I remembered Northwestern's entry as a unit the season before. It was almost disappointing there was no such display this time. They literally filtered out of the school in small groups, warmed up in small groups, leaving out the intimidation factor and bravado. I didn't know why the change and I couldn't ask without revealing I had been intimidated by it. In short Northwestern had changed and their loud exercises in unison with all the boys calling cadence in front of the visiting teams was left out.

I was starting to settle down when Whitey held up the baton. Beaudreault, Droter, and I were immediately on our feet, following him out of the bleachers and into the infield. Nothing needed to be said.

This was it. This was what we had come to find out. It wouldn't take long for us to know where we stood in relationship to the other teams and to where we stood this time last season. Our race came first and it would unfold fast and then, we'd know.

The 4x100 was our best relay and while we all thought we were good, it took more than thoughts to get you across the finish line because of the unpredictability of the baton we were charged to carry and keep. We'd seen our share of adversity with that little aluminum cylinder and we could only hope we'd learned to avoid it. We'd also seen all these teams before. We'd beaten them all before, if not head to head, by virtue of our times, but none of it meant anything if we didn't beat them today.

I immediately felt electric. I looked into the noonday sky as I stepped down out of the stands, bringing up the rear, and not so excited that I couldn't enjoy the beautiful day. It was March and March could be bitter and unfriendly, but it had given up its bite and the wicked winter winds had given way to pleasant warm breezes.

Droter waited just on the inside of the curb, as I looked both ways before crossing the track between the hurdles that were being readied for the first relay race of the meet. Whitey and Beaudreault walked together in long easy strides. The ten pounds of muscle that Whitey had added to his already impressive frame made Beaudreault look smaller, almost sknny, but he would always look a little like a dough boy to me. Some images are difficult to lose.

"You okay?" Droter asked as he waited for me.

"Fine. You?"

"Nervous!"

"Yeah, me too," I said as Whitey stopped almost dead center on the football field. He waited with Beaudreault for our arrival.

"Okay," Whitey said. "We all know what to do. Let's do it."

"Yeah," came a unified reply as I nervously looked around..

We went through the motions after a little stretching exercise. We took our complimentary two trips up and back between the goalposts. Whitey did some sit-ups and pushups as the rest of us sat on the cool grass, letting our muscles rest. Beaudreault took to stretching after a time. He seemed to have a different exercise for every muscle in each leg. He said nothing and didn't go beyond himself. He had always been quiet, difficult to know. I wasn't sure if he ran because he loved to run or if he only ran to win. It was not the time to disrupt him with one of my stupid questions.

Droter leaned back on his elbows with a pristine green blade of grass between his teeth, surveying the infield. Droter had dark hair and eyes and was quite a contrast to his three blond and blue eyed teammates. He had a perpetual tan and carried no bulk. He was deceptively fast and had the long lean muscles to propel him.

Whitey stood first and did some more stretching. I watched as the speakers announced the final call for the high hurdles and the first call for our race.

"I'll go get our lane assignment," Whitey said, stretching one last time before releasing and walking toward the scorer's table. We stayed behind and watched him go.

This was it.

The practices were behind us and it was time to put our speed on the track. We were all bigger, stronger, older, and we were experienced with the race and each other. We were confident and we were ready. I just hoped I didn't screw up. I detected no doubts in my teammates and that's when I remembered every one of our screw-ups in an instant and flinched at my total recall.

I had no sense that we were the same boys that could find a way to mess up almost every race we ran. We were all running different races back then. We'd learned to run together.

Whatever it took to learn your craft, we'd been there and done that. We were the guys who won at Catonsville and we had left our mark on the Northwood Invitational, not by winning, but by finishing third after they relegated us to the slow heat where we were supposed to fade away without getting our shot at the big boys.

That race had defined us. None of us talked about it but we didn't need to talk. It had happened to all of us and we all felt the same way about it. We knew we had something to prove and my sense was that we were going to prove it. When we showed up at Northwood this year, there would be no doubt which heat we would be in. We had been slighted and we had not forgotten.

We needed to run our best race against a Northwestern team that had beaten us every time we faced them last year, except in that 4x100 race at Northwood. Northwestern had finished third in the fast heat that day. While we hadn't run against them head to head, we had taken their bronze medals from them, and I was certain they remembered.

Whitey held up five fingers and my heart sunk a little. It wasn't a good draw.

Beaudreault shook his head with exasperation and his face showed his disappointment.

