was amazed at the number of boys that came out for other track teams. Not only did they get fancy uniforms, there were a lot of them. I was sure they were proud to walk the halls of the school dressed in the team uniform. I wouldn't be caught dead walking the halls of Suitland in mine. My attention became directed toward the starter once he extended his white silken arm into the air. The speaker broadcast his commands to "Take your mark. Set." The crowd went silent as all the heads turned toward the starting blocks. I leaned forward to keep from having my view blocked by bigger men. I nailed the smoke as it rose from the gun an instant before the shot rang through the stadium and my ears. The second man was 10.4 by my watch. Coach got the first man in an identical time. A rumble went through the crowd as the second heat was preparing to run. I felt the butterflies stirring again. I leaned out to locate the lanes Whitey and Tom would run in. Whitey was in lane 3 and Tom was in lane 6. "That didn't seem like a very fast time for this track, Coach," I said, puzzled by the hands of the watch. Both Tom and Whitey clocked better than 10.4. "Slow heat, Charles. The next heat is the fast one. Save the best for last," he advised me, giving me a quick smile. "Don't forget to reset the watch. We want to get these times right." "Oh!" I said. "Yeah." "You take first man this time. I'll take Tom and Whitey." I could hardly watch for the smoke and remember to click the watch when I saw it. How Coach could take two times in the same race was a mystery. I couldn't even remember to reset the watch. I leaned out between coaches for a better view. I caught a glimpse of Tom stretching behind his block as everyone else was settling into a starting position. His persistence worked. He was the last one to settle down. He didn't just aggravate his teammates at a track meet. Several other runners took turns looking back at him until he finally responded to the command, "On your mark." "Set," came the delayed command that was filtered through the speakers and the shot followed immediately. Tom was right in the thick of things as they came rolling together down the track. Everyone was in the race but the guy in the furthest lane out had fallen behind. Tom and Whitey were in the middle of the track and there were two runners between them. Whitey was behind a step while three other guys ran even with Tom, but Whitey accelerated at the fifty-yard mark, pulling to within a half a step of Tom, who now had a half a step on everyone with Whitey coming fast. His beautiful chest thrust forward as he gracefully threw his arms back. He had filled his lane up, looking huge as his muscles bulged and his face grimaced at the very end. What a race! There was an en mass clicking of watches and then random clicks followed as five, six, and seven came across the line. Before I knew what was going on Coach Becker was dancing onto the track, doing what I can only describe as a jig, while I was still processing what he already knew. "One, two finish, Charles," he said before going in search of his boys. "Second looked pretty close to me," one coach said to another as they looked into their watches for the answer. "One, two, Suitland" I said beyond doubt. "Who?" the unconvinced coach asked. "We're Suitland," I said, going after my guys. Our running uniforms had no identifying marks on it once you got passed the faded red strip that crossed the chest. Every other runner had the name of their school written across their chests, and so I made sure they knew who we were. We might not win anything else, but we won that one, I thought proudly. In my earnestness to pay attention to my chore I forgot to get excited about Tom's victory. Whitey had been tied for second with at least three other guys and the discussion would go on for several minutes, but I was sure Coach Becker was right. By the time I got onto the track, our entire team had surrounded Tom and everyone felt like dancing. It was a scene right out of American Bandstand if you didn't notice our dancing was mostly jumping up and down. The first thing I noticed, being on the outside of the celebration, was the arm of Coach Becker thrust skyward as he searched out his man in the middle of his boys. It was one of those signals that made an impression on me and I needed to get closer to my guys, so with Coach running interference, I found my way to Tom. "10.2. School record, Tom. Great time!" Coach Becker announced to his victorious sprinter. I looked down to see the time on my watch and the sweep hand was still in motion. I'd never clicked the time. I cleared the watch hoping Coach would never ask me what it said. Whitey congratulated Tom as the rest of our squad pushed them back toward our spot in the bleachers. "Great race, Whitey. I've never seen anyone finish like that," I blurted out, interrupting them to shake Whitey's hand. When I turned to shake Tom's hand, I said "You won." It didn't sound too original when I said it. I just didn't know how to approach the guy, but the damage had been done. "Yeah, someone already told me, but thanks anyway, Charles," he said coolly. I did ask for that one. I brushed myself off and patted his back as he moved away from me. Tom smiled as more guys shook his hand and he looked pleased. Then the strangest thing I think I've ever seen took place. The Catonsville runner that Tom had just defeated worked his way into the middle of our celebration. "Good race," he said as he shook Tom's hand. Even Tom looked befuddled as he thanked him for the courtesy. The crowd was standing and cheering for our guy. We all shook each other's hands, feeling grateful for some success so early. The environment lost its ability to intimidate us. My butterflies had all flown the coop I felt so good for Tom, even if I didn't know how to express it to him without insulting him first. "Where did Whitey finish, Coach?" Someone yelled out. "They're discussing it. He looked second to me but it was close," Coach Becker answered as he left the celebration to go to the scorers' table where a group of coaches and officials were sorting it out. He came back at a trot with his watches swinging and clanking. He kept the news to himself until he got back. "10.3 for Whitey's official time. A personal best might I add. Great race and a second place. A one, two finish. Great job. You guys are awesome. We are officially leading this track meet, gentlemen." There was an unusual excitement in Coach's voice. It was Whitey's turn to receive congratulations. With Whitey's second place Suitland scored eight points and led the track meet after the first two events. What a way to take the edge off. It took some time for the excitement to subside. It wasn't so much Whitey's well defined arm going in the air but the baton he was holding in it that ended the official celebration for the sprinters. The four of us jogged into a more crowded infield, searching for a spot for handoff practice and some quiet time before our race. Maybe it was because our races required so much intensity that we needed to get off by ourselves just before a race. The distance guys and field men never seemed to need any space around them, but all of us did. It took only a few exchanges to satisfy us. We sat to do our stretching exercises as we waited for our event to be called. Each of us prepared mentally as well as physically. It was quiet. I felt optimistic. Usually at this point I was anxious and unsettled but not today. I knew what I was supposed to do and I'd done it enough to know I could do it. It was another ten minutes before the 