The parking lot was flat, expansive, and asphalt with large poles spread throughout and there were large clusters of lights at the top. Similar poles circled the outside of the athletic stadium on three sides and the school sat on the forth side behind the backstretch. The entire complex was surround by a ten-foot high fence. In the parking lot outside the fence were several school buses spaced randomly around on the asphalt.

We disembarked from our bus and organized our equipment to carry it into the stadium. There was none of the enthusiasm we'd taken away from Catonsville. It wasn't much different than other track meets we'd attended. We were quiet and not sure of what to expect, but we were ready.

The stadium itself wasn't all that impressive. It was clean and well constructed, but after Catonsville, this was just a school parking lot with a set of bleachers erected to one side and a track surrounding a football field in front of that.

The track was in perfect condition and the sprint team immediately walked it together, once we'd ditched our gear in the far corner of the bleachers. Whitey and Tom chatted about this and that but Bob and I were relatively quiet as we walked behind them. The condition of the track resembled that of Northwestern. The black cinders were freshly sprayed with oil and the eight lanes were marked out neatly in lime.

Our mood was light but we knew we were running against fifteen teams and that was a big deal. Since we weren't seen as a threat to anyone, no one expected much from us. We hoped to sneak up on them and take them by surprise in the sprints, but our obscurity would cost us in the end. Montgomery County coaches paid little attention to anything that happened in Prince George's County because the competition among them was so keen. We were merely unimpressive teams they were forced to endure for a couple of the larger track meets each year.

Northwood Invitation was by invitation only but Montgomery County coaches were smart enough to know they wanted to get a look at all the competition before Bi-County and State, which followed a few weeks later. They didn't look too closely but if someone had a standout on their team, they wanted to know about him before the bigger meets were run.

By the time we finished walking the track numerous other teams had arrived. Northwood came out of the school and started exercises in the middle of the football field. People were arriving with children and coolers prepared for a long day. By the start of the track meet it was obvious there would be quite a crowd. The noise level was somewhat distracting and the teams were spread everywhere in the stands, I did notice that the infield was roped off in a way that made it difficult to walk through it. I made a mental note that I shouldn't try to run to the finish line after the relay races.

At either end of the football field were the pole vault and the high jump. We wouldn't have much call to be going to either. The long jump and triple jump were across the track in the middle of the first and second turns. Unfortunately, we would be visiting there but that was peripheral to what would be my early event.

I had no way of knowing what the competition for my guys would be like, but after the way they ran at Catonsville, I had no difficulty seeing them both win their respective events. I had no such optimism for the relays. That's not to say I didn't think we could win. I didn't have any feeling about it at all. There were just too many teams and not enough information for me to go on.

One thing that was easy to notice was the distance between teams and even spectators. People sat very close to us but there was no interaction. I'd never seen anyone that sat next to us that had come to root for us at any track meet, but at Catonsville there was a friendliness but there was no friendliness at Northwood. It's more the way I thought it should be, although I liked the way it was the week before.

The people became a distraction to me and there was no way to escape them. The team closed in on itself as more people took up residence next to us. Whitey came with the baton earlier than usual and suggested we head for open spaces. We went through our usual decompression and relaxation after running through the handoff a few times. It was difficult to move and we failed to accomplish our usual focus.

All of us were resigned to the way things were and we sat on the lawn and waited for the track meet to begin. Tom was unusually friendly and Whitey was unusually intense. Bob and I were content to wait for things to take shape.

Being introduced to the bigger track meets was an introduction to a more chaotic event and there wasn't much time for relaxation. As a sprint team we all stuck together and alert. Today, Tom would run the hundred, while Whitey would run the two hundred, because each runner had to qualify and then the fastest eight runners transferred to the finals and this made for a long morning of running that didn't settle anything and there were no points scored.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Northwood Invitational Track Meet. Thank you for coming today. This is the first call for the 100 men to report for heat assignments. Please report to the scorer's table at this time. This is first call for field events. Please report to your venue to make sure you are entered in your event. This is your first call. Thank you."

I was quick to accompany Tom until it was time for him to start in his qualifying heat of the hundred. He was quiet but not unfriendly. I didn't have anything to say either. I just wanted to move around and he didn't seem to notice that I was there. I shook his hand and made my way back to the team before his heat ran.

Northwood also had a straightaway two hundred but there was little interest in that yet. It wasn't scheduled to start until the afternoon since running heats took a lot of time. Most of the guys were content to lounge in the bleachers and it was a comfortable day that had little excitement early on.

