NORTHWOOD INVITATIONAL TRACK MEET

No one said anything about me not being on the track team and on Saturday I was one of the first boys there. I immediately went in to help Coach Becker carry the equipment out to be loaded. It seemed like the thing to do. There was no conversation that didn't have something to do with the chore. Before I knew it, we were on the bus and heading for the other side of town.

Last year Northwood had turned out to be a nightmare for the sprinters but it hadn't been mentioned. I was certain there was a reason for that and so I thought about it but I didn't bring it up.

After turning out of the school and onto Silver Hill Road, I watched Beaudreault stare out the window as the bus moved slowly along. It was obvious by the expression on his face that he hadn't forgotten Northwood. Whitey wasn't as relaxed as usual. He seemed like he was on edge and already ready to race. Droter sat up straight, his hands folded in his lap, staring straight ahead past his teammates and out the front windshield. I studied my guys like I might never see them again and so I wanted to memorize everything about them. I'd never depended on anyone for anything before but I had grown dependant on them.

When we arrived, seven buses sat in the asphalt parking lot. In reality it was the student parking lot and it had been blocked off with construction horses, and they were moved so the bus could proceed and put back in place once we'd passed.

"Gentlemen, stay together. If I need to start covering events for any reason, I'll need to know where to find you. Either be competing or coming or going from competition. Stay with the team the rest of the time.

"One at a time, gentlemen. That's how we run the events. We can't match their numbers but we can run them one event at a time. You only run against the guys in your event. Their teams look big, some are huge, impressive, and they come with assistant coaches, trainers, and a guy to fluff their towels for them. None of those people ever participate against you. It's you against the other boys in your event, just like every other track meet. There are upwards of a dozen teams. Some events will be run in heats and it all takes time. If some events run too long, we'll run short of guys fast and I'll need to make changes at a moment's notice. Stay available so we don't miss any opportunities to score points.

"We've had a good year. Nothing can change it or take it away from you. This is your chance to show them our season isn't a fluke. This is your opportunity to gain the respect of teams who remember us as pushovers. Don't think they haven't seen the box scores. Don't think they don't know we've cleaned up in PG County this year. They'll think, that's PG County, and this is Montgomery County, and so they won't have much respect for you.

"All I ask is that you run one event at a time. Do your best and we'll do fine. We are capable of scoring points in most events. If we do what we are capable of doing, at the end of the day we can hold our heads high and be proud of our performance. Let's stay together and have a little fun, just not too much."

Coach Becker stood by the side of the bus as we came down the stairs. We were one of the teams to come the furthest, and we weren't early by any means. The bleachers were already filling up.

Entering through the large open gates at the end of the bleachers, we took a hard right and walked up the front stretch. We passed all the teams and people who had already staked out their places, and we kept walking until we reached the end of the seating before taking our usual spot.

We had walked right past the spot where Beaudreault had fallen the year before and no one took any notice of it. Last year we'd just come off our first team victory the week before Northwood. We had high hopes that day and they were dashed quickly.

We hadn't even scored ten points last year. The lions share, five points, coming because of our third place finish in the 4X100 relay. We'd done it from the slow heat and that was a remarkable feat but it was the only feat in a very ordinary day. Beaudreault was such a big part of our team, after he went down, things went to pieces.

It had ended any meaningful competition for me for the rest of the season. While Beaudreault and I had never established a relationship off the track, we'd spoken volumes on the track, but without Beaudreault starting for us, I was mute and my third leg on the relay was an exercise in futility.

Beaudreault was back. We were undefeated in the sprint relays as well as undefeated as a track team for the season. We even won a track meet in Montgomery County, and that was encouraging. Now we faced the lineup of Montgomery County schools. This was a test like no other. We'd established our supremacy in PG County but we weren't even on Montgomery County's radarscope, so poor was the competition we gave them.

Prince George's County school simply didn't win major Montgomery County championships, especially not in track and field, when we didn't face just one team but in this case, a dozen. The fact we had come there with high hopes, thinking we were competitive, but discovering how woefully ill prepared and undermanned we were.

"Hey," Droter said as I fooled in my gym bag. "You here or what? I called you two times."

"Me? I was just thinking," I said, trying to get back to the task at hand.

"Yeah, hard not to think about this place. I had dreams about it after last year."

"You remember?" I asked, being grateful to know someone else did.

Droter had a strained expression on his face as he looked me over. He looked up at the track and his eyes followed it for a while. He looked back down at me still fooling around in my gym bag.

"I remember," Droter said tersely. "Hard place to forget. You straighten that situation out with that girl?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

When I looked up, Northwood was warming up just on the inside of the infield on the backstretch. Droter's stare was already focused there. Some of our guys were heading out of the bleachers to go check out the pits. Our numbers had grown and it was more difficult keeping us in check.

Today our guys were everywhere. I watched Scherer take a practice run at the high jump pit, but after taking his very exact approach, he ducked under the bar and it shook as his short blond hair brushed it. He walked through the pit and turned to look back at the still shimmering crossbar. He put his hands on his hips and didn't move.

Powell was marking out his starting point at the long jump, taking long exaggerated steps back away from the board and he put a towel down at a spot he liked. He was precise and focused, returning to the board that marked the spot where he'd launch his body into the pit. He made the same exaggerated strides back and moved the towel maybe two inches.

The first call came for the field men to report to their respective pits. Next came the first call for the hurdles and then the call came for the first heats in the 100. Both Whitey and Beaudreault got up to report for lane assignments. I walked behind them, knowing heats came before the finals and the 4x100 relay came before the finals as well, and 4X100 relay was the first event scored. Then the finals in the hurdles and then the 100 finals and the track meet would start taking shape.

If all went well in our best events we'd still be in the thick of things by then. If it fell apart as it did last year, we'd be hurting big time. I couldn't pass the mid-point on the front stretch without seeing Beaudreault prostrate on it. I watched him carefully to see if he favored his leg. I'd been watching him since the first day of practice, waiting to see if it quit on him, praying it didn't.