4X100 relay teams were given the first call. We were all lying in the sun, enjoying the perfect sprint day. Whitey went to the scorer's table, while we waited near the starting line. He returned holding up a single finger. We scored lane one. Tom starting with everyone in front of him would make him run all the faster. Tom didn't like anyone being in front of him. We all shook hands without needing to speak. Whitey and I nodded at Bob before he turned to walk up the inside of the track to his position and we took the walk straight across the infield from the starting line. Whitey let his arm drape across my shoulder as we neared the place where he'd split off from me to go to his own spot. I felt like we were finally part of the same team. I was sure Whitey respected me. We stopped and he turned to face me before telling me what was on his ming. "It's ours to win or lose, Charles. Just do what you do. Run your race. Get me the baton. I'll do the rest. Let's win this thing." "Okay," I said, shaking his hand and returning his smile. I stood for a second and watched Whitey as he walked away from me. I felt odd but I felt good. There were no butterflies, no monumental concerns. I had confidence in what we were about to do and I had the feeling it would all turn out fine. I finished my walk, taking a deep breath as I crossed over the curb and stepped down on the track. I didn't have far to go, staking my claim to the inside lane. I took another look at the strange feeling surface. There was an electric feeling that came from my feet. My legs felt good, the soreness was muted by both the give in the track and the warmth in the air. I commenced leaping up and down to stretch my legs, testing the surface at the same time. There was no sound. The needle spikes I'd just installed in my sleek black racing shoes grabbed gently at the macadam. I unexpectedly found myself dashing up the track in a sudden burst of speed, releasing the pent-up energy that had me on edge now that the wait was on. I was all alone inside myself as I turned to go back. I didn't care how I looked or what anyone thought. This was my space and my time. The grip was ten times more apparent to me than any time before. It allowed for a tremendous traction that I needed to account for. I felt like I was floating over the track instead of running on it. It made me feel powerful. My steps were exact with no wasted motion. Everything translated into speed here. It was a magic carpet for my magic shoes. I was ready to race. I wanted to run and I wanted to run here and now. Jogging back, oblivious to my competitors, I stood on the line where I would start, looking at the corner where I'd first see Bob. Each runner was preparing his own race. It was no matter to me. They neither helped nor hurt me. They came with the tracks, fixtures that always seemed to be there. I didn't race my competitors. Once my mind shut out all the distraction, they disappeared. Even sound save one thing I always heard, charging feet on crunching cinders. To me that was the sound of the hounds of hell and they were after me. There would be no such sound today on this track. I had already figured that out but I would still know the hounds were after me. Today would be a silent race, save the breaths bursting forth from me and possibly the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. My race was with myself and the track, and it was run inside my head, run on Coach's watch. I rarely had any memory of my competition, unless things went bad, and then I could recount each agonizing detail, but not here and not today. We were all ready. My intensity level rose the longer I waited. I wanted to run. It was time to run. I carefully placed my toe on the line, watching the curve and taking more deep breaths, gathering everything together. I was so charged with energy I couldn't hold myself still. My focus took hold far sooner than it ever had before. I forced myself to bounce up and down, point my toes, stretch my ankles, careful not to do too much. I wanted to bleed off some of the surging energy that had me ready to run the race whether or not it was time. The gunshot usually startled me and I had to make sure I stayed ready. I had long ago lost contact with those around me. I imagined I could hear what was going on at the starting line. I could see Tom waiting, making everyone wait, until he settled into his block. I pictured inside my head the part of the race I would never see - Tom starting strong and making a perfect baton pass to Bob and Bob breaking away swiftly, gliding off the turn, powering toward me on the inside lane. I pictured Bob coming at me faster than ever before. I saw him in command of the race. I waited until the last instant, knowing I would be jet propelled on this track. I pictured a perfect handoff and I'd cross out of the zone already at full speed. Quite unexpectedly, I felt someone crossing the second lane and coming toward me, getting too close to me. I swung around, losing my concentration for an instant, startled. It was the Catonsville man, representative of our host, standing with his hand extended, waiting for me to respond. He couldn't help but notice +he'd disturbed me. "Good luck," he said like he meant it and he smiled to boot. I saw only his teeth and the hand. "Yeah," I replied. I shook the hand while trying to hide my annoyance at being interrupted. I thought of his politeness and my lack of it. I thought of Tom and shook my head. He and I were too much alike. I smiled to make up for my rudeness, immediately getting back to where I needed to be. The focus was back without effort. I bounced up onto my toes to stay loose. I felt as though a million little electric charges were running through my body. I could hardly wait, watching the starting line for that telltale puff of smoke. Finally I saw it. The echoing shot rang through the stadium as the runners worked their way toward me. I bounced from foot to foot in a measured way, already watching the turn where I'd first see Bob. Four, five, six, seven, I turned away, bent at the waist and the knee, turning only my head back toward the second turn, nine, ten, eleven. I stopped counting, when I knew Bob was just about to burst into view. When he came off the turn, I could see he was even with the teams in the outside lanes. I flexed my fingers to make sure they worked, staring behind me, I watched for Bob to hit the spot I had picked out. I changed it, moving it a little further away. Bob ran directly in the middle of his lane with his arms driving him in long easy strides as he focused on my eyes. The race came down to Catonsville in the third lane and Suitland in the first. I would lag just enough to make sure I didn't run away from him, now that I had adjusted to his extra speed. I still wasn't certain about the track but everything else was going as well as we could hope. The spikes had even more impact under race conditions. As I turned and thrust myself into gear, they grabbed the track precisely and added acceleration to my start. I kept it controlled, not using all of my speed. There was no waste. Throwing my hand back at the halfway line, I felt the baton slapped into place immediately right between my thumb and forefinger. I could feel Bob extremely close to me as he let up after the exchange was made. "Go, Charles," Bob yelled as I kicked for all I was worth. My body surged up to maximum speed. My shoes hugged the surface as I galloped as fast as I could. I stayed within a few inches of the curbing and I tried to hear if anyone was near me. I could not see the Catonsville