Coach had spent my entire first season asking us, no begging us, to find him a guy who would high jump.

"Bring me a guy and I'll make him competitive," was the call that went out at least once a week, especially right after a track meet where we gave up the points for that event without making so much as an effort.

As we all gathered for the first practice of the new season he said the magic words I wanted to hear.

"Okay, Whitey, take the sprinters and workout in the halls. Stretching, warm up, and no sprinting yet. Mulligan, take the field men to the weight room and do exercise and stretching. Todd, take the distance men over the cross-country course."

Yes!

There would be no repeat of our outdoor endurance test of the previous season. In fact the sprinters wouldn't see the outdoors until well into March. We would run in the halls and the warmth and I'd become introduced to an old friend once again, shin splints.

"Oh yeah, if there is anyone here that thinks he can be a high jumper, please see me."

"I'll do it," Beaudreault Scherer announced as he stood up with his hand raised.

I knew of Beaudreault Scherer, though I didn't know him. He was tall and lean and anything but a fighting machine. I would describe Beaudreault as an electic clown who took little seriously. I tried not to have opinions of people I didn't know, but Beaudreault Scherer was one of those guys that invited opinion because his mischief was noticed and annoyed many.

Just the fact he volunteered to high jump seemed out of character for what I knew about him, so my opinion was probably flawed in some ways. While I didn't see Scherer as the answer to our high jumping woes, since he'd never high jumped before. He did volunteer, and I suppose that deserved some consideration, but never enough for me to change my opinion of him.

That first day could have best been described as organized chaos. I didn't care what we did as long as we stayed inside. Whitey mostly led an easy exercise for the sprinters who were interested. We mostly chatted and got reacquainted and accomplished little or nothing while doing it.

During a lull, I found myself drawn back to the main hallway outside the gym. It was lined with high windows and low heaters, giving me a view of the hostile outdoors without me needing to experience it. I was always drawn to those heaters that time of year. I often nodded off during team meetings as the hot air warmed me inside and out.

Usually it didn't take long to look out and see the conditions, but this time something got my attention before I could move on. It wasn't so much that it got my attention as I saw what was going on and so I bore witness to the events I'd be told about later that day. I certainly wasn't about to get any closer to the activity but I did wonder why anyone would voluntarily be out on that bitter cold day.

What I saw was Coach Becker and his new protégé and reputed "high jumper", Beaudreault Scherer, an odd couple to be sure. Scherer had on gray sweatpants with his red Suitland shorts pulled up over them. His pipe stem arms hung out of his gray sweatshirt with the arms mostly cut out of it so you could see the white T-shirt showing underneath. Coach Becker was neatly dressed in his sports coat and tie, his usual uniform, with the tie flapping in the stiff breeze.

I watched as they stood together talking, Scherer, being tall, was leaning his head down as Coach Becker spoke. Then they were fooling with the iron stands, which held the bar that marked the height the jumper was jumping.

They backed away and then Coach Becker took six exaggerated steps before throwing his leg up in a mock attempt at making the jump before aborting his motion and returning to Scherer who leaned his head down, arms folded in front of him, as he questioned what he had seen. This interaction continued as Coach Becker went through the motions several more times.

Beaudreault Scherer than stood back, stared at the bar, and he ran at it, through it, and after treading saw dust until he went out of the back of the pit, circling around to start over again. Coach Becker returned the bar to its place and the process was begun a new.

At first Scherer kept knocking the bar off the stands. He did this for ten or fifteen minutes, stopping for a breather and then after listening to Coach Becker's suggestion, he did it again, and again, and still again. After some time he actually made it over the bar without knocking it down. Then he didn't miss until Coach Becker raised the bar and then he went back to knocking it off the stands.

Then Scherer would jump, and jump, and jump, and it reminded me of Beaudreault and his starting block. The only difference was that Scherer was leaping into a pit filled with frozen and lumpy sawdust. For most ordinary boys this activity would have lost its allure immediately. Scherer wasn't an ordinary boy and I knew him even less than I thought.

As I stood there observing the goings on fifty or sixty yards away from the heaters that kept me nice and cozy, Beaudreault strolled up and stood beside me as I watched intently the goings on just beyond the fence fifty or sixty yards away.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Coach found a high jumper."