The sky was clear and at ten in the morning it was already warm. There would be no sweat suits to carry for my teammates today. Whitey was in the second heat and Beaudreault was in the third. It was an art to be able to save your energy for the finals. In the heat you ran only as fast as it took to make it to the finals.

Whitey looked fine as he prepared for his heat. Beaudreault had a strained look on his face. It was a worried look. There had to be a ton of stuff going on inside his head. He'd lost this race for the first time this season last week and he'd be running against the same guy today. This was the track where his junior season ended in the same event.

I watched their preparations and worried until the starter's pistol launched Whitey down the track. Beaudreault was immediately getting into his block. With one more head to run the starter wasted no time and Beaudreault was moving swiftly toward the finish line. They both qualified easily. They had no competition, yet.

I moseyed up the track, considering that we'd run four guys in four heats and all of them qualified for the finals with Kennerly and Payne qualifying in the hurdles.

The 4x100 relay was called immediately after the fourth heat in the 100 was run. There would be two heats decided by times and we were in the faster heat. Whitey and Beaudreault were already warmed up and Droter and I did a few exercises to catch up with them before Whitey went to the scorers' table and drew the third lane. It was a good draw for us. We had avoided the unfortunate placement of the year before. This year we were running against the big boys and once the dust cleared there would be no question remaining about who was the fast relay team.

This was the race I'd been waiting to run. It created a different focus, almost a determination that had grown out of a previous year's insult. It's the kind of thing best put behind you, sport being what it is. This was the day last year's snub would finally be resolved. Then I could forget it.

I can't believe that my teammates didn't feel the same way I did. It was a form of redemption following an insult. Whatever happened today would put it to rest. We questioned ourselves after last year's third place finish. Could we have won head to head? Were we as good as the Montgomery County 4x100 relay teams?

Perhaps if Beaudreault hadn't been injured and our season hadn't then been brought to a halt, we might have been able to resolve it last year, but we never did and so it haunted me still and I suspected my teammates as well. We were about to see where we stood this year and end the speculation about last year.

We all crowded the edge of the track as the slow heat ran. It took forever and made me more nervous than usual. The winning time in the slow heat was over a second slower than our best time. As quick as the first heat ended. We all shook hands before Whitey walked me into the infield toward our spot.

"We can do this, Charles. Get me the baton and I'll do the rest."

Whitey's arm over my shoulder was always comforting but today it eased the worst case of nerves I had ever experienced. I understood we were knee-deep in the best competition we'd faced all year. I wasn't sure if we'd be up to the task but I was ready to find out.

Whitey smiled and casually walked toward his spot. He'd run the finals in the 100 fifteen minutes after our relay finished. He'd get a nice break and then start running heats for his 200, and before he ran the finals of that race, he'd run the 4x200 relay. How he could remain so casual about it all I didn't know. I ran two times the entire day and I was a wreck.

I stood watching his strong confident strides. I could see him taking deep breaths, preparing himself for his race. I turned and moved toward the track. I stepped onto the track and went directly to the third lane without acknowledging anyone. I stepped on the line where my race would start and looked down at the way my black running shoes looked against the white lime.

I breathed deep, stretching my ankles and feet and losing all contact with the world around me as I bounced up and down on my toes, eyes closed, body erect as I watched Droter coming toward me. There was an electrically charged surge of energy that ran through me as I dashed to the end of the passing zone, twenty yards up the track. I strolled back to my line, paying no mind to the mingling mass of people on and off the track.

My nerves calmed.

I jumped when the gunshot went up, tensing slightly as the echo traveled over my head. It was followed so closely by a second gunshot that they were as one. I pictured one of the participants folding up on the track, hands clutching the chest that had two neat little holes in it. I shook my head and started to bounce a new, filtering out everything but the clean clear sound of a single pistol shot, and I counted softly.

"One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi…."

There was no way to see the start except in my mind. My bouncing stopped and I bent slightly at the knees and the hip.

"Nine Mississippi. Ten Mississippi. Eleven Mississippi."

When I reached twelve I opened my eyes and casually guided them toward turn two. All eight runners came charging out of the turn like galloping stallions at the Kentucky Derby.

I breathed deep and estimated we were all tied for first except Droter was even with the five guys outside of him and a few strides in front of the boys inside of him.

I didn't hesitate or worry, knowing the handoff had to be perfect and anything less wasn't acceptable.

It was never in doubt for me. I had picked my spot. When Droter hit it, I'd take off, dropping my right hand down and to the rear as I was passing over the halfway mark in the handoff zone. As quickly as I showed him the target the baton caressed my palm and I closed my hand around it. Turning on the afterburners, I started looking for Whitey.

I could see none of my adversaries. I could hear everyone. I'd never felt so chased as I was that day. The hounds of hell were on my heels and I couldn't let them catch me. Charging into the third turn, I was unable to see anything because of the crowds lining the track, leaning out to get the best view possible.

Then I saw Whitey's face turned toward me. There was no smile, only determination. He kept his wide-open blue eyes on mine and his grew bigger. He turned and bolted away. It was surreal. Time had stopped. Before there was any time to think, I was putting the baton in his hand and he was gone into the fourth curve and out of my sight.

All the other runners came past as I slowed to a stop, waiting a second to be sure, before diving into the crowd that filled the infield. I'd have been better off staying on the track, but I'd never done that and wasn't sure I could. I knew what I knew and I was fairly confident that what I knew was true, but in sport what you know changes quickly. I made my way to the finish line.

Redemption is sweet even when celebrations are subdued. It was going to be a long day but we had won and I was delighted by this victory more than any other. Our relay team would have one more chance to prove it could run with and defeat Montgomery County schools. We really wanted to prove that.