"It's okay," Beaudreault said reassuringly as Whitey came up. "We'll be okay. I can run from there. You guys just have to give it everything you've got."

Lane five put us out ahead of almost all the other teams on the start. Beaudreault liked having everyone in front of him. It drew him out and it drew out his best races. This way he had to run not knowing where most of the teams were.

That was all there was to say. We all walked together toward the starting line as they were furiously pulling hurdles off the track. We shook hands and Whitey and I walked into the infield toward our spots. Droter walked on the curbing up toward the first turn, where Beaudreault would meet him.

I looked back at Beaudreault and he was stretching again. My butterflies were different than before. They didn't fly far and seemed to stay clustered in one area in my stomach. I tried to chase them away by telling myself we were going to do fine but they persisted, and suddenly I wasn't so sure.

"Okay, Charles, get me the baton and I'll do the rest," Whitey said, confidence in his voice and determination on his face.

"As good as done," I said, with less determination in my words.

I stood there as Whitey walked to his position between the third and fourth turn. He didn't turn around. The determination was also in his step. He looked like a guy who knew where he was going. Would we pick up where we left off before Beaudreault's pulled hamstring or would we fall back into the bad habits that made every race a crapshoot last season.

I took my time heading for my position. The sun peaked through from behind a cloud and the warmth felt good.

As I stepped over the curb and onto the soft bed of cinders, my intensity and focus grabbed me. I turned to look over my shoulder at where Droter would first appear. I looked straight ahead to where I'd first see Whitey. The butterflies left me there as I breathed deep and bounced up onto my toes, feeling my spikes dig into the lush bed of cinders I envied for a second. I became aware of the smell of the track, the grass, the too much Atomic Balm and too little deodorant I'd used earlier that day. The smell of the lime that was used to mark the lanes drifted past my nose and I was ready and I opened my eyes to check only my lane.

"Okay," I said to myself. "Okay!"

I continued bouncing, eyes closing, running races in my mind. It would be fine. I knew what I had to do. Let's go. Let's go. Let's go.

The shot brought me back to the track. My count was up to seven before I turned to look at the turn. If everything went right I'd see Droter about twelve or thirteen. At twelve the butterflies came back. Where was he, but then he was there, charging off the turn first. The guys inside of our lane would all make up yards in the next turn, so I wasn't sure of our position. The stagger simply threw one more variable into the mix.

I marked my spot and was sure Droter was running as fast as I'd ever seen him run. I moved the spot so I would start a step sooner. In a flurry of activity I took off, thrusting my hand back after only three steps, feeling him too close to me, I thrust my hand back for the baton. Closing my eyes as I ran as fast as I could run and I waited at the same time.

"Please let it be there," I prayed, uncertain.

... But it was there.

I felt it as he slapped the baton between my forefinger and thumb and closed my hand around it, galloping away from him.

Energy surged through my body and my muscles all worked in unison to get the most power into my legs. My spikes dug into the rich layer of cinders and as I got up to top speed, I found myself churning into the turn where I saw Whitey for the first time.

He was expression, staring back over his shoulder as I came at him. He gave me no clue about were we were, except I still couldn't see another runner, although I could hear all of them.

I looked into the wide-open blue eyes that stayed trained on me, and then he turned his head and took off. It always left me in fear that he would run away from me and I might not be able to catch him and he'd leave the zone without the baton, but he never did, and I knew he wouldn't this time. Just as he was crossing the halfway line in the handoff zone, he dropped his hand as his speed matched mine for only an instant and I eased the baton up between Whitey's waiting fingers. He immediately turned on the afterburners and at the same time showered me with cinders as he accelerated away with arms and legs bulging with power. I smiled as one, two, three, four, five, teams passed me before I made a hard left turn and dashed into the infield, almost falling down when I ran into one of the field men who picked that instant to walk in front of me. I bounced off the broad shouldered participant and was on the way to the turf when he grabbed my arm to steer me back onto my feet. We both said, "Sorry," and went on our way, me a bit faster than he.

I could never get back to the finish line before Whitey arrived, though I often tried. I became aware of the cheers and applause and assumed the race was ending right then. I stepped onto the track a few seconds later, after coaches closing in on their runners with their stopwatches held out to tell them the tale of their time.