man, but I knew he was close, two lanes further out. There was no one near me in the second lane. The race was riding on my exchange with Whitey. Bob and Tom had done their job and Whitey would do his. All that was left to do to win, was get him the baton. He'd do the rest. No one could catch Whitey if you gave him a lead and even if someone did catch him, they'd never get past him. I heard chanting, "Go, Go, Go," as someone was on the infield close to me, yelling, but it was lost on me as fast as the words reached my ear. The only thing I knew was that we were leading at this point. The size of Whitey's grin told me all I needed to know. It was as wide as his face and eased my fear somewhat. Then, he took off like he was shot out of a gun, head bent, arms thrusting, and legs bulging power. I was sure he had started too soon. I would never catch him. Oh no! He reached back for the baton, which I delivered the instant his hand was available. He never slowed down and I nearly ran over the top of him as he continued accelerating, leaving me alone with my thoughts as the other competitors chased him. It was a done deal. The view of Whitey's rippling muscles as he dashed away from me was a sight to behold as the Catonsville man fell two steps and then three further behind just before they disappeared into the curve, followed by the four other teams. I left the track and only slowed a little before making a beeline for the finish line. I didn't want to miss this finish. I sped across the infield at an angle that would take me directly to the finish line, dodging and sidestepping people as I went, bouncing off one man, excusing myself as I ran into another. I arrived at the finish line just as our band of rag-a-muffins came streaming onto the track all at once. Rushing into the churning mass of bodies, I found Bob first. We hugged each other, jumping up and down in the excitement as the crowd roared their appreciation. Bob leaned into my ear and said, "We didn't screw up this time, buddy." No we didn't screw up. Whitey and Tom were pushed toward us. We all jumped up and down and patted each other's backs. We couldn't hear anything for the yelling and cheering but we knew it was our victory. It was no doubt the best race to me and it would take something to top it. We had run as a team. We had won as a team and for the first time it felt like we were a team. Coach dove into the crowd, not wanting to interrupt our moment of glory, but unable to wait any longer. The first thing I noticed was the watch in the hand that was stretched in the air to protect the time it showed from being accidentally erased before we could see it. He shouted, but no one could hear him at first. After several more minutes of jubilation and after being asked to take our act on the road, the loud speakers accomplished what the officials couldn't. "Please, clear the track. Please, clear the track. We are about to start our next event. Will you, please, clear the track so we can run our next event." As the noise quieted and we moved off their track, Tom came up behind Bob and me, placing a hand on each of our shoulders. I had never seen him beaming like that before. "You guys were awesome. We did it," he said. I had never seen Tom that happy. I savored the moment, thinking that was as good as it got. Coach Becker was fighting a losing battle trying to get to us. Once we were finally back in the stands, he told us what he had to say. "School record," he yelled to get our attention and then he added something that startled me. "County record. It's the fastest 4X100 relay race ever recorded by a Prince George's County team, gentlemen. You were three tenths off the BI County record set by Blair two weeks ago. Not to mention you now hold the Baltimore County record as well." Processing records wasn't what I did but it seemed to make the coach happy. He seemed hyperexcited and it was obvious there was more he had to say to us and we sat side by side in the front row of the bleachers as he addressed us. "It was great from the start to the finish. You did everything you were supposed to do, gentlemen. You executed the baton exchanges in fine fashion. Now do you see what I've been telling you? Practice. Practice. Practice. It's all in the technique. Add your speed to a refined technique, and you ran away with it, and these aren't slouches you were up against today. Both Catonsville and Randalstown have excellent sprinters. You can run with anyone in this state and you can win. Teamwork. Teamwork. That's what it's about." Whitey was all smiles before saying, "We didn't embarrass ourselves, Coach." "No, you didn't. It's a long track meet but everyone is giving their best. I couldn't ask for more, gentlemen. Great job." I think at that instant we came together as a sprint relay team for good. I think each of us saw what we were capable of doing as a team. We saw one another differently after that 4X100 race. There was no longer I'm best or you're better. We were four boys who when put together created a team, and the team had done more than any one of us could do alone. Records were a byproduct of what we did. I had no concept of what it meant. I did what I did and if it got good results, I was happy. When the results weren't so good, I was unhappy. A record was for the coach. He was responsible for everything that came afterward. He'd put us together. He'd seen what we couldn't see and even fought, but the deal was now sealed and the relay team was set in stone in all our minds. We were "The Team." That day we were bathed in sun. We kicked back in our corner of the bleachers and let the sun keep us delightfully warmed, like toast. Whitey took off his running shirt and sunned himself. Tom read. Bob and I chatted about school of all things. He was far deeper than I had thought, only I hadn't thought. He was a guy that ran track with me. I didn't know a thing about him. We talked for the first time that day. I no longer felt like the outsider, the only sophomore, the youngest guy. Some of the guys would still call me kid, and I suppose it came with the territory, but I had come of age to the sprinters. I was one of them. I was an integral part of the team. For the first time in my life I felt as though I belonged somewhere. Track had given me something I'd never had. Gorely and Green ran the quarter. Johnny finished third. Merrill ran the 800 and finished third. Mulligan had thrown a school record in the Discus and Kirkpatrick was right in the middle of the Shot. Catonsville was in command of the high jump and the pole vault, but Dundalk was competitive in almost every event. We went to a place in the bleachers where we could monitor races as they were run. We were holding our own but Dundalk had slowly pulled ahead of us in points, and Catonsville and Randalstown were right on our heels in the points. Owings Mill and Rock Laven were still trailing us by a bit and there was hope we wouldn't settle to the bottom of the points race yet again, but there were too many events that we gave away. After the shot and discus we had no field men. The sprinters took up the slack in the long jump and triple jump, our high jumpers were distance men and they were pathetic, and our pole-vaulter had yet to figure out which end of the pole to plant, so he quit, and now there were none. You simply couldn't give away a quarter of the events in a track meet and stay competitive in points, and so we knew the score but we had high hopes we'd defy conventional wisdom and make a race of it as we slowly dipped behind in points. I listened as Tom explained how he got a perfect start