Tom qualified easily for the finals of the hundred and we were immediately back together to prepare for the 4X100 relay that would be run a few minutes after the final heat in the hundred. We had been told that it would be run in heats as well, because of the number of teams entered. In the case of the relay it would be made up of a slow heat, or teams that didn't have very good times in the event, and the fast heat that was comprised of the better teams. I didn't know the delineation beyond that, but it would become only, too clear, too soon.

"4X100 relay teams report for assignments. This is your first call," the loud-speaker announced.

Whitey stood up to look for us but we were sitting right behind him and we started out of the stands behind him.

"Gentlemen," Coach Becker said solemnly, once he had returned from the coaches meeting. "After last week I couldn't wait to get you here to run against these schools. I was sure you could win, and if you didn't win, you'd furnish the best teams in the state with stiff competition," he said as though he'd failed us in some way.

"What's up Coach? We'll give 'em all we got. Don't worry about that," Whitey said, half in and half out of the bleachers as we piled up behind him and people flowed around us, coming and going.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen. I did my best but they refuse to recognize your Catonsville times. They'll consider them at a later date but because the times are from Baltimore County and not Prince George's County, they've got to receive official notification of the times before they will credit you. You're in the slow heat as a result."

"How's that? You said our time was close to the Bi-county record. You told us that," Whitey explained to our coach.

"I argued with them. Your Prince George's times simply aren't good enough for the fast heat."

"Damn!" Whitey said. "I know we can win this, Coach."

"I believe it, too, but we need to go by the rules. They can't take my word for it and they don't have the certified Catonsville times."

"We can win. We beat all those guys last week," I added to the argument.

"No competition, Charlie. All the fast teams will be in the fast heat. We'll be running against the slow teams. We'll win the heat in a walk but without the competition from the best teams, we can't match their times," Bob explained.

"You mean they suckered us," I complained.

"They suckered you," Coach said. "It's not fair but it's the way it is. We'll get them at Bi-County. I'll call Catonsville and make sure they certify your times in Montgomery and Prince George's. They'll get off easy today. Give it your best shot. You need a hot time to make sure they can't do this to us again. If you give me your best race you might beat out a couple of the slower teams in the fast heat, and then you'll be on record in this county. I know it doesn't seem fair after all the work you've done."

It was as though they had taken the wind out of our sails. There was no handoff practice. We parked on the lawn and stretched a little, considering the harm that had been done to us. It wasn't fair and I didn't like it. Tom's jaws set in a scowl that became a fixture. Whitey was elsewhere as he stretched, probably thinking of the open 200 race.

Coach Becker came out to huddle with us in the infield just before we went to get our lane selection, after they announced the second call. There was no longer any hurry.

"You boys are as fast as anyone here. I'd put money on you if I were a betting man. The difference is in the technique and the handoff. This is your best relay and your best shot at scoring points. Just remember you aren't running against the teams in your heat. You'll be running against the clock. You're running against time today. You'll win the heat going away. There's no one to push you. I want you to forget about the heat. Forget where the best teams are running. You've got to reach down and run this on heart and on guts so we don't have this problem again. You gave me all you had last week. You need to do it again today so you let them know you were here."

Coach Becker spoke with enthusiasm. I didn't know from heats. He always got one race from me. I knew I ran faster when someone chased me but I didn't know much more than that. He stood with us until we went to get our lane assignment.

We drew lane three and we were determined to make the best of it. Tom was more focused than usual but not the least bit happy. Whitey stayed quiet and Bob and I were the only ones to shake hands. There was nothing to say. We knew what we had to do.

In spite of the thousands of people I had little trouble concentrating, once I was in position. Bob came off the turn already in the lead by some ways. Our hand off went smoothly and I felt strong as I raced toward Whitey, having no clear picture of what we were doing because no one was close enough for me to hear. My handoff to Whitey was swift and it was like he was shot out of a cannon, disappearing in a flash. We were ten yards ahead of the second place team and our best man had the baton and was pulling away.

There was no competition and I had no desire to race to the finish line, because our race meant nothing to me. They'd taken away any chance we had of making a race of it. We'd won and lost all at the same time.

I took my time getting back to the finish line and none of my guys were around. They were just then assembling the fast heat. I didn't look at any of the teams but I saw Northwestern's guys as I passed. Coach Becker stopped me as I climbed haplessly back into the bleachers.

"Fine time, Charles. Very good race. Very nice."

And what did that mean? Nothing that meant anything.

I'm sure he would have said the same thing if we were lousy but we hadn't let it beat us down. There were more meets, or so I thought.

We stood next to the coach in the bleachers as the second heat was run. I couldn't tell anything about the race. We stood silent, knowing we were watching our heat run without us. I did notice that Northwestern taking third and those were the guys I wanted to beat so bad, not because I had anything against them, but because they did their best to humiliate us the first time I ever ran a relay race in a track meet.