"That remains to be seen," Beaudreault said, squinting to see the event as it unfolded in front of us.

"I'll be," Beaudreault remarked. "Looks like he's actually found himself someone who can high jump?"

"Looks like," I answered. "That's got to be five six, you think?" I said, watching intently as I spoke. "He must have jumped somewhere before."

"Over five feet, I'd say. What's the school record, four foot six? Have we ever had a high jumper?"

"Yeah, right," I said, acknowledging a joke when I heard one.

Scherer jumped over and over again. Each time he was starting to succeed at a particular height, they moved the bar higher. Then, Scherer spent several jumps knocking the bar down again with it bouncing off on the grass or coming down on top of him or ending up wrapped between his long legs, but then he'd start making that height and they'd move the bar up again. Both Beaudreault and I stood quietly, watching the training session.

Whitey came toward us with the other sprinters in toe as they searched for the missing members of the team and he insisted we jog together before hitting the showers and the highway.

"What were you guys watching?" Whitey asked as we took the time to walk and talk between the short periods of jogging.

"Coach Becker found a high jumper," Beaudreault said.

"That skinny kid? Right!" Whitey said. "That'll be the day."

"For real. The guys jumping over five foot."

"Really?" Whitey said, no more than mildly interested in the facts.

"Really," Beaudreault said, and he said no more.

We mostly discussed the previous season as the newer guys brought up the rear, having no knowledge of that season.

"That leg going to hold out this year?" Whitey asked.

"It's fine. Haven't had any trouble since last summer. I've been working out regularly."

"Starting blocks?"

"Of course. No problem. I should be competitive."

"Should be? If the leg's okay you're in the catbird seat."

"You think so?" Beaudreault asked.

"Yep."

"You?"

"I'm right where I need to be. Gained a little weight during football. I'll be stronger… faster. I'm a year older. I'm ready."

He was ready. That was only a few words but I knew what they meant. When Whitey was ready, he'd be winning.

By four thirty we were ready to call it a day as the halls closed in on us. It would take a week for me to be back in shape. I'd be sore for three days and then I'd be ready to run, anytime someone mentioned it.

On the way to the showers I found myself standing at the windows watching. Scherer still stood and leaned in Coach's direction, holding his chin and listening intently as the instructions continued. Once again there was a series of jumps, these more consistent than the ones I had watched earlier. I already knew that Scherer was going to be on the team. He had too much persistence for an event he'd never participated in before. I was sure he had found something he liked and he was taking it seriously. A dollar to a donut I'd have bet against him right off. I'd have lost.

I had already showered and was taking my time dressing. I now had a driver's license and my father had turned over his work car to me, wanting another one and not wanting to be responsible for picking me up and dropping me off each day. One year of that had been enough and the new arrangement gave me incredible freedom, while also making me responsible for picking up and dropping off things for my parents.

I was still there when Scherer returned from the high jump pit. He was covered in a dark flaky substance that I knew was the way sawdust appeared after years of being subjected to the elements. Coach would always bring in a pickup truck full of sawdust at the beginning of a season. He'd use it to cover up the remnants from years past, but that hadn't been done as of yet and so Scherer was left to jump into a substance that appeared to have been rescued from a toxic waste dump, having taken on a dangerous industrial strength look.

By appearance it was obvious Scherer had gotten close to the substance over and over again. I had trouble not feeling sorry for him. I had to believe he was sore and worn out, and Beaudreault Scherer wasn't a guy who was easily worn out.

I remembered my first day from last year, equating his ordeal to it. My experience had shredded my already weak lungs while decimating otherwise strong legs by not realizing I had physical limitations and so I pushed myself beyond endurance on a particularly brutal day. Scherer had merely been thrown himself up in the air and landing in a frozen pit, over and over again. It was easy for me to see that this might do some damage to someone who had never practiced this event before.

I heard Don Kennerly ask him the question, "How'd you do?"

"Set the school record," Scherer claimed, and I was in doubt.

"What was the old record?" Don asked.

"Five six."

"What did you jump?"