in both of his races to anyone who would listen. I'd never heard him talk before. Whitey grew distant as the time for the open 200 approached. I watched as he stood, pulled his shirt on over his head, and stepped down out of the bleachers, all the time looking up the chute at the end of the track where the 200 would be concluded. He walked down the inside of the track past the first turn before he stepped onto the running surface to walk the chute using only the eighth and final lane of the track. Johnny stepped down to follow him a few seconds later and I brought up the rear, wanting to be in on what they were doing. We followed Whitey as he walked casually to the very end of the track's surface where it stopped at the edge of the woods. Whitey turned back, looking at the starting blocks that seemed a mile away. The track was empty except for people crossing it from time to time. "Sure looks like a long way, doesn't it?" Johnny said, stopping next to Whitey. "Yeah ... a long way," Whitey replied with distance in his voice. "It's your race, Whitey," I said, confident in my teammate. "You'll never run on a faster track," Johnny said. "Maybe so, but it's still a long way." Johnny chuckled. "It's still only the two hundred, Whitey, no matter what it looks like," Johnny said. "Your race." The three of us walked and talked. Whitey was nervous about the race. I'd never thought about anyone else being nervous before a race. I thought I knew what was on his mind. He had one victory and one second place in other events. Now he was expected to win HIS race and the time was coming close. The team expected victory. It added pressure. Pressure that Whitey already felt about a race that would be different from any two hundred he'd run before. Whitey didn't try to hide his jittery nerves. I always tried to hide mine. Johnny said, "Look, you've already set a new county record; anything else is gravy. Anyway, what's the likelihood of some mystery two hundred man held out of the hundred just to surprise you? If he's as fast as you, he would have been in the hundred. No, you're the class of the field, Whitey. It's your race to win or lose. They'll all be chasing you." "Yeah," I agreed. "Just relax; you've got this one going away." My sophomore bravado demonstrated my lack of experience with the real world. In the sprints nothing was ever in the bag. I had no clue all the things that could go wrong in a sprint race. I knew about bad starts and lousy handoffs and little more. "They run this straightaway every day. They practice on it. I've never run it before. That gives Catonsville the advantage." We walked back to the team where I found Bob sitting at the top of the bleachers. I climbed up and sat down beside him as other events were being run. This was in-between time. I was neither jazzed about our first victory nor apprehensive about our next race. I enjoyed the warm sun. It was a nice change from overcast skies and cool breezes. Runners came to give us word about the field events. Throws were going well but Catonsville and Dundalk had the top spots in both the high jump and pole vault. The coach ordered his sprinters to the jumping pits. He wanted us to get one more jump in the long jump and triple jump. We were each expected to jump three times, the standard number of jumps allowed per participant, and we'd only have one more jump to take before the end of the track meet. Tom went with Bob but not before expressing his total displeasure with the indignity of it all. While Tom might have been the best jumper in those two events, he didn't like them any more than I did. I was sure he'd regale Bob with the retelling of the tale about him winning the 100 race. I didn't want to take any chance I might insult him again. I waited for Whitey, seeking to continue the conversation we'd had earlier. Mostly everyone gave me instructions up until Catonsville. Here both Bob and Whitey had talked to me. I liked not being instructed for a chance. Whitey was already making preparation for his race but no one had to worry about him taking his jumps. He did what was expected of him and didn't need any motivation beyond the desire that burned inside of him. Every once in a while Whitey would catch a good one, and you'd think with all that muscle, he'd jump a long way, but he wasn't all that good at it either. He still gave the best he had every time he came down the runway and leaped off the board that marked the point of disqualification. On the other hand, I spent most of my time scratching, being disqualified for going beyond the board before I started my jumps; it was the only way I could get far enough into the pit to make it worthwhile, only it never was. I didn't like it and it showed. I'd come out for track to run, and to run out front, and so far, all I had done was run behind the faster guys on my own team. Jumping wasn't even a concept in my brain, being more a pain in my posterior end, but one I had to endure if I didn't want Coach Becker haunting me about "technique, technique, technique." Shortly after we got up to the pits the first call came for the 200. Tom left immediately without taking a jump. We wished him luck. Whitey waited until the second call and he still had jumped but he went back anyway. Bob and I straggled back to the team after we both took our second jump. I chased Bob and then he chased me. It was fun and he seemed closer to my age than ever before. I thought Bob and I could be friends. The 200 men were mulling around the starting blocks, when we returned from the pits. I wanted to stand high in the bleachers and watch the entire straightaway 200 and Bob went with me. Most of our team was convinced that Whitey would win the event. It was an unprecedented optimism for the perennial bottom dwellers. I understood Whitey's apprehension. Everyone saw him as the perfect athlete. Everyone thought he would win this race. Competition was difficult enough because of all the variables that come into play. Even the starter can impact the race if he's inept enough or good enough. Whitey always went to win but he didn't always win and being expected to win added one more thing to worry about. It was different than wanting him to win. We were starting to find some confidence, which created expectation. More pragmatically, a victory would keep us in the thick of things for a little longer and as we ran out of runners toward the end of the track meet, we'd still be competitive in points. It was remarkable hearing guys speaking positively about our prospects. From high in the bleachers the first heat seemed to take forever to run. Four guys labored over the entire race, looking as though they might not make it to the finish line or perhaps they'd take the turn instead, forcing us to endure an even longer race that was only an image inside my head. "That had to be slow," I said, yawning for effect. "Can you imagine being one of those four guys and knowing you are in the slow heat? Glad it wasn't me," Bob said, sitting down as we waited. It took some time to organize and run the second heat. First all the runners stood in front of the starting blocks for way longer than that took. Then various guys decided to, take their mark. Whitey and Tom were in no hurry, but Whitey eased himself down into his block before Tom, and then Whitey looked back over his shoulder at his teammate. I don't know if he said anything, but Tom immediately took his mark and then everyone stood up and walked around in front of the blocks again. "Jesus, it's going to be dark before they run this thing," I said. "Calm down. It's like this in bigger