We had watched the big boys run and we weren't one of them. Things can change a lot in a week. Last week we could do no wrong and this week we didn't even get a chance to prove what we could do. How frustrating was that?

Whitey and Tom helped Coach Becker study his watch, once the race was done. This was the first event to be scored and Coach said it was a good time that won the fast heat. Any thought that we had somehow pulled off a miracle was gone and Coach shrugged, not having anything to say.

"It's Murphy's Law," Bob said to me as we moved off to the edge of the bleachers where we could look out at something besides people.

"What's he got to do with it," I said.

"Murphy's Law: Anything that can go wrong will go wrong."

"Yeah, well, there ought to be a law against what they did to us," I said, feeling as though I was robbed of a little bit of the dignity I had found last week.

I figured we couldn't beat them if we didn't run them. Regardless of my feelings Coach and Whitey and then Tom joined them to discuss the different watches around the coach's neck.

"What?" I finally asked as they kept checking the times.

"Fourth," Tom said, looking even more distressed than before. "Fourth from the slow heat. What a waste."

"I didn't say fourth," Coach Becker argued. "Maybe it's fourth. My times aren't official. We've got to wait for the scorers to decide, but you finished ahead of some of the teams in the fast heat and that's what I asked you to do."

"4X200?" Whitey asked.

Coach Becker looked up out of the collection of watches that now sat on his clipboard, "Slow heat."

He didn't want to say it. I could tell by his voice. We'd been hit with all the bad news we needed but there was more, and the air that had filled us full of hope and encouragement, slowly seeped away.

"If you want to pull out, I'll put someone in your place," Coach said to Whitey.

"Someone in my place?" Whitey asked alarmed.

"It's run before the finals in the 200. That way you'll be fresher."

"I'm either the anchor or I'm not, Coach. I don't want to be fresh. I want to run. I want to beat these guys. That's our last chance."

"Right," Tom said. "If we get it right, we could do pretty good."

"So how long does it take for them to figure out where we finished?" I asked.

"It's done on times, Charlie," Whitey said. "They match the times from the first heat with the times from the second heat and then decide who finishes where."

"Oh," I said, starting to understand what heats did.

Whitey walked Tom down for the finals in the hundred and Bob and I raced up to the top of the bleachers to watch. I figured Tom would do fine without me down there to aggravate him. He was already aggravated enough.

"You think he has a chance?" I asked.

"Tom? He'll be right in there at the finish. Maybe a third if he runs his best race. There's a guy from Blair and one from BCC that are really fast."

"Third? If he can get third he can win," I reasoned.

"Get real, Charles. He's fast but he's running against all seniors. It's a tall order to beat older more experienced guys."

"Yeah, I guess. Maybe he'll win," I said as we stood atop the bleachers, searching for our guy. "He could win."

"Yeah, he could," Bob said, messing up my hair and laughing.

Being all the way at the end of the bleachers, well beyond the middle of the track, we couldn't see the finish line but we could see the start, which was back in a chute where no one could stand to block our view. The only problem was that it was difficult seeing who was who at that distance.

The shot went up before I was ready. We watched the start and by half way through the race we couldn't see the track for the spectators. It looked pretty close when we lost sight of Tom. We raced down to the bottom of the bleachers to greet our teammate upon his return, hoping for the best. It would be impossible to find him in the mob at the finish line.

Nnobody came. Coach had disappeared by the time we reached the team, after walking around all the people in our way. We went down onto the track to look for Tom so we could find out if he won. There were lots of guys in track uniforms roaming around near the finished line, but none of them were ours. Whitey, Johnny, no one was around and there was no Tom.

"That's weird," Bob said. "Where'd they all go."

Bob and I looked at each other, puzzled. We looked for Coach Becker with the rest of the coaches. No Coach there either.

"Hey, James, where's everybody at?" Bob asked as he came jogging toward us on the track.

"Tom's down," he said. "I need to get the medical kit."

As the competitors and their teammates cleared the track at the finish line, we could see a circle formed in the middle of the track just beyond the half way mark in the hundred. It would have been near the lane Tom was running in on the track. I could see Johnny's and Whitey's backs turn in our direction.

Bob and I ran up the track.

As we approached someone said, "Suitland" and the officials cleared a path and in the center of the crowd we found Tom Beaudreault lying flat on his back with his right knee bent and his right foot flat on the ground as the leg rocked back and forth. His left leg was extended out straight in front of him as Coach Becker examined it. Both of Tom's hands covered his face and he made no sound. He said nothing and I thought that the motion of the right leg spoke of his pain as he was being examined.