I was surprised at how casual my guys were about victory. All that came before it could be put away now. Coach Becker left us long enough to go to the scorers' table to pick up our medals. He gave us his biggest smile as he handed the awards across the railing one at a time. We each gazed into our box to behold the gold for our best relay. I'd never looked at my bronze medal after Northwood the year before. It was still in my sock drawer at home in my bedroom.

Each of us spent a minute looking with pride at the gold medallion that adorned the red and black ribbon; Northwood's school colors. Once we were done with them, we handed them back to Coach Becker. He smiled again and dropped them into the side pocket of his sports jacket.

It was time for Whitey and Beaudreault to prepare for the finals in the 100. There had been one event completed and Suitland led the track meet for as long as it took to run the next event. It was still a lead in a very big meet and that was nice. We'd already exceeded our point production for the entire track meet the previous year.

Droter and I stood at the top of the bleachers for the 100 finals. I thought about going to the starting line but I was too nervous and didn't want to distract my guys. I wanted Beaudreault to win and Whitey to take second but this was the real world and I'd settle for Beaudreault winning, even with that Richard Montgomery guy he lost to last week being in the race, but I didn't want to think about that.

"They'll be okay, Charles," Droter said after watching me walk down several steps and then come back up to stand beside him, trying to stay still but being unable to carry it off.

"We did good," I said, triumph in my voice.

"We did good. Yes, we did."

Droter smiled and seemed relaxed.

There was one false start and my heart pounded way high in my chest. I couldn't stay still. Droter watched me walk down three steps before coming back up to stand beside him again. He shook his head and I looked off in the distance, standing up on my tiptoes to see if I could see my guys but I saw the smoke instead, rising from the starter's piston and the gunshot rolled along the bleachers and rang in my ears.

The first time I saw Beaudreault he was leading but that was his race. Get out first, using his speed to hold off the competition and win the race. By the time they were approaching the finish line, three other guys were right on his heels but one of them was Whitey, so in reality only two guys were actually on his heels.

I'm not sure we saw the finish and if we did I don't remember seeing it. Droter was suddenly charging down the steps two and three at a time with me in hot pursuit, wondering why we hadn't stayed for the finish. By the time we got to the bottom, what was left of our team was spilling out onto the track in front of us. It was all Droter and I could do to find our guys in the massive reunion.

When I first saw Beaudreault the strain had gone from his face and he was all smiles. He wasn't a guy given to smiling too often and then it was only under certain circumstances, like winning the 100 at Northwood.

He was the one and only center of attention as his team stood by him, celebrating his victory. He seemed shy and a bit overwhelmed by the reception he got. My perception of Beaudreault had changed a little more. I thought a victory this big would swell his head to an inconceivable magnitude, but he was quite humble, seeming almost relieved.

Beaudreault won and Whitey finished third, which gave us fifteen additional points and after two scored events, probably our strongest events, we still led the track meet and had more points than half the teams finished with the year before. It was all very nice but there was a long way to go.

It was a fun celebration. Everyone laughed and kidded Beaudreault. Whitey was particularly happy about his finish. He had gotten another medal and the five points that came with it. Coach Becker went to bring back the two medals. This time Beaudreault held onto his for some time, checking it several times while I watched. Finally he relinquished it to Coach Becker, who tucked it away in his other side pocket.

Beaudreault had won a major 100 championship for the first time. He was the best at what he did and it gave me a good feeling to know that all his hard work had paid off and he had taken such a big win in stride.

In my mind we had come to Northwood with two scores to settle and we'd settled both of them with gold medals. If the track meet ended right then, I would have gone home happy. While I enjoyed the sights, sounds, and smells, my expectations were modest. There was a medal from the hurdles, the discus, the quarter, and from Scherer's high jump and Kirkpatrick's shot put. We won the medley relay, adding more gold to Coach's bulging pockets.

After each medal was handed out and admired, it was handed back to Coach Becker for safekeeping, I thought. It was part of our routine. When a boy balked, seeking to hold his own hardware, he was coaxed out of it under duress. These were the times when I found team sports incomprehensible. What did it matter if the kid kept his medal so Coach had one less bulge to burst one of his jacket seams?

Coach Becker now rattled when he walked. His side jacket pockets had been filled first, then the rest of the jacket pockets, before he employed the ones in his pants and shirt. There were medals in the 400. The smile never left Coach's face as he bulged with his team's booty. He was a sight to see as more medals were added to our haul.

With the scoring of 10-7-5-3-1, even a fifth place finish got you a point and we collect our share of threes and ones when we didn't medal. It was a perfect day for a good finish in a big meet. We'd been blessed with perfect days. There were bad days but never the day of a track meet.

Once Droter and I settled into one spot, James joined us. He was his usual jocular self and was no longer holding the Sandy affair against me. We'd met with her as usual after track practice and nothing had changed when the three of us were together.

Once the first heat of the 200 was called, Whitey moved to one side to take his time getting into his racing shoes. He walked alone into the chute where "his" race would end. I loved watching Whitey get ready for a race. He was like a bull on the prowl and once he started his charge, he never let up until he was done.

There was no time in my life that was more thrilling to me than when I was watching Droter coming into my line of vision, speeding toward me. There was no more comforting feeling for me than the one I got when I watched Whitey Sheldon watch me charge at him. My mission had always been made simple because of these two guys.

My first responsibility was to take the baton without dropping it or crossing the disqualification line without it. My second job was to keep everyone that was behind me behind me, and then get the baton into Whitey's hands, so he could do the rest. I had never failed in those three tasks, even during the period, when the results of our union, was less than successful, I'd always done what they asked me to do and they never blamed me for our failures.

Yes, we now did it on our way to victory, and that was good, certainly better than losing, but that wasn't all of it. I'd never done anything very well. Everything in my life required a struggle of one nature or another. Joining the track team seemed like a certain way to get more of the same. Working with three other guys, although I never worked with Beaudreault, was nothing like anything I had done. My natural propensity for screwing up kept me clear of everyone who might snicker or laugh at my failures. I didn't give anyone a chance to snicker or laugh at my failures. I never risked failure because I never willingly did anything that might end in failure.