track meets. He'll be fine." "Yeah, he might be fine but I'm going to have a coronary," I said. Bob put his hand on my shoulder and smiled. He didn't say anything else but he knew my nerves were showing and right after this race we'd begin slowly preparing for our final relay that would be run in about a half an hour. Whitey was easy to see and I waited patiently for him to go into action. I couldn't sit down, always being nervous about the open races, probably because the relay always followed. Maybe just because I wanted my guys to shine. Then, there was a false start. "They're never going to run this race," Bob said, dropping back down into his seat. "It will be dark before we get home." "We still have another relay, Bob," I reminded him. "I know. There's still the mile, the 4X400 relay, our relay. It's after one o'clock already." "Don't forget, we have our third jumps," I reminded him. "Don't remind me. Maybe the coach will forget," he said, perking up. "Coach never forgets," I lamented. "Yeah! I'd like to forget. I couldn't jump out of my own way to save my life, you either," Bob said, sounding depressed. "You're better at it than I am, Bob." "No, I'm not. You just scratch more is all. I'm not better than anyone at the long jump. The guy that rakes the pit could jump further than me. You too." "It's a foam rubber pit," I said. "The guy that makes the foam rubber can jump further than I can, okay? I'm a sprinter not a jumper." It was okay. We were sprinters and not jumpers, but when your team doesn't have enough guys, you fill in where you are needed. No one said I had to like it. More time passed while they were getting the runners back into the blocks. Butterflies were stirring in my stomach again. The starter walked onto the track to remind the runners, "Hey, don't you know that there are two Suitland guys at the top of the stands, waiting for you to run this damn race," I imagined him saying, or maybe he just told them to get with the program so he could start the race. This time everyone got down into the blocks rather quickly. The smoke finally appeared with the sound of the shot echoing even louder at the top of the bowl and it rang out through the trees. Bob and I both stood at the same instant. The race stayed even for a long time. As they swept over the halfway point I couldn't tell who was in the lead. Tom was in the third lane with Whitey in the fifth and they were neck and neck with three other guys as the other three began to fade. As they passed where we stood, two thirds of the race behind them, Whitey's kick became apparent as he started pulling out in front of Tom, a Randalstown runner, and one from Catonsville. He seemed to kick it into overdrive, with Tom just then edging in front of the other two, while he was trying to stay close to his teammate. Whitey accelerated across the line the clear winner by two full strides and one beautiful lean. He wouldn't need to wait to find out where he finished this time. Tom had started to fade in the last twenty yards and Randalstown and Dundalk were close, but Bob and I were racing down the front of the bleachers trying to get to our guys by then. The entire Suitland team had arrived on the scene by the time we got there. Tom was standing just to one side with both of his hands on his knees, looking quite exhausted. Remembering my previous slight, I raced up to him first this time. "Great race, Tom. Way to go," I said, not being sure he finished second or not, but he had. Tom looked up at me with his face devoid of any discernible expression and he shook his head like he didn't believe I said that. Well, I gave it the old college try and I dashed off to join the rest of the team. They were exuberant as they patted Whitey's back and took turns shaking his hand. I was one of the last to greet him as the celebration started to subside. "See what I told you, you had it going away. Great race. I mean you looked great running it. Man you just ate them up, Whitey." Whitey threw his arm around my shoulders, catching my neck in the crook of his elbow, bending my head forward to give me an Indian rub, using his knuckles to rub my scalp vigorously as we both laughed. "Yeah, you had it all figured out, Charles. All I had to do was run," he said calmly. The nervousness had gone and Whitey was relaxed and happy. Two first and a second was a respectable day, especially with a guy like Tom to contend with. Bob walked on the other side of Whitey and Tom came with us as we walked back to our seats. There was only one more race to worry about, but it was the one that gave us the most trouble. The sprinters had already made a good showing, so the 4X200 relay was less of a factor now that everything else had been won. Whitey continued taking the praise from his overjoyed teammates, relieved that he had fulfilled expectations. He had won his race and that was the most important thing to Whitey. It was a lot more fun because he took it all in stride. Whitey Sheldon was an unmitigated unassumingly nice guy and a winner to boot. Johnny Green may have been captain, but Whitey was the guy the team looked to for encouragement by virtue of his actions. That's how I saw him and no one depended on him more than I did. A Catonsville man leaned across the railing and shook Whitey's hand, offering him congratulations. He then offered his hand to Tom, who shook it reluctantly, because he'd only run second. We had swept the second of the two open sprint events and that was even more amazing than the first sweep. The Coach also claimed that it pulled us to within striking distance of Dundalk, while Catonsville had now slipped behind us in the points. We weren't fading as quickly. The team was jubilant and there was unanimous agreement that we had not embarrassed ourselves on this day. Even Tom cracked a smile while shaking hands. Suddenly, being number two to Whitey wasn't so bad. Guys recounted each finish for us and reminded us that we still had one more race to win. Yeah, from his mouth to God's ears, I thought. I wasn't anxious to hear the call come for the 4X200 relay. It was my best race but it wasn't our best race. I didn't want to spoil what we'd already done, mostly what Tom and Whitey had done, but Bob and I were part of it, even if only a minor part when compared to our two winning teammates. If we screwed up in the 4X200 relay, that's what we'd take home with us and that's what we'd remember. I didn't want to give up the feeling that victory gave me. I didn't want to risk another setback. If I had my way, we'd have just forgotten the next relay and gone home happy with what the team had done up until then. It was certainly our best day ever as a track team. Coach stood in front of the bleachers to finish the event in style. "Whitey, you set the school record. Tom also broke the old school record. Whitey set the county record for the open 200. Great race, gentlemen. Good job. Tom, hands down your best 200 ever. You're getting stronger." Tom beamed as guys agreed, slapping his back and shaking his hand again. We were learning how to get to Tom, although it was always a temporary thing, because he ended up alone once competition neared. "You've got another race ahead of you. Why don't you boys relax. Did you get your jumps in?" "Yes," we all yelled in unison," and then Bob and I leaned forward to look at Tom, who had remained silent. "A lot of good it does," Tom complained. "Coach, I've run three times and I've jumped once in both of my jumps already. We've got this next relay soon. Can't I skip the rest of my jumps just this once?" So much for tidings of comfort and