Whitey, Beaudreault, and Droter were already doing a little celebration dance. Before I got to them the rest of the team streamed out of the bleachers to congratulate the victors. A barrier of crisp colorful uniforms stood between me and my guys, creating what seemed like an immovable wall, but as with Moses and the Red Sea, my teammates parted to admit only me to the center of the celebration.

It was a clean win. I was told Whitey finished five yards ahead of the second runner. The other teams had immediately cleared the track, leaving it to the red and white of Suitland, as we did a ahppy dance, moving back into the bleachers.

I laughed out of relief and Droter was all smiles as Whitey and Beaudreault enjoyed the win. They didn't get to shine alone in the first track meet but we had all shinned together.

"Good job, gentlemen," Coach Becker said, climbing up into the bleachers. "Oh yes, that county record you set last season? That record doesn't exist any longer."

"Yes," Whitey said loudly.

"You just crushed it. Great race."

"All right!" Whitey said, slapping Beaudreault on the back as Droter and I shook hands.

We were all smiles. The season was on and we had run our best race ever right out of the block. The unknowns were now known and we were running well together. I'd never felt like I belonged anywhere before, but I belonged here, with them, and I felt like I was part of something good.

Other events went well. Whitey threw the shot. A number of guys joined Scherer in the high jump and Ronnie Powell uncorked a school record in the long jump. It was going well for us in ways we hadn't expected. We had a larger team than the previous year when we had trouble fielding all but the running events and finished next to last.

The new guys on our team gave us depth and in most cases quality performances. They weren't merely warm bodies filling up the pretty new uniforms; each fit like a building block into their own spot on the team.

Being the only sophomore that stuck with the squad the previous year gave me a unique perspective, and no one else, except Coach Becker, would ever have any idea of what it looked like to me. I couldn't talk with my classmates about the things we'd experienced, because they couldn't relate to the struggle or the embarrassment and humiliation that came from starting at the bottom of the barrel. We had no depth and not much talent. We wore torn and tattered uniforms and got no respect.

It had altered us all but the new guys had no idea of it. So, in my junior year there were two teams running track at Suitland. One team had struggled to pick themselves up off the bottom and the other team had come along to join up after we'd attained respectability. The new guys did strengthen us in all the right places and we now had the opportunity to stay respectable.

The 4X200 was twice as far as the 4x100 and that extra ten seconds meant there was more time to worry. It was also my best race. I was a 200 man and I was just reaching top speed at the time I was handing off to Whitey in the 4x100. This was also the relay we managed to screw up most often the year before.

I was rarely involved in the screw ups because both Droter and Whitey went out of their way to make sure I didn't get into trouble. There was an advantage to being the youngest as well as an underclassman. It got me some extra consideration but Whitey and Droter were nice guys and it probably had nothing to do with my inferior aging.

The 4X200 relay wasn't run in lanes all the way around. That meant you had to make up your mind what lane you wanted to be in, according to where ever your guy was in the race. My routine was to take the third lane if my guy wasn't leading, because most teams fought over the first two lanes, and so the third lane was always empty. It required that we run a few yards further, but it also allowed Droter to know where to look for me. If we weren't leading and I wasn't in the first lane he knew he'd find me in the third.

The other change in the 4x200 was that I stayed at the start finish line with Beaudreault and Droter and Whitey started directly across the infield from the start finish line. As the third leg, I ended up on the backstretch and therefore I was always in two races, the relay race and then the race to get to the finish line to find out what we had done.

On this day, Both Droter and Whitey shook my hand before walking to their spot. Beaudreault stepped onto the track and took his place behind his second lane starting block, looking quite distant, but then he came back into the infield to shake my hand, which I thought was unusual. I wasn't sure what that was about but Beaudreault had his own way of dealing with pressure and I'd learned to roll with the punches, or in this case, the handshake. I was never really sure what Beaudreault would do and I tried not to interrupt whatever flow he was going with at the time.

Beaudreault was the least changed of the four of us. I didn't see where he had grown. I didn't see any muscle suddenly appearing on his body. He had gained no weight and he seemed no taller than he was his junior year. His preparations were almost identical to those of the year before, only more tedious now and he spent much of his preparation time stretching his legs and muscles.

I did something after the race started that I had rarely done the year before, I stepped off the curb and into the first lane as the starting blocks were yanked out of the track and tossed out of the way. I stood firm as both the Northwestern and the High Point runners stepped into the lane with me. We stood shoulder to shoulder, unable to avoid touching one another as we waited to see what runner would come off the fourth turn in front.