Mr. Q. had changed the equation. He had bragged on my abilities. He'd taken the time to teach me how to excel at everything he asked me to do. Then he asked me to go out for track without giving me a clue how to do it. It had been a struggle but I had figured it out and now I depended on my guys and they depended on me. It required trust and a belief in one's self and those two things was never easy for me to reach.

Basking in the afternoon sun at Northwood, we reached the pinnacle of our time together without knowing, because sport is what it is; although losers never win; jerks never become nice guys; and it takes an extra effort to be successful consistently. Beyond that, it's a crapshoot, and that's why we run track meets.

My butterflies were once again jumping, but they weren't for me, they were for Whitey. I so wanted him to succeed in his biggest race ever. If Whitey could finish third in the 100, then the 200 was a sure thing in my mind, but it was still a long way from here to there, and so my butterflies flew.

Beaudreault and Whitey met on the infield and chatted casually after the second call came for the 200. I went down to stand with them and with Whitey once Beaudreault went to run his qualifying heat. Once Beaudreault qualified it was Whitey's turn and he was in no hurry.

"Good luck," I said, offering him my hand.

"Thanks, Charles."

I patted his shoulder and watched him walk away. I crossed the track and Droter and I climbed to the top of the bleachers and watched both Beaudreault and Whitey easily qualify for the finals.

The first call for the 4x200 came just before Whitey's heat. We had fifteen or twenty minutes and the time it took to organize and run the slow heat before we would be lining up to run. That gave them just enough time to recover from the heats they'd just run. After the relay it was the same process, although a couple events were run before the finals for the 200. It was still a lot to ask of a runner and by the end of the day both Whitey and Beaudreault would run three 100 races and three 200 races.

Droter and I didn't have anything to say to each other and Beaudreault sat a few seats below us, reading from a paperback book. As I pondered the possibilities while waiting for the second call for our race, a shadow blocked out the sun. I looked up from my contemplation to see Sandy Perry standing over me, smiling broadly.

"Hi, Charles. Nice race," she sighed. "Are you going to run again?"

"Yeah, in a few minutes."

"You're fast," she said, her platinum hair looking almost white in the glare of the sun.

"Thank you. Not as fast as my guys though," I said.

"Your guys?" she asked curiously.

"The guys I run with; Whitey and Beaudreault."

"Well thank you, Charles. I like you too," Droter argued.

"This is one of them?" she calculated, indicating Droter, who was just then sitting with his mouth wide open as he checked Sandy out. "He is the one that gives you the pipe thingy, huh?"

"Yeah, Droter gives him the pipe thingy all right," James said as he broke off a conversation with a boy in the row below us.

I glanced down at the front row as six guys stood leaning with their backs on the railing, watching us. After being alerted that someone of the female persuasion was loose among his team, Coach Becker took a quick glance over his shoulder. He gave a quick shake of his head before busying himself in the medical kit, probably looking for a sedative.

"Donnie ran nice," Sandy said, showing no sign of losing interest in the conversation and she was making me nervous as I preferred not to stir up any more trouble than necessary.

"Hi, Sandy," James said as he climbed up a row.

"Hi, James. Are you going to run today? I'd like to see you run."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"He's always on the run," Droter said.

"Oh," she said.

"Donnie who?" I asked.

"Donnie who?" James asked, looking around.

"Kennerly," she said. "He's something to watch."

"You know Don too?" James asked, squinting as he looked up at her.

"We went to junior high together, silly."

"He's only a junior," James clarified.

"I'm a junior, James," I said.

"You're different."

"I'm not different."

"I know you, silly," James teased. "You like, Kennerly?" James asked in sudden seriousness.

"Well yeah. He's handsome, don't you think? He sure can jump those things good."

"Yeah, he jumps things right good," Droter said, smiling.

"I wouldn't call him handsome," James answered as I laughed and two guys climbed up over seats from in front of Coach Becker until they stood next to Whitey, rousing him from his rest and he was immediately looking back up at us, shielding his eyes so he could see.

"I wanted to say hello and let you know how great I think you guys are," Sandy said. "You really are our best team, you know."

"Thank you," I said, and other guys turned around to listen and watch our only fan.

"Come on," Whitey said shouted, pulling his shirt on while holding the baton. "Let's warm up."

"Oh, they're all warmed up," someone quipped.

"Yeah," Droter said, standing and watching Sandy at the same time.

"Thanks for coming, Sandy. We don't get many guys from school," I said.

"Sure! Good luck, Charles," she said, touching my shoulder as we looked at each other.

"I'm not running," James said. "You want to sit with me, Sandy?"

"No! I'm with a girlfriend. I can't leave her alone."

"Bring her over too," Droter said. "The more the merrier. We'll be back in five minutes."

"Hey, you two. We got a race to run," Whitey interrupted, climbing to within a row of where we were gathered. "No distractions. Save it for back at school. Come on."

"Good luck in the 200, Whitey. You're about the fastest guy here, aren't you?" Sandy said as Whitey blushed and hesitated, not thinking about track for a few seconds.

Sandy had that affect on people.

We started down the steps to a chorus of, "Shame on you" as well as other sounds made to indicate the team was aware of our interaction with the strange and lovely girl.

"That's her?" Droter said as our feet hit the track.

"Her who?"

"The girl you got in trouble at the junior picnic."

"Yes, but nothing happened," I argued.

"Yeah, right, and I'm a monkey's uncle. You spent the day in the woods with her? Charles, I've underestimated you. She's fine."

"Droter, I gave you credit for being more mature than that," I said,

"I'm just mature enough if you'll introduce me," he said. "Get her to bring her girlfriend over."

"Shut up."

We found a spot in the infield and all sat on the grass to do our stretching.

Beaudreault looked across the circle at me and said, "Charles, you old dog you."