joy coming from our coach. "No! You entered the event. You'll take your jumps like everyone else, Mr. Beaudreault. Are we clear on that?" "I just asked," Tom said, but the Coach was already on his way to somewhere else. "Can't a guy get any time to relax. Come on you two," Tom ordered. "If I got to you got to, too." No more Mr. Nice Guy. "We already took our second jumps," Whitey said firmly. "We'll take our third jump after the relay. You owe us one, sport." Tom went off muttering to himself and Bob jumped up and said he better go with him to make sure he got back for the relay, which was at least twenty-minutes away. The team spirit continued to run high with boys suddenly checking the results of each event, while trying to figure out the score. The joking and good humor seemed to go along with what we were doing. Everyone was filled with an unusual excitement and energy. It was an amazing change. I liked this team a lot more than the other teams I had gone to track meets with before, but it had changed in some mysterious way. I had changed. I leaned back on my gym bag studying the people in the full stadium. A Saturday track meet made a difference in attendance. There were hundreds of spectators filling the stands and more on the infield. I still found myself captivated by the classy colorful uniforms of our opponents. What I was feeling inside about our team's success had nothing to do with uniforms. I'm not saying I wouldn't have given my eye teeth just to try on a uniform like those, but I was feeling pretty good about our performance and the uniforms no longer had the importance they had earlier in the day. In the end it had less to do with uniforms and more to do with who it was filling them. We had held our own against these big, good looking teams, and appearance had nothing to do with that, but what I wouldn't give to move this track down to Suitland for all the track meets that came after this one. I wasn't sure what it took to get a track like this, but it was obvious we hadn't done it yet. I had gone into full relax and I didn't think anything could add to the goodwill of the day. It was almost perfect. As I surveyed our team Whitey's hand shot straight up in the air. In it was the sprint team's baton. I moved toward the first row where Whitey sat by the coach. Tom and Bob were just returning from the field event's venue, and they joined us as we stepped down onto the track. We were told that Mulligan had just set another school record on his third and final throw and he finished second behind Dundalk. Kirkpatrick had finished third, behind both Dundalk and Catonsville in the shot put. Both pieces of news added another four points to our pot and it was a welcome surprise happily received by their anxious teammates, who were just then busy huddling around their coach, who was adding up points again as the sprinters went off to their final race. There had never been this kind of interest before. Usually by this time in a track meet everyone was off figuring out new ways of acting like clowns and jerks. Today they were all at Coach's elbow, waiting to find out where we stood. A cheer went up as Mulligan appeared at the top of the bowl just above the team at the nearest exit. Everyone one mobbed him as he descended the stairs. I turned toward the racket that was coming from our area to see what was going on. "Come on, Charles. Get your mind on your business. We'll have plenty of time to see Mulligan later," Whitey said, coming back for me as I lagged behind, not wanting to miss anything. We did some stretching exercises. Usually by this time of day we were very quiet and there was little emotion left in our team or us. It was weird when even a second place finish got you the gratitude of the team. I tried to get my mind on what I was doing. I hoped we didn't screw up, looking around at my three silent teammates. "Please don't let us screw up," I said to myself. "Please don't let me be the one to screw up," I added. As we jogged through our handoff practice runners stopped to watch our position changes in a routine that carried us from one goal post to the other. How weird was that? Why were they watching us? We weren't going to steal anything. There were collisions with unsuspecting spectators that were now being allowed to cross the infield. We decided we'd had enough before one of us got injured. It was an easy and relaxing warm-up. The 4X200 relay team was now ready for action and there was nothing to do but wait. With the sun directly overhead and the crowd moving freely around the stadium, we picked a spot outside of turn two to lounge on the grass well out of the way as we waited for the call. The longer we waited the more the butterflies flew. Several of the Catonsville sprinters came across the track to chat. They offered congratulations not to just Whitey and Tom but to the four of us. They looked old to me, like Johnny looked old. We had never gotten any attention before. While the attention could have been an ego boost, it did make the upcoming race more worrisome to me. People were expecting us to do well, and we could do pretty bad when we worked at it. Winning was a trip on your mind. I despised losing, loved winning, and I hated waiting, because of what got in your head while you did it. When I looked around, once we were along again, we were all facing in different directions with our feet toward the middle of a lopsided circle. Tom was stretching, Whitey lay on his back with his eyes closed. Bob chewed on a piece of grass as he lay there looking up at a blank scoreboard that loomed above that section of the field. How many days would we get like this one? Todd jogged past and nodded as he warmed up for the mile. The speaker over our head got us moving. "4X200 relay teams report for lane assignments." The announcement brought us back to the present. "4X200 relay teams report for lane assignment. This is your first call." "It's time," Whitey said, springing up and putting on his running shirt. We waded through the crowd, following Whitey to the scorer's table where he reached into the container that was held up for him to take a coin with a number one through eight on it. He tossed the coin back on the table and held up three fingers before he turned around to face us. "Okay," Tom said, not convinced. "Okay. That's fine. I can do this. Three is my lucky number. We're okay." We approached the middle of the track where the race would start. Coach Becker was waiting for us to arrive. "You've got to beat Dundalk and Catonsville. Whatever you do, keep them behind you. That's the competition here on out." That was it. We stood together separately. Whitey looked across the field at where I'd next see him. Bob shook my hand as Tom tied his shoe. "Don't screw up," Tom blurted out loud and clear. I felt like slugging him, but Bob had another idea. Bob came to attention, turning to look down at him. "He's talking to himself," Bob said. "He's not even talking to us." "What did you say?" Bob said, looking down at Tom. "What?" Tom asked, standing up, after retying his shoes the second time. "You said don't screw up," Bob said clearly. "I did? No I didn't," Tom said, looking disturbed by Bob. "See you in a few seconds," Bob said, and he shook Tom's hand. "You, too," he said to me. "Bring it to me, Charles. This is our race," Whitey said, and he started to walk with Bob toward the other side of the track, leaving me feeling awkward for some reason. "Hey!" Whitey yelled as he turned around and walked backward. "See you on the other side. You bring me the baton and I'll do the rest." "Sure