I didn't usually specialize in confrontations. It was just as easy to stand aside and avoid the posturing that usually went on, but I had a strong feeling Droter was going to appear first and so I stood my ground against a Northwestern team I had no use for and a High Point runner who was simply another player in the lane game.

The time seemed to crawl. I could see the handoffs on the other side of the track, although I couldn't tell if we were first or second. There were too many people between here and there. I was jostled several times as guys wanted me to give up the prime hold I had on the center of lane one. I stood fast, watching the turn intently, and ignoring the competition. We all knew the rules and unless the lead was in doubt, two guys would move over as soon as it became clear who had title to lane one.

Droter came bursting out of the turn first. The second guy was three or four yards behind. Everyone else left the first lane as I bounced on my toes, stretching my calves and ankles for the first time and not turning to look at Droter until I was sure he was closing in on the spot I had picked out and when he passed it I took off.

He was starting to fade but continued running strong until he reached me with the baton. We made the exchange and I dashed toward the first turn with High Point and then Northwestern following me after their exchange. The sounds the cinders made crunching under their feet told me exactly how far back they were and if they were closing in on me.

By the sounds I heard we'd picked up another two to three yards during our baton exchange. Both runners ran close together in the same lane as me. This told me neither of them had moved to the outside to make a pass. While the sounds were all positive, I forced myself to stretch out my strides to make sure they wouldn't see any opportunity to pass.

Both of them would know that the first man to move into the outside lane was at a disadvantage and was running further. It was something we were instructed not to do. You pass on the straightaway and never on the turn, well, never unless you were Whitey, and then you passed whenever the mood struck. Whitey purposely passed on the turns. For his it was a power move. He'd do it to prove to his competition that the rules didn't apply to him. He could and would pass you anywhere.

I would be safe through the turn and then both of the guys close to me would move out once we were on the backstretch. They had to be in one lane or another to hand off the baton and there was no way they were getting the first lane now.

Whitey's eyes were intense and never left me. I couldn't tell anything by looking at him but at very last instant, just before he turned his head forward to take off, he smiled and I knew. It always meant the same thing. I only got the smile if the race was in the bag.

He charged off away from me, not scattering quite as many cinders as in the 4x100. The High Point man was almost ten yards behind us when he passed and Northwestern was a couple of steps behind him. I stopped to watch Whitey until he was well into the turn, adding several more yards to our lead. Then, I raced across the infield.

This was the way it should be. It was perfect for me, except I was always so far from the finish line when my race ended. I didn't need to rush to see who won but I needed to get there for the celebration but the 4x200 celebration was never as intense after already winning the 4X100. Perhaps it was the nature of the beast. It wasn't as intense and didn't require the same focus or total expenditure of energy. It always came second and it took twice as long from start to finish.

After making it across the football field, I stepped onto the track and spotted the red and white circle of Suitland uniforms. I jogged toward it and was rewarded with handshakes and the congratulations of a grateful team. Whitey shook my hand and smiled and Droter patted my back and Beaudreault nodded and smiled my way. Our day was over if you didn't count the jumps I still had to take and I never counted my futile attempts at respectability.

Each time we ran together, I found myself growing closer to my teammates, not in a happy smiley touchy feely kind of a way, but closer as in bonding, knowing, and trusting them. Our confidence in one another's ability strengthened. It also strengthened our desire to run as a unit.

For a kid that was never very attached to anyone, at least until I met my friend Beaudreault, this was a bonanza I never suspected would come from running track.

I can't describe what I felt for my guys, but my world was infinitely better because of running with them. They were all seniors and I wasn't, and I got to run with them. They were the best and I wasn't, and I got to run with them. I got to see it up close and experience the thrill and the satisfaction that came from running with them. It gave my life some meaning. I couldn't conceive not being part of "The Team."

It took some time for Coach Becker to get to us, because at times he did need to be elsewhere. When he did get back to the bleachers, he handed the watch to Whitey and gave him a big smile. Whitey handed it to Beaudreault, and then Droter looked at it and showed me the face of the stopped watch but I wasn't sure what I was looking for. It was the Coach's watch all right, the one with more buttons and hands than any watch needed.

"What?" I finally said, and my three teammates and the Coach all laughed at me. "What?"

"Both relays a county record today. Pretty neat trick," Coach said, nonchalant. "And it's only the first track meet, gentlemen. You've had a good day."

It was a good day.