It was over that fast. We'd already been given the short end of the stick in our first race, and now this. My stomach was going to give me trouble. It wasn't the usual butterflies, because I didn't expect to run again without Tom. The Coach had already been thinking of taking Whitey out of the 4X200 and that seemed even more likely to me now.

I wanted to do something for my teammate but usually the best thing I could do for Tom was leave him alone, and so I kept my distance and watched, wondering if Murphy was behind it all.

Pulled hamstrings are a runner's curse. There is no reprieve and no next week in a season that is two months long. It takes twice that to get back to where you can walk without a limp, and then another three months to rehabilitate it back to full strength.

Bob and I stood together as Coach Becker agonized over his fallen runner while Whitey and Johnny helped to carry him to our place in the bleachers. Once he was placed in the front row so his injured leg could be propped up on the railing in front of him, the Northwood trainer came over to look at the leg before Coach Becker wrapped it to offer it some support and protect it from further injury.

Tom stared blankly off toward the infield looking like he'd lost his last friend, or maybe like someone had just shot his dog. There was no complaint, and no mention of pain, just the longest face I'd ever seen. I felt sad but there was nothing anyone could do. He knew what it meant and it's not how he saw his season ending.

The day had started off bad and it went downhill fast. I didn't care if I ran again or not. The entire team stood around without any real purpose. We'd left Catonsville with such high hopes and there was none left.

Just as the first Northwood man was agreeing that it was a pulled hamstring and there was nothing he could do, another coach from Northwood showed up at the railing below where Tom's injured leg rested. He handed something to Coach Becker and said, "Sorry about your boy and about the mix up. Rules are rules, you know," he said, casting a sad eye at Tom before he turned away.

"What's that about," Whitey asked, and Coach handed him the boxes he held in one hand.

"It's your medals. My guess is you finished third. That's the time I had but it wasn't official. I didn't want to get your hopes up."

"We finished third," Whitey said, popping the top off the first box and looking into it at a bronze medal hung from a black and red ribbon, Northwood's school colors.

"We could have beat those guys," Tom said solemnly to no one, never looking at the medal.

"We could have beat them," Whitey said as though it was a curse and then came the promise. "We'll get them next year."

There would be no next week for Tom. Immediately Coach pulled Whitey out of the 4X200 relay. No point in risking his legs on a race that didn't mean anything now. I was pulled out of the 4X200 and put in the Medley relay and the tone of the day was set.

The medley was a unique relay, only run a few times a season. It was the 100, 200, 400, and 800. Johnny started, handing off to me, and I handed off to Paul Gorely, and he handed off to Mike Todd. It was the same three guys who passed me the first day of practice and encouraged me to go on. At Northwood we became a team and I thought that was strange. We finished fifth and scored one point. Whitey finished fifth and scored a point in the 200. The 4X100 relay team had finished third, scoring five points, and that was our day. We would only score those seven points, but the team we beat for the bronze medal was Northwestern.

How cool was that?

Tom asked to go to the bus as clouds darkened the Montgomery County skies and a chill came over the stadium. The day turned cool with a gusty breeze forcing us into our sweats before noon.

Whitey and Bob carried Tom and I carried his sweats and the medal he'd so far refused to take. First Whitey and then Coach Becker had tried to give it to him but he simply wasn't interested in it.

It was a struggle getting him up the stairs, not so much for me, because I just watched as Whitey and Bob tried different ways of getting Tom up the steps. The first two attempts ended with all three of them lying in the floor of the bus. The first time Tom was complaining and telling them to watch it. By the second attempt they were all laughing at the Keystone Cops act that was funny to watch, but once they regained their composure, they sat Tom down in the front seat on the right of the bus, so he could use the railing to support his damaged leg.

Whitey and Bob stood for a second but no one said anything and they started off the bus as I sat in the driver's seat, still watching. When I started off the bus, I realized I was still holding the medal. I went back up to the next to last step, reaching over the railing, being careful not to jostle his leg, and handing him the box before starting down the steps again. I decided to turn to see if he was okay, and he was staring down into the box with tears running down his cheeks. It was a hard place to be and it was a hard way to end a season for all of us, but it was particularly hard on Tom.

We had won the only medals that Suitland would take home that day. They seemed something like records to me.

Whitey took a fifth in the two hundred.

There wasn't much to say and so no one said it.

The mood of the team never recovered after Tom was hurt. While we had managed to make a few waves during my first track season, we had settled back into obscurity by season's end with all our promise unrealized and the future uncertain.

What I did know was, I didn't want to quit the team and I wanted another shot next season.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

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