thing, Whitey. I'll do it," I said, feeling like our ritual was now completed. I was ready to run. When I turned around Tom was gone. When I got to the starting line, he was sitting on the ground with his nose on his knee and his legs straight out in front of him. He simply bounced gently, almost bent in half. He seemed pretty oblivious to all the runners moving around him. My compulsion to wish him well was overpowered by the thought I should let him prepare without interruption. Tom continued his stretching until the call came from the speakers, "Runners to your mark." Once more Tom dallied at the rear of his block as the rest of the runners dutifully obeyed the order. As a two time winner that day he was not challenged but I wanted to grab him and tell him I wanted to get the damn show on the road. He might not have been aggravating anyone else, but he was driving me nuts. My nerves were all starting to unravel and finally he moved in front of his block and began to settle in, and then immediately jumped up, pointing at the starting block and demanding relief. Give me a break. All the other runners stood up and stared at Tom's block as though that was the problem before they were milling around and starting their preparations over. Now I knew what was going on all those times I was waiting for the start of the 4X100. The starter came to the block and kicked it and then banged on it with his hands before shaking it, unable to decide what was wrong. Tom stood solemnly behind the block, carefully scrutinizing every detail of the operation. Another man rushed onto the track with an extra block. He installed it in the objectionable block's place. Tom moved in front of it and tried it out. He stood back up and nodded his approval. The officials scurried back off the track. I was sure that Bob and Whitey were just then looking in our direction, wondering what was taking so long. "Runners take your mark," finally was called. Yes, please. I watched Tom walk behind his block just a couple of yards from where I stood, waiting, and then he looked at me and said, "Charles." Here it comes, I thought. The jerk is going to tell me not to screw up. I was offended after the day we had. I looked him square in the eye, and he winked at me and smiled like he had everything under control. That's all. He just winked and then started to settle down into the block just like everyone else. "Take your mark." The starter was fast. Tom knew he was fast. He'd started three races and he had his timing down perfect by his fourth start, and he was coming out of the block almost as soon as he went to his set position. He didn't wait for the gun, but his timing was exact and the shot fired as he lurched forward, coming out of the blocks first. He'd won the battle and it was amazing to me. He ran toward the first turn and I stood on the track so I could see him until he was gone. A flurry of activity took place behind me, as the blocks were uninstalled in preparation for the second handoff. I didn't count for the 4X200 relay because I couldn't concentrate that long. It would be well over thirty seconds before Bob came off the turn and my mind raced too fast to count to thirty. I started to jump up and down and tried to look through the people to see the handoff on the far side of the track but it was all left up to my imagination. I stood waiting in the first lane, praying I wouldn't need to move to the outside. The other runners stood just to my right, as we all waited to see which runner came off the fourth turn first, except for the Catonsville runner. He stood very close to me in the first lane and he wasn't there to shake my hand, and he wasn't ready to concede the first lane to Suitland quite yet. My focus was never as keen in this race. There were decisions to be made. The time frame was different. There was always the chance that several runners would arrive for the handoff at the same time and that required you to pick a lane early enough so that your teammate could find you and get you the baton. Guys that kept changing lanes as the race unfolded, ended up screwing up. By claiming the first lane I was risking the handoff if Bob couldn't find me, but I was ready, and if Bob didn't come off the turn first, I'd deal with it then. The first sign I had that I didn't have to move was the ballooning red shorts rushing off the curve and onto the front straightaway. Bob was leading and running smoothly, and sure enough, the Catonsville man was a few steps behind and Dundalk was moving out to pass him. The Catonsville man sharing the first lane with me, released, backing into the second lane, where he and the Dundalk man jockeyed for position as their guys ran side by side behind Bob a few yards. I bent and turned my head to watch him coming at me. He was running strong. Everything must have gone well on the other side of the track. With the start Tom got I wasn't surprised. I reminded myself not to get so upset at his antics from now on. So much could go wrong, and often did for us, but it hadn't gone wrong so far. Please don't let me be the one to screw up. Bob seemed fresh as he came toward me. I still waited one extra step to be sure I didn't leave too soon. He was on me before I reached half way through the zone but he pulled up just enough to hit me with the baton as soon as my hand shot back. I smiled, knowing the only thing left was to hand it to Whitey, and that prospect didn't trouble me in the least. There was nothing for me to do but run like the wind. I tore off into the final part of the straightaway and drove hard into the turn, listening for some telltale sound that might announce that someone was closing in and ready to blow past me, but I couldn't tell anything. I had been told early on never to look back to check where the other runners are and so I didn't, but I sure wanted to know where they were. Not hearing them was way worse than hearing them. I was confident with Whitey running the final leg, we were in good shape as long as I got him the baton. Nothing changed as I came off the second turn onto the backstretch. There was no one challenging me that I could sense. I still tried to run faster, kick harder, and bring all my power to bear. Whitey stood in the first lane, looking back and watching me come toward him. He, too, seemed to wait an unusually long time as I closed in on him. He smiled just before he took off in a flurry and I was almost immediately on top of him as he dropped his right hand back. I hit it with the baton, and he was gone. I stepped off the track because other guys would want to use the first lane now that we were done with it. The Catonsville guy was maybe ten yards behind me and their handoff wasn't as crisp as ours and Dundalk was right on their heels. Another surge of adrenaline ran through me. I had to get to the finish line and took off across the middle of the infield. There were tons of people still roaming around and I ran into most of them, hearing the cheer go up as I got within ten feet of the track. I got there in time to see Catonsville finish just ahead of Dundalk, and a little way up the track Whitey was being rushed as Bob and Tom stood next to him beaming. There was no jumping up and down. Victory was more internalized this time out. My need to hurry vanished as the rest of the team came to give their congratulations. I felt very very good about what I had done. It had been a good day for Suitland's sprinters. We had come into our own. We had to go a long way to do it. We all shook hands once I got to the victory celebration. Tom was all smiles, Bob looked relieved, Whitey