Droter never had much to say about things like that either. I've got to think he felt as I felt, he was glad to be part of it but Whitey and Beaudreault were the difference between victory and defeat, not either of us. There was always Junta, James, and now Powell, waiting to replace us with a words notice, but the notice never came and Droter and I were it and grateful for it.

The Prince George's County Relays wasn't set up for a small team like ours. While we had grown in numbers, we still had trouble fielding all the events. Coach Becker was constantly asking for a warm body to cover this event or that one. This would happen when one boy's specialty ran too close to optional events he was supposed to participate in and at the end of every track meet stood the 4X400 relay. Our ideal team being Gorely to Merrill, Merrill to Stein, Farrell, or James, to Todd, but Merrill and Todd ran distance races that came in the second half of the track meets and if they were run too close to the 4x400 relay, the search was on for a warm body.

I saw distance men as being up against it all the time. They had to run long tactical races and then they had to regroup fast to run one of the most grueling races of all, the quarter mile, which was neither a distance race nor was it a sprint for most runners. It required the kind of conditioning that sprinting didn't. It was the difference between being high performance and being fine tuned.

And so it was during the first track meet of the year that it started anew. Coach went about finding four of his freshest guys to run one of the most difficult events. Todd always volunteered, Gorely lived to run it, and Merrill wanted to fight if someone said he couldn't run it because he'd just finished running a distance race. Todd was almost as adamant but so was Coach Becker when he said, no. I think we always managed to field a team my junior year but it always came after frantic searching and evaluating who had run what and when they last ran.

In my calculations it took more energy and dramatics than it was worth. Our finishes were less than stellar, a third here, a fourth there, and usually no more than a point or two.

On this day they finished third or fourth. I wasn't sure. I was happy that it got run without anyone looking my way and it also marked the end of the track meet, which I was always glad to see by the time it came. Even winning takes its toll and by two or three in the afternoon my energy level was falling fast.

This year was different because Northwestern hadn't dominated and showed off as they had the year before. In fact they were mostly in the middle of the finishers in most events. They were always close to the lead and that kept them in control of the track meet. The other big surprise was Fairmont Heights improvement. They were right there in the midst of almost every event. Gone were the dropped batons and lane violations.

It was still a warm day even after the clouds thickened to deny the sun a place in the sky over the track and I was ready to go home. I had a big history test the next day and since I wasn't lucky enough to get Coach Becker as my history teacher, I had no excuse not to be prepared.

I must say that I was caught by surprise once I heard the score. Coach Becker had started out the day with the same speech as the year before,

"We're a small team and while we've added guys to most of the areas where they were needed most, we still have trouble fielding four guys in so many different events. I'd appreciate each of you try an event that you might want to try. Every performance makes a difference."

And so the best we could do was the best we could do, but on this day our best turned out to be better than anyone expected.

"Ladies and Gentlemen the announcer started. "We have a tie. Fairmont Heights has scored 76 points. Suitland has scored 76 points. The Prince George's County Relays has two champions this year."

Coach Becker sat straight up as soon as he heard the decree. It took him a minute to process the results, and we didn't know how to react.

What is a tie?

Did we win or not?

Of course we weren't sure where we stood. It sounded very very good to not finish next to last again, but what did it mean.

"What does it mean, Coach. Did we win?"

"Who won."

Coach Becker wasn't taking inquiries at the moment. Instead he went to digging in the medical kit as the questions came in a flood as we all drew close together, surrounding him. He drew forth a book from the kit and without so much as a wink and a nod, he dashed toward the scorer's table at competitive speed with book in hand.

At first his arrival was met by indifference and then there were arms and points and much peering into the book. All the coaches gathered around the table and everyone took a turn examining the words. Coach Freeman, of Fairmont Heights, being the final one to step up for a look see. He spent the least amount of time staring at the words. He stood erect, facing Coach Becker, and they shook hands and seven coaches all went off in different directions like so many roaches caught by the kitchen light.

Coach Becker returned to his team and a hundred questions from thirty-five bewildered boys.

Whitey, Mulligan, and Kirkpatrick leaped out of the bleachers to confront our coach.

"What's up, Coach? What's going on down there?"

There was little movement in the bleachers. Most of the teams were still there. Fairmont Heights was once again seated beside us on the grass and they were acting a lot more gentlemanly than we were. They'd been the only team to finish behind us in the same track meet the year before and now we had reversed the order of finish, except the last two teams were now first and that was a first.