"We're only friends," I said.

"You must be about the fastest guy here," Droter said in a falsetto sigh to Whitey.

We all cracked up at the convincing imitation.

"That's her?" Whitey asked.

"Yeah."

"I thought you were going to straighten that mess out."

"It's taken care of," I said. "I can't see her around school. I didn't know she was coming. We're just friends."

"Yeah, right," Whitey said. "Just you stay friends until the season ends. Then you can do what you want."

They all shoved and pushed me as we walked to get our lane assignment. The quips and comments never stopped. It was all in jest and didn't upset me because I knew they were kidding.

Kidding around with other guys wasn't something I had a lot of experience with. I took most things seriously but this was different. They all patted my shoulder when we were ready to separate for our race. I got a thing hung up in my throat as I watched Whitey and Droter walking away from me, laughing and showing none of the pressure I knew they were feeling. The season was almost over and they'd graduate in less than a month. It wasn't a good feeling I got when I thought about them leaving me behind.

Beaudreault was relaxed as he checked his starting block, raising no objections to it. He stood up and faced me before the starter called, take your mark.

"Good luck, Charles. Let's give them our best race," he said, walking over to where I stood, sticking out his hand and shaking mine.

"Do what you do, Beaudreault," I said, feeling strangely close to him for the first time in two years.

We were finally a team and I no longer had any desire to figure Beaudreault out. He was who he was and that was fine with me as I watched him burst forth from the blocks as the starter's pistol rang in my ear. He was absolutely the best at that business. I watched until he disappeared.

I was too nervous to stand still once I knew Droter had the baton. I stayed close to the first lane but was noncommittal. I didn't want to jinx us. We'd solved most of our timing issues and it was a matter of perfection versus something other than that. I knew that Beaudreault and Droter would keep us close if not in front, but I didn't want to be surprised and so I lingered in small circles while other boys stood watching the curve, shoving each other while trying to stand in lane one.

When the first lane started to clear out, I looked back at the turn. Droter was leading Walter Johnson and Bethesda Chevy Chase by a few strides. I took sole possession of the first lane as the other seven runners jockeyed for the nearest outside lanes.

Droter ran smoothly and without any sign of distress. I stood on my line and tried to set my focus. As Droter came at me the crowd started to react to the pending handoff, yelling encouragement for their boys. I dashed away, giving Droter one more step than usual, wanting to be sure not to run away from him. The baton came to me as swiftly as I dropped my hand. Droter had closed in on me, easing up slightly, and made the pass as soon as my hand was there.

It was like no other race. A million things went through my mind. Most of them were thoughts of guys catching and passing me, and I swept those ideas from my head as I sprinted into the first turn, listening to the sharp discharge of breath from the guy just off my shoulder. First his heavy breathing was in my left ear and then it shifted to my right when he swung out to pass me.

I kicked into overdrive and relished the best part of my race. It was only after a hundred yards that I was coming into my own and I ran with confidence that I would hold him off. Whitey was firmly planted in lane one when I came off the curve. My competitor was still behind my right shoulder and not as close, but he had run several yards further by staying in the outside lane all the way through the curve.

I was just starting to breathe hard as the exchange came. Whitey had delayed his start for an instant to be sure our connection was made without incident. I eased up, slipping him the baton as soon as his hand shot back for it.

He charged off ...

As I stepped onto the infield to clear the first lane, I saw something that I'd never seen before. I tried to keep Whitey in view while staying out of the way of the other runners while analyze what I was seeing but I decided to get to the finish line instead of worrying. I dashed into the runner-laden infield and by the time I was two thirds of the way across the infield the cheers had reached their peak as the race ended.

Stepping on the track, I saw my guys fifteen feet further down the track, Beaudreault, Droter, and Whitey were happily shaking hands and I put myself in the middle of trading handshakes and smiles, while watching Whitey move, especially the way he put weight on his legs. I came to the conclusion I'd been seeing things and what I'd seen in his stride was merely an illusion I had created inside my head.

We climbed into the bleachers together, cheering our own success and receiving the appreciation from a happy team. I felt wonderful. My two races had gone without a hitch and the results had been perfect. We had not only redeemed ourselves in my eyes but we'd stacked a claim on the 4x200 relay as well and we remained undefeated in both events for the season.

It was still twenty minutes before the first call for the 200 finals and Whitey and Beaudreault sat down near the railing and the Coach, expending no more energy than necessary but there was still something bothering me and I couldn't shake my feeling of foreboding. Yes, we'd won, and Whitey looked fine, but I was not satisfied by that knowledge. Coach Becker cheered me up by calling Droter and I to come down when he returned with the medals. I stood behind Whitey, checking out the contents of the box I had been handed and knew to hand it back to Coach Becker, although my races were run and I could have held onto it just fine.

As we each handed our medal back to Coach Becker we ran into the first hitch of the day. There was no place left for him to put them. His pockets were stuffed and he finally decided on putting them in the pocket with his wallet, straining to make his pants large enough and this vision created some giggles of delight at the site of him fumbling to accommodate our booty.

He didn't seem to mind the inconvenience and I assumed he had bought into the theory that if he put even one medal down, something untoward was bound to overtake him. At this point and time all my worries had slipped away, replaced by laughter and the joy of participating in something so completely pleasant.

Going from the euphoric feelings that come with victory and the specter of our coach trying to secure our medals, and in the next instant, my worst fears were realized and this awareness sent a chill through me as both Droter and Beaudreault stood to face our coach.

"How's it feel?" Coach Becker asked Whitey as he stood in front of him and me as I stood behind Whitey.

"What?" Whitey argued.

"Your leg. How is it?"

"It's okay. Just a little twinge."

"How does it feel right now? Describe it so we can take care of it before it becomes a problem."

"Stiff. It's tight. There's a strain when I put my weight on it. You know? I can feel it. Just a tiny spot. It's okay."