confident, and I was glad I didn't screw up. I would always know I was a year behind them and never quite their equal, even in victory, but that didn't mean I didn't love it. It certainly was better than anything else I'd ever done. There had never been a day like this day in my life, and we basked in full sunshine once we got back into the bleachers. The shirts came off and we leaned back to soak it all in. It was good to be done for the day so we could just relax. "Gentlemen," Coach Becker said as we sat together, and even he was more composed. "Excellent time. Another school and county record. You realize that you've scored all the points it was possible for you to score here today. No sprinters can ever do better than what you've done here and you set records in every event you ran. You've put it all together, gentlemen. It makes a fine package. I'm proud of all of you. The entire team has given me one hundred and ten percent today, and you guys gave me a sweep in the sprints. Awesome! A fine day for sure." It grew very quiet after the coach went back to taking times and keeping track of each event. I was lost in my own world, thinking about the rest of the weekend. No one had much to say but we sat there together for a few minutes. None of us had any place to go, or so we thought. Just then we were enjoying the results of our productive day, some Catonsville guys came over to say "Congratulations." It was becoming a habit. Their politeness still surprised us but I no longer doubted their sincerity. They respected us and that was something new for a team that at times didn't respect itself. "Who are these guys?" Tom said, smiling broadly. "They're serious, aren't they." Bob couldn't pass up a change like this. "Doesn't hurt people to be nice, Tom," he said in a prickly way. "No, it doesn't. I'm just not used to nice people," Tom said. "I take that as a personal insult, Mr. Beaudreault," Whitey said, leaning forward to see Tom's face. "Sometimes you get what you give." "I run track to win not to be nice," Tom said, sounding sure of it. It took us a few more minutes of relaxation before getting shot down from our euphoria. This was a perfect place to end a track meet for these four sprinters, but that wasn't all we were, and the coach had other ideas. "Gentlemen, I want you to take all of your jumps. There's only another half hour and we'll be done here. Let's give it our best shot." "Coach!" Tom objected. "I've run four events today. I'm beat. Let me pass on more jumps today. I can't do anything. I'm shot. Out of gas. Give me a break." "You qualified and you are going to take your jumps. All of you. We've been through this before, Tom. This is a team and each of us does all he can for the team. You aren't jumping for glory here. You are doing this to keep us respectable. You know we give away two events in every track meet before we even get off the bus and you know we can't afford to give away any more events. "All right. All right. I'm gone already," Tom said, standing up and snatching his shirt off the concrete. "You guys come on. You aren't getting out of taking your jumps. We aren't doing this for glory, you know." Tom jerked a thumb at us displaying some of his usual disagreeable side. Whitey gave him a long look before getting up. Bob and I were ready to head for the pits. We were no more pleased than he was about our prospects. We just didn't verbalize our feelings as well as he did. After the high from our victories, it was hard to face the mediocrity of our jumps. Whitey never complained. He took his jumps and often laughed at the ineffectual results. Tom was the only real hope we had of scoring anything. Bob and I only did it because we were told to do it. We sat by the runway and cheered each other on. If we had to be there we might as well make the most of it. On his third and final jump in the triple-jump, Tom caught the board at full speed and got off one of his better efforts. We stood around the scorer's elbow until he gave us the results once the final call for jumps came and passed. Tom finished third, which earned him one point. Bob and I joked about him scoring an entire point, but Tom failed to find the humor in it. We also thought ragging on him about his point was the proper thing to do. We took a lot of grief from him. Tom quickly reminded us that the sum total of our score in the jumps was zero and that took some of the humor out of it for us. Whitey stayed out of it as he mostly always did. As sprinters we had scored twenty-six points in four events. As jumpers four of us scored a single point in two events. It was one more reason to hate the jumps. We had to go up against guys who trained to be jumpers and we got our one half hour a week in the pits at the end of practice the day before a track meet. Bob and I chased each other back to the team for the final time with our mood turning lighthearted once our day was done. The fooling around did bring my energy level up a bit. We got back just in time to interrupt the official scores being given for some of the field events that were now complete. Coach Becker got ticked because he was listening for scores he didn't have, and someone would ask him a question or they'd announce one of our guys and we'd all cheer. "We've done far better than we expected," Coach Becker was saying as the triple jump score was announced. The sprinters were all in his face telling him about Tom's point. We managed to make so much noise that he couldn't hear because of our cavorting. "Did Dundalk get any points in the triple? They must have," he said to no one after we'd cheered Tom's single point way too energetically. "They've won most of the field events," Coach Becker said ruefully, going over his unofficial scoring. "Did anyone from Dundalk finish in front of Tom?" Coach asked. "Well, the score is really close if my tally is correct. I need the results for all the field events. That's where they beat us." Coach talked and boys hung over his shoulder as he figured again the scores he had. At best it was incomplete because of the missing distance races and late results for the field events. "I need guys for the 4X400. Is there anyone who hasn't run or has enough left to give me a decent race? We need those points," Coach Becker begged, looking at Farrell and Gorely as the only two guys he had for a four-man race. He yelled again and James came running from high in the bleachers. "Come on fellows. Who hasn't run?" "I'll run it, Coach," Todd said. "You can't run. You just finished your mile." "I can do it," Todd assured him. "No you can't," Coach Becker closed the argument. "Tom!" "No way," Tom said incredulous that he'd be asked. "Just kidding. Calm down. Okay, someone step up to the plate here. We can't give away another event." "Coach!" Johnny said. "My name is on that relay." For some reason he'd marked Johnny's name out and that was the team. Everyone finally relaxed as the final call came for the final event, and Suitland had a team to enter, although it was a tired team to be sure. We all left for the top of the bleachers so we could see the entire track. The infield was starting to clear out now that the track meet was winding down and it was easier to see. Coach played with his numbers, when he wasn't standing to watch the race's progress. Our 4X400 relay team took third, Catonsville finished second, and Dundalk won. It was the two teams Coach said we had to beat. He still played with the numbers with less enthusiasm for the results.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

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