"Five eight. He wouldn't let me go any higher. Said that was enough for one day."

"You ever jump before?"

"High jump? No," he claimed nonchalant.

I didn't want to believe a cut up like Scherer could walk on and become a school record holder all in one day. There were rules about that sort of thing and if there weren't, there should be. What I remember most about him wasn't his first day record but his voice. It was always loud and boisterous. Scherer was a throw back to the year before when everything was a joke and nothing was serious enough to take seriously for a small group of boys. The ringleaders of that attitude had all graduated. Scherer would take their place.

I thought back to my conversation with Mr. Q. late the year before, when he told me that everyone wasn't going to act to suit me. There was no doubt about it, because there were few people who pleased me, but a few rubbed me the wrong from the start and Scherer fell into that category.

I finished dressing and left the locker room as some of the distance men were returning from running outside. Merrill still didn't wear sweat pants, although he had on a sweatshirt and a T-shirt under that. Most of our distance runners had returned to the team and there were new distance guys to back them up. They all seemed fine after their duel with the winter weather. Distance runners were a different breed.

Sprinters liked being pampered, comfortable, and left alone. We took instruction but not without query. We didn't like being uncomfortable or made to endure extremes. The differences were likely rooted in our races. The distance runners ran and ran and ran and kept on running. Sprinters saved themselves for one powerful explosion of energy. We gave all we had for the few seconds we performed and then we stepped back until it was time for the next explosion. We liked everything to be just the way we liked it to be and fussed when it wasn't. That's how it looked to me.

"Hey, Charles," Coach Becker said as I passed the door.

"Hi, Coach," I said and I stepped inside the office.

"Nice to see you back. We're going to have a good sprint team."

"Yes, sir. How'd he do?" I asked.

"He?" Coach asked with a smile, leaning forward, placing his forearms on the ink blotter that covered the desk.

"The high jumper. You guys were out there for a while."

"Oh, Beaudreault. It went fine. He set the school record. I had to make him come in. He wanted to keep jumping but it's getting chilly. He's a natural though."

It was not exactly music to my ears but I'd already resigned myself to Scherer's presence on the team.

I also realized that Coach Becker had done what he said he would do, although he never mentioned his triumph. His accomplishment hadn't been lost on me. Not because Scherer was a "natural," but because Coach Becker was a man of his word.

Coach Becker had told us, if you bring me a guy I can train, I'll make him competitive. Once he had the guy that was willing to high jump, he made him competitive in one lesson. I thought that another coach might have taken one look at Beaudreault Scherer, a stork in tennis shoes with an attitude, and cut him loose without giving him a look.

I had failed to appreciate Coach's enthusiasm and his dedication while he shaped his team so we could compete last season. The chore was far more impressive when I consider how little he had to work with. Our team wasn't even half the size of some of the better teams we faced. In his eyes the high jump was one of the keys for us. With Beaudreault Scherer jumping five foot eight, he could have scored points in most track meets the year before and it was only his first day. We gave away those points in every track meet my sophomore year but those days were done.

"You hear," Beaudreault asked as he came up the hall toward where I sat on the heaters, where I was contemplating our future as I delayed my departure to talk to my teammates as they left.

"School record," I said without enthusiasm. "Five foot eight."

"Yeah, who'd figure to look at the guy?"

"Ain't life grand?"

"Well, it's a good start. See you Charles," Beaudreault said, moving out into the cold without stopping to say more.

Beaudreault had changed. I'd never quite gotten him my first year. It was different now. The distance between us had closed remarkably. We'd never be bosom buddies but he was easier to be around. Maybe it was me that had changed and was easier to get along with. Maybe I wasn't so quick to pass judgement. I was a little bigger, a little faster, and a lot more confident in my ability to run with my guys. While I would never be in Beaudreault's category as a competitor, at least I could see myself on the same track with him now.

Losing had created a lot of friction and I could see winning created the harmony we shared. The previous season had ended before we could prove our consistency but I knew we couldn't go back to being the bickering boys who started the previous season together. We had learned that it took all four of us to win. All of the parts may not have been equal but they were essential.