"Coach," Todd pleaded, and Coach held up his hands for us to be silent.

It was then that the loud speaker broke the deadlock.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, It's been pointed out to us that there are specific tie breakers in the event of a tie. The first tie breaker is number of first place finishes. Suitland by virtue of the most wins is the champion of the Prince George's County Relays and Fairmont Heights is second."

There was always a certain amount of insanity that went with victory, even an uncertain one. It was the new team's first victory in the new team's first track meet and everyone had been a part of it. It was more difficult for me to keep my distance from my classmates. In fact my classmates made the difference. Each of them contributed something substantial to the victory and I was ready to accept them as my teammates.

It was a good celebration. We cheered each other and then, as if it just occurred to us all of a sudden, we stopped to cheered our Coach for knowing the rules.

Then, without prompting or promotion, we all stood and cheered Fairmont Heights as they passed in front of our celebration, having to wait until next year, but still managing smiles to greet the sincerity of display. We had lost often enough to appreciate coming close, but we weren't about to give them one of our points, but I think for a tiny fraction of a second we were gentlemen, waiting for Fairmont Heights to get a respectful distance beyond us before going crazy again.

It was the second time my team had won a track meet. By far this was the more impressive of the two wins for me. Not only weren't we supposed to win but we didn't even have enough guys to win. Sports being what they are, we did win and it was good, although the celebration paled in comparison with the one after our first victory in school history at Catonsville a year ago.

I wasn't sure why the difference. This was our county and these were teams we'd face most often during the season, but it was an all relay event and the only one. That left us uncertain of how we might stack up one on one, during head to head competition. I didn't see any signs that anyone was worried about what it meant.

Coach Becker was all smiles when he got on the bus. It was nice seeing him happy with his boys. As sprinters we hadn't contributed much. We were only in two events and while Droter and I never ran more, both Whitey and Beaudreault were short changed and it would be another week before they could face head to head competition and that's where I was confident they'd shine. It was a different kind of track meet and when it was all said and done, we'd learned little about ourselves that could be applied the rest of the season, although victory was its own teacher.

By the time we'd gotten back on our side of town, the team had grown silent. There were random voices that droned against the noise of the bus but nothing like the chaos that road on the team buses my first season. The change in attitude was refreshing. My guys and I sat in the last few seats, chatting, napping, and watching the world go by.

As the bus ambled up Silver Hill Road, Coach Becker stood, hanging onto the overhead bar to keep steady as the bus rocked and rolled over and around the potholes.

"Gentlemen, a fine job today. Even though we aren't equipped to run this kind of event, you certainly made the most of it. Everyone contributed and some days that's the difference between victory and defeat. This is a fine way to start our season. Thank you for giving me your best today. I think we're going to have a good season."

"Gentlemen, we'll be returning to Northwestern to run against Northwestern and High Point next week. That'll put a lot more pressure on us. They have hands down the best talent in the county."

"Coach!" Paul Gorely complained loudly.

Coach Becker smiled from ear to ear as he considered the interruption. "Except for Suitland, that is."

The bus came to life as pieces of clothing flew around as guys cheered themselves and our coach on the final leg of our journey back home.

"I just want to make sure that you are aware, they're going to be ready for us now that we beat them. Let's make the most of practice the next few days and see if we can't extend our winning streak next Thursday."

We were all ready to go once the bus stopped. I slipped my street clothes out of my locker and stayed in my uniform, driving to my friend Tommy's so I give him the news. As always he was delighted to hear that I was happy and that Suitland had won. His brother's were less enthusiastic and laughed at me in my uniform. It was a good start to a new season.

The victory was well received at Suitland. Baseball players stopped to chat during practices the following week. They also stopped running in the groove of the track, using the outside lanes to jog in their cleats. There were subtle benefits to victory and the respect of other teams was one. The Monday morning announcements were complete with a well done from our Vice-Principle Burgess.

With victory came responsibility and expectation. Suitland's athletic program hadn't been burning up the world of sport in PG County, so any victory was well received. The vacuum created by no major team successes, created an opening for students to get excited over an otherwise ordinary sport like track.

I suppose if any of them took a close look at our track, it would then take a superior effort to get excited about the track team that trained and ran on it. In the absence of things to cheer about we were good enough and so people became aware of the track team and we furnish the school with some excitement.

Hearing the score of the PG Relays read to the school, with us at the top of the list, impressive to hear and I felt a deep surge of pride run through me.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

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