"Show me where?" Coach Becker ordered.

"Right here," Whitey said, rubbing the sore spot toward the back of his leg as he leaned to the right.

"What?" Droter asked. "What's wrong!"

"Something's wrong?" Beaudreault asked with a sympathetic tone in his voice.

Coach Becker's fingers dug at Whitey's strong right thigh. Whitey leaned back and I moved to one side, bumping into Droter as he watched intently. Beaudreault leaned against the railing and we all looked down at the leg.

"I don't feel anything," Coach said. "Has it tightened up."

"A little. It'll be all right. I just took a wrong step is all. It'll be fine," Whitey said, failing to convince any one of it as he tried to get his leg back.

The team sat silent witness to our captain's difficulties. I pictured Beaudreault lying in the middle of the same track last year. My races were run but Whitey still had one more and it didn't seem fair that his most important race would be run with him being less than perfect. This was the day he was supposed to leave his mark on track in the area and now this.

"You want me to wrap it?" Coach Becker asked.

"Nah, I don't want to be restricted. I've got a race to run."

"You think it's okay?" Coach asked. "I mean you don't want to risk making it worse. Really injuring yourself. You can rest it for a week and you'll be fine for Bi-County. You've already won three medals today, Whitey."

"They don't mean anything if I don't run the 200. That's my race. It's the race I came here to run. I'm going to run it."

"I want you to do extra stretching. If it feels like it might go, sit down. I don't want you hurting yourself," Coach Becker prescribed.

"It'll be fine, Coach," Whitey said in a leave me alone voice that was final.

He would run one more time.

Coach Becker backed off, not wanting to crowd him but the concern on his face was evident. It was one of those no win situations and what had been a glorious day turned sour.

Whitey had already run more times than in any track meet before and there was another race to go and the call for the 200 finals came before anything else could be said. Whitey got out of the stands and jogged a few yards in front of the bleachers. I couldn't see anything.

I walked with Beaudreault as he caught up with Whitey and i went silently with them to draw lanes. No words were exchanged but I didn't feel very good down in the pit of my stomach. It wasn't the usual butterflies I nursed when Whitey and Beaudreault were running in big races, it was more like eating bad tuna fish.

After lanes were drawn, I walked them to a spot where they waited to be called for the race. Whitey stretched and showed no sign that anything was wrong. Beaudreault wasn't focused and he sat watching Whitey. I watched Whitey. Coach Becker had walked to within twenty feet of us and he watched Whitey.

"Cut it out," he yelled. "I'm fine I told you. Leave me alone."

I looked at Beaudreault as he did some half hearted stretching, still watching Whitey from the corner of his eye. It wasn't fine for me and I was made uncomfortable by what I couldn't say and didn't see but knew was there. After going with them to the starting line, I walked back to the bleachers to watch from on high.

"How is he?" Droter asked, as we stood a top the bleachers, straining to see the start.

"I don't know. Says he's fine."

"What do you think?"

I didn't answer or look at Droter. I crossed the fingers on both hands and said a silent prayer, "Let him win, please."

"What?" Droter asked.

"Nothing," I said.

I jumped when the pistol fired. I strained to find Whitey but he had drawn an outside lane and the heads of the spectators blocked his lane from view. We stayed up top for as long as we could stand it but by the time the runners were entering the chute, where the race ended, both Droter and I were on our way down to the track.

We left the bleachers and went in search of our guys. Stein and Todd had already reached Whitey and they seemed overjoyed to see him still standing. We still didn't know the results.

"He won! He won!" Powell was saying to anyone that would listen.

When Whitey turned to walk back to our place in the bleachers, Droter and I were standing in his way. He gave us an easy smile and shook both of our waiting hands, unaffected by the win or the controversy.

"Told you," he said confidently, smiling broadly at us. "You guys worry too much."

He seemed to be fine and except for the slightest of limps I thought I could detect in his gait, there were no telltale signs that anything was seriously wrong with the guy we depended on each week.

I stopped as soon as I realized one of us was missing; Beaudreault was maybe five steps behind us. I waited for him to catch up and walked beside him.

"How'd you do?" I asked after a few steps.

"Third!" he said sternly.

"Third! That's great, Beaudreault."

"I didn't win," Beaudreault complained, looking disappointed.

"You've won four medals."

"Yeah, but the rest were gold."

"You were running against Whitey," I reassured him.

"Yeah, he's something all right. Even on one good leg he won. I thought I might have a shot at him today."

"He ran fine," I said, pushing any doubt out of my head.

"They don't just go away, Charles," Beaudreault said with the voice of an expert. "He'll be the last one to admit it but he's in trouble. Coach Becker knows."

"What are you talking about? He ran fine."

"Whitey's leg is what I'm talking about. They don't heal without rest."

There was nothing else to say. I did not want to hear it, even though I knew it, too.

Coach Becker gave up on his pockets and held the two 200 medals in his hand once Whitey and Beaudreault were finished with them.

"That's fifteen points, gentlemen. You've put us squarely in the middle of this fight. We need Todd to do well in the mile and we always have a chance in the 4x400 relay."

While Todd was running the mile, Coach Becker started to run up against an old problem. It was difficult to believe that we still ran out of guys before the track meet had ended.

Coach Becker stood in front of his team, looking for possible solutions to the manpower shortage.

"Okay, I've got Merrill and Gorely for the 4x400. I need two more guys who can give us a decent quarter. Todd can't run again so soon. Who hasn't run and can run a 400?"

Gorely and Merrill stood at Coach's elbows as he searched the stands for draftees. Almost everyone had participated in the meet and finding good quarter men at a moments notice was probably the most difficult task on a track team. It was the hardest race to run.

"I'll run," Scherer said, standing up and pulling off his red T-shirt, replacing it with his competition shirt.

"You will?" Coach Becker asked in semi-disbelief.

"Yeah, I can do it, Coach."

"Do you know how to handoff?" Gorely inquired.