Being a junior put me where my guys were when I first joined the team and that gave me some perspective to go on. No matter how fast I ran, I would never be able to catch up with them, but it was way easier being a junior with experience than it had been being a dense sophomore who didn't know which end was up. I'd survived and I was looking forward to the future we shared.

"Hey, Charles. How are the legs holding up?" Whitey asked, as I watched him come toward me in his red and white letterman's jacket.

He held a notebook and two text books that he held in front of him as he stopped in front of me.

"They're fine."

"Should be a good season. You hear about our high jumper?"

"Scherer," I said. "School record."

"Man I could kiss him. We won't be giving away so many points this year."

"Coach did what he said," I mentioned.

"Yeah, he did, didn't he? What are you waiting for? I saw you driving a few weeks ago. You need a ride?"

"No, it's early and I'm in no hurry."

"Oh! I guess I'll see you and Beaudreault," he said, pushing his butt against the door and turning as he moved out into the cold.

While I had grown, Whitey had gotten bigger, gaining ten pounds during football and it was all muscle. Whitey had filled the lane when he ran the previous season. He reminded me of a charging bull when I watched him run his open 200 races last season. Now, he was even more powerfully built and that was good news.

In street clothes Whitey didn't look much like a dominant runner. In his tank top running shirt he looked awesome. With a baton in his hand he seemed invincible, and to me he was.

"Hi Droter," I said, as Droter came up the hall.

"Charles," he said, sitting down next to me. "Good first day, huh?"

"Yeah, I'm glad to be back."

"I wasn't sure you'd be back. I had the impression last year that you really didn't want to be here."

"Maybe at first. Not at the end. I wanted to come back."

"Good. I'm glad you did. We've still got some work to do."

"I know."

"We're going to be better this year," he said, seeming to look off into the distance for a few seconds.

"I know."

"Good. I'll see you Droter."

Droter seemed taller. He was maybe five ten. He was the tallest one on our relay team but none of us were big by athletic standards. Droter had also gained a little weight but he didn't look bigger to me, only taller. He was lean and tightly defined but with no muscle mass that stood out.

Beaudreault looked the same to me. He wasn't distinctive once you got past the very blond hair and very pale skin, and of course his very fast starts. I felt lucky to be there with them and to be part of the same team. We did have work to do and I couldn't wait to get to it.

There was a difference from the season before. When we walked, the four of us walked together. We often lounged and chatted together. There were other sprinters who figured into the sprint team, but the four of us were a unit in some respects. You couldn't separate us or divide us. We were all part of the same thing and no one else was part of it with us. While Whitey and Beaudreault were the heart of the sprint team, Droter and I were the soul. Neither of us were as fast as either of them, but we were as fast as we needed to be.

While Whitey and Beaudreault remained the guys who would run all the open sprint events, they were also an integral part of the sprint relays. It took some time to get us there the year before but we did get there. We hadn't started out together but, once Beaudreault pulled the hamstring at Northwood, one thing became clear, it took all four of us to win.

I am supposing Beaudreault had mellowed some, or maybe I'd mellowed but being around him wasn't as difficult as it had been. Maybe we just got use to each other or maybe finishing well, winning, and having confidence in one another ability brought us closer. Whatever it was, it was different at the beginning of my junior year on Suitland's track team.

There was one thing that was strangely familiar. The guy I would dislike most was named Beaudreault and like Beaudreault, Beaudreault Scherer was remarkable in his event becoming one of our most consistent performers. There was only one part of the team more consistent than Beaudreault Scherer in the high jump and that was the Suitland sprinters, who participated in a quarter of the events.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

On to Chapter Three

Back to Chapter One

Chapter Index

Rick Beck Home Page

"On Winning Book Two" Copyright © 2024 OLYMPIA50. All rights reserved.
    This work may not be duplicated in any form (physical, electronic, audio, or otherwise) without the author's written permission. All applicable copyright laws apply. All individuals depicted are fictional with any resemblance to real persons being purely coincidental.

Home Page | Authors | Stories by the Writer Suggested Reading | Suggested Viewing | Links Privacy Policy | Terms of Service Send a Comment All Site Content © 2003 - 2024 Tarheel Writer unless otherwise noted Layout © 2003 - 2024 Tarheel Writer