"Piece a cake," Scherer assured the doubters.

Right, I thought. If we get a little more help like him we don't need to run at all.

I had never seen Scherer do anything but high jump and cut up and he ran like a stork in labor.

"I'll run," James said, coming down into the midst of the search, excited about getting into the fray.

Coach Becker continued looking around for another taker but he found none and that was his team. At least it was a team and we wouldn't just forfeit but I had my doubts.

"Okay, Gorely will start and Merrill will anchor, Scherer run the second leg. James, you run the third. Look, gentlemen, I need you to finish ahead of Walter Johnson. They're ahead on points and if we have any chance at all, you've got to finish in front of them."

Ever the optimist, Coach Becker grabs four guys, one having never run the event before, and he merely asks them to finish in front of the team that is leading track meet.

Todd was just finishing the mile as the appointed relay team was going off to find a place to practice the baton exchange. Todd protested his exclusion from the relay race, while he was still suffering the effects of running one of his best ever miles.

It was that kind of day. Everyone wanted to keep on giving something to the effort. Coach Becker stood fast, denying Todd another opportunity to run for his team.

While this was going on Whitey moved to one side and was sunning himself. Beaudreault went back to reading his book and Droter kept asking me questions about Sandy, who had disappeared into the crowd or maybe left for home. I had enough trouble trying to be friends with Sandy and James at the same time, adding Droter to the mix seemed like a sure recipe for disaster.

Before long we were watching the 4x400 relay race. Whitey stood with his hands on his hips, watching the track. Beaudreault put down his book and kept his eyes on our runners. Droter and I sat silent, except when he had another question about Sandy.

Gorely was our best quarter man and he always ran well. When he handed off to Scherer we were in second place. Scherer used long loping strides to stay in contact with the race leader, falling to third but keeping the same distance between him and the BCC runner who led the race. I was amazed by his performance and when he handed off to James, who dashed off with a sprinters speed, we were still in contention, but James fell to fourth behind Walter Johnson but he kept us close. Merrill ran his usual gutsy race. He stayed glued to the Walter Johnson runner's shoulder until he hit the front stretch, and then he moved into the second lane and ran him down with his churning relentless strides.

We were all on our feet as Merrill moved out to pass and we cheered him all the way to the finish line. Coach Becker was jubilant and I was amazed. I had no clue how that team finished third. They beat Walter Johnson as asked and added four more medals to our haul. Some days you can do no wrong. I thought I should reassess my opinion of Beaudreault Scherer and maybe apologize to him, but I didn't.

And with that the track meet was over.

I was left with a strange incomplete feeling. It had been a spectacular season and we'd had one of our best days ever and each time one of our guys did something great, someone else immediately did him one better. Everyone had contributed. We'd all stood by one another and every victory was a team victory and every other effort was met with a smile.

We had won an amazing number of events. We had swept the sprints. We had run one event at a time, gave our best, and accepted the results, and now Coach rattled when he walked and smiled with a spring in each of his steps.

Each contact with Coach Becker reminded us that we were "his" boys. He coached us, complimented us, cajoled, and beseeched us to perform, strive, causing us to endeavor to excel if not for our sake, for his.

In the end we benefited most from our labor and Coach Becker asked for little in return. I wasn't sure how anyone could have so much patience while exuding so much restraint. He must have loved kids and track and field dearly. As amazing as my team and this season had been, Coach Becker amazed me most of all, and I thought I might need to reevaluate my opinion of adults.

It was time to pack up and head home and I was ready to go home but not ready to let go of the day. It was closing in on 3p.m. It had been a long day. Most of the boys stood around lacking any place to go as the stands started to clear with fans leaving after seeing the competition come to a close. Few fans understood the scoring in a track meet that ran through seventeen unique events.

While the number of people that showed up to watch the all day affair ran into the hundreds, Sandy Perry had been our only fan to ever come to see us perform, and she was persona non gratta, but it was still good that someone came to see us perform.

I watched Whitey as he pulled on his shirt and secured his gear. Beaudreault stood next to him, watching him move, staring at the leg. Each time Whitey shifted his weight, he favored his left leg more and more as it tighted from the injury we all knew he had.

I remembered the year before and how we were impacted by Beaudreault's injury. Impacted was hardly the word. I had little or nothing to do once he stopped running. The thought occurred to me that there was no one to replace Whitey either. We could certainly field a sprinter, Powell or Junta in his place, but no one could replace the best anchorman in the state.

I wondered if my season was over. If the sprint relays were finished, so was I. The delicate balance of our team depended on each and every man to perform seemingly beyond his abilities, and for the entire season each had. With three track meets left, the season was coming to a close.

Without Whitey, it was over for me.

"Gentlemen, you've done a great job today. Now, please, clean up the area. Leave no trash behind. Let's show our appreciation for such a fine facility."

We all gathered our belongings and our trash and collected the equipment when the loud speaker announced to the half emptied bleachers, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we want to thank you for coming to the Northwood Invitational Track Meet and we hope you'll return again next year. And now for the scores:

"Suitland 106, Walter Johnson 102, High Point…

"Suitland? Who's Suitland?" The guy asked oblivious, half covering the microphone with his hand as he spoke.

To say pandemonium broke out would be an understatement of the facts. At first stunned, we then screamed, yelling and laughing, until we cried; shaking each other's hand, hugging, and everyone said, "Suitland! Who's Suitland?" over and over and over again.

It was the one question we had come prepared to answer and at the same time we answered any doubts anyone may have had about our team.

There was an instant insanity that came with the score and everyone was infected. We had done the undoable, reached the unreachable, and achieved the unachievable. As many surprises as came our way that day, this was the topper of all toppers. While we knew we had done well, I don't think anyone thought we could beat twelve other teams to continue the winning streak that stretched back to the first track meet of the season.

This was where reality was supposed to strike and where we would be brought back to earth, after six winning weeks, but instead of that we went into orbit. We'd gone to Montgomery County and picked off one of their crown jewels. It was not something that PG County schools were supposed to do but we did it anyway.

Guys who were already on the bus came running back into the stadium to join the celebration, charging our team and the Coach as we danced and yelled together. We were quite mad as well as quite glad. It was one of those days you have nothing to compare it too, although some of us did remember Catonsville, and that victory came after a season of losing, so there was something special about our first win. This victory was every bit as unexpected as that one, only on a grander scale.

We had won all season. We did win Northwood and it was our biggest win. As both Beaudreault and Whitey had won a big championship in their events, so the team had won a big championship as well, and we'd won it in Montgomery County.

By the way, the score giver kept giving scores, but in our delirium we never heard what he said. Only recently did I find out that another Prince George's County team, High Point, finished third with 88 points. It demonstrated that we hadn't been running against pushovers all season, and we faced High Point again in a week in the Prince George's County Championship.

Whatever the facts and figures, it was reduced to winning or losing. I remembered the days when we hadn't won and the days when we had struggled, and half of our team knew nothing but winning. I wasn't sure if they were lucky or if I was, but I knew what I knew and I was glad I knew it.

From the first day when I tore up my feet and legs, trying to get a coach I didn't know to ask me my name, to our perfect season, I wouldn't have changed a minute of it so I would know only the winning. While winning was wonderful, it was also something you learned to do, and in that learning something happened between boys and their coach that never happened when you always won. The seniors and I had started out losers and we had learned to win together. It was less worth learning and an experience worth having, although winning certainly was nice.

Ten minutes later, after Coach Becker reestablished order, he rid himself of the burden he carried, emptying his pockets and handing out the medals to us one at a time.

He called us up in the order of events, so some guys went up a couple of times. Whitey and Beaudreault went up four times each, marking their place as the anchors of our team.

The two of them scored the lions share of points every week, and so it was fair that they were recognized more than anyone else. On a team of thirty-five guys, two stood apart from the rest of us, and yet each of their contributions was equal.

Whitey was without a doubt the leader of the team but that had more to do with personality and style than substance. I can't imagine a team running any smoother than our team ran with the best two boys being so equally matched. Neither of them made a big deal about it. Most sprinters wanted to win every race but Whitey knew Beaudreault was the best 100 man and Beaudreault knew Whitey was the best 200 man and they complimented each other rather than compete against each other and this had paid off for us.

Whatever mystique made it necessary for Coach Becker to hold the medals, had passed. Perhaps, even if he hadn't held our medals, we'd have won anyway, but I'm glad he did hold them, even though I'm not the least bit superstitious, but if we had it to do all over again, I'd insist he hold those medals, but that's only because this is sports and some pretty weird stuff goes on in sports, and who am I to tempt the gods?

Along with winning the Northwood Invitational came a trophy. It would be the first track trophy to grace our sports display case at school. The very same sports display case that showed no sign of the existence of a track team when I had gone in search of it two years before. The next kid that came to Suitland and wanted to know something about the track team would have a trophy to look at; our trophy today and the school's trophy tomorrow and for always thereafter.

Nothing I had experienced suggested we were capable of winning a large multifaceted track extravaganza and beating twelve other teams in the process. It was another one of those days when everything fell into place and in the end, it was a mix and match 4x400 relay team that won the day. The fact we were one of the smaller teams there was of little consequence now. It was not the size of the team but the size of the team's heart that carried the day.

We had faced close to thirty teams during the season so far and we had defeated them all and now, we had a pocket full of medals and soon, we'd have a trophy. The larger issues never occurred to us at the time. It was a big upset to the area's sports power structure. It had moved PG County up in stature, especially in track and field, and none of us knew that PG County schools weren't supposed to win Montgomery Conty Championships.

We were simply grateful for each victory, and while we knew this was our bigger win, it was one week in a three month season, and by Monday we'd begin preparing for next Saturday's Prince George's County Championship and the Northwood Invitational would be a thing of the past.

I can still picture Coach Becker with his pockets bulging with medals, rattling as he walked. I remember it excited us to see him. It encouraged us to do more and better. There was something about his presence with our rewards that kept it all going that day.

There was a ceremony to present the trophy to Coach Becker and his team, and it was something like an afterthought, or we were just such an unexpected winner, no one knew what to say. There were a few other coaches, the Northwood team stood dutifully near, and a few athletes from teams that hadn't departed watched as the Northwood coach presented the Northwood Invitational Trophy to Coach Becker and Suitland High School.

The words were short, and without any suggestion of what it took to attain victory over twelve other teams, but it was still sweet, and the Suitland boys would cheer themselves madly and especially we jumped up and down and said our name for them a lot.

"Suitland! Suitland! Suitland," was our chant.

Perhaps it was a bit much but who were we to know about such niceties. We laughed a lot and cheered a lot. The bus ride back was full of songs and cheers, and the favorite, "Suitland, that's us."

We had gone to Northwood, and they didn't know our name. We came back with their trophy and they would never forget who we were. They were part of Suitland's history and tradition from this point forward and we would forever be part of theirs.

The bus had finally quieted down by the time we got back on our side of town. I remembered there was something I had to do but didn't know how to do it. I finally forced myself up out of my seat, moving forward in the slow moving bus. I dropped down into the seat next to our illustious high jumper and reached my hand out to shake his.

Beaudreault Scherer smiled, looked at my hand, and said, "What?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"You're a premadonna, Scherer, but you got guts. You ran a good race and we wouldn't have won if you hadn't volunteered. I just wanted to say thanks."

He eyed me suspiciously as I left him alone with his thoughts. Sometimes you've got to swallow your pride and give credit where credit is due, even if it's due by a guy that runs like a stork in labor, which made his feat that much more impressive. We could never be friends but we'd always be teammates.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

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"On Winning Book Two" Copyright © 2024 OLYMPIA50. All rights reserved.
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