Each boy handled the trophy with reverence as it passed around the bus. Each member of the team fell silent when his turn to hold the trophy neared. The power this piece of metal and wood held over us was palpable. For some time there wasn't a sound as all eyes followed its journey. It symbolized who we were, or more accurately, who we had become in a season when we could not lose.

I wasn't sure if it was by decree of the Gods, fate, or destiny, or maybe it was magic, controlled by forces just beyond our vision, or if it was the merger of the right coach, and the right boys, who came together at just the right time to create the magic that guided us from victory to victory.

Whatever it was, it had a power I'd never experienced before or sense. There was a pervasive aura of astonishment that took over the bus as our accomplishment was absorbed. As I watched the trophy moving from one set of hands to another, I knew winning was a grand experience to be a part of. It was not the first thing on my mind or even something I dwelled on when I wasn't on the track with my guys.

I felt good when we won, especially when my relay team won. I felt good for myself but mostly I felt good for my guys. I felt good that I hadn't screwed up and cost us a win. Winning at Northwood was wonderful because it was something I belonged to and it belonged to me. It was woven through the fiber of every boy on the bus and Coach. We'd always be part of it together and in this case, I can't see how we could have pulled it off without every effort being a maximum one, without every boy being exactly where he was to help slay the giant that was Montgomery County.

We had no right to think we could go to Montgomery County and beat twelve other teams and come home triumphant. It had never been done by the likes of us, but in the end, we had done it, and it was even grander than I could have ever imagined, and I never did imagine it.

When we returned from Catonsville victorious, we were absolutely mad. The bus ride back was instant insanity for fifty miles. Our celebration never stopped and there was no understanding of limitations. How do you know how to win when you've never won before? We'd just pulled off a huge upset in scholastic sport in the Washington D C area, and the bus was like a cathedral. We had celebrated and now we appreciated what we had done.

I don't know if I was fortunate because I remembered defeat or if I was cursed. What I knew was that I was glad to be there in that moment with those guys. I knew most of them only from the track. I didn't even like most of them or more accurately, had little or no feelings about them beyond the track, but we had all contributed and it was a team victory and that's all we needed to know. There was no dead wood on our team in my junior year. There were no hangers on. We were a lean, mean, well run machine, and everyone had a role to play, and if anyone, just one boy, didn't pull his weight and more, we'd have finished a silent second to a formidable Walter Johnson team and everyone would have thought we'd performed beyond all expectations.

We hadn't finished second to a formidable Walter Johnson team.

I knew my view of it was uniquely different from every other boy's observation. I was Mr. In-between. I joined the old team to the new team. Once my guys graduated, I was the only one left from my sophomore year and I had a perspective that carried on from the team of losers I joined, up to the championship team we turned into, and I would go on to whatever followed in my senior season.

Beaudreault carefully handed the trophy over the back of his seat to Droter. Once Droter examined it, he handed it to me. As I held it I noticed that it shined, had pillars, and a single figure on top of a shinny metal podium with one arm extended into the air with the torch of victory held high, and on the figure's head was a laurel wreath.

Whitey watched as I checked it out and he reached across the isle for it once I was done. I watched him hold it out in front of him soberly, expressionless. Then, he smiled that Whitey smile. I smiled and looked at Droter to see if he was watching, and Droter was smiling, and Beaudreault had stayed, turned around in his seat, kneeling to face us, and when I looked at him, he laughed a happy laughter, and the trophy made its way back to the front of the bus.

It stayed quiet and a lot of guys just stared out of their window. Being deep in thought, I was taken by surprise when we turned into the school. Coach stood as we rocked and rolled up the long driveway, avoiding the potholes as we moved toward where we'd disembark.

He held the pole that ran from floor to ceiling just beside the driver. He first looked out the window at our school as we bounced along. He held the bar tightly, wrapping his right arm around it so he couldn't be shaken off his feet. In his other hand he held the Northwood Invitational Trophy.

The Suitland's trophy!

All eyes were on Coach Becker as we waited for his summery.

"Gentlemen," Coach finally said, and he held up the trophy and shook it, bring his team back to life.

We roared our approval and the eruption continued until the bus stopped in its place behind the gym.

Parents and students moved up to the closed-door bus, waiting.

"Gentlemen, I told you this morning that you have had a successful season."

There was another eruption and stomping of feet that subsided quickly as we went back to listening.

Coach Becker now had a perpetual smile.

"I did not expect this!" He said, holding up the trophy again and we roared again as more people surrounded the bus.

One of the baseballers came clacking up to an open window a few rows ahead of me and asked Stein the question, "You guys win?"

"Yeah," David said, not taking his eyes off Coach.

The word was out.

"They won," he yelled down the side of the bus. "They won again."

Coach Becker lowered the trophy to the side of his leg.

"You did everything that you could possibly do out there today. You gave it everything you had and it took all of you to win this," and he only partially raised the trophy before continuing. "I want you to recognize the effort of the 4x400 relay team. Their effort was above and beyond the call of duty. I gave them one instruction. Beat Walter Johnson. They finished third and Walton Johnson finished fourth. If you reverse the two positions, Walter Johnson wins the track meet. They did what they had to do. Each of you did what you had to do and I'm proud of you."

A cheer went up as we saluted our team effort.

"Suitland 106 points. Walter Johnson 102," he added.

Another cheer filled the bus as it started rocking with enthusiasm.

"Whitey, your captain, and Beaudreault accounted for 50 points in the four events they participated in. They've done that all year but it took all of you giving all you had to win this trophy."

"I knew we were a solid team but we can barely cover all the events. Winning this is a testimony to how much you've accomplished with so little. I want to thank all of you for your performances today.

"If one of the team captains wants to say something I think we can hold these people off for a few more minutes. Thanks all of you."

My eyes found Whitey as he limped forward. My heart sunk when I saw that his leg could barely hold his weight. The muscles in his arms bulged as he used the seats to support him as he moved forward.

Coach Becker patted his back before handing him the trophy. Whitey stared down at it before turning to face his team.

"Gee! What a surprise. I didn't never expect this. I never gave it a thought … that we might win. I just wanted to do well. It's been a long time coming. We didn't score much my sophomore year. Last year we seemed to do the right thing at the wrong time, and the wrong thing at the right time, but we did win a track meet. We've had a good year and this tops it all off.

"This means a lot to me. Winning means a lot to me. I'm an athlete first. Athletes like to win," Whitey said, holding the trophy out in front of him so he could look at it and everyone cheered.

"If anyone told me we would go to Northwood and win this trophy when I was a sophomore, well, I think I would have gotten a good laugh, but we did win it, and I'm not laughing. You don't know how much sweeter that makes this. Thanks guys. You guys have got to win the County Championships now. Everyone will expect Suitland to win county after this."

Whitey handed the trophy back to Coach Becker and swung around to drop down in Coach's seat so he didn't need to move any further. There was no applause and no cheers. Everyone heard exactly what I heard and it brought reality into the celebration and took some of the luster out of our victory for me. "You guys" he had said and Whitey always said we and us. Maybe it was the excitement or maybe he wasn't going to run next week. If he didn't run, we weren't going to win.

Coach Becker moved back to center stage as he searched for some final words. It was a moment none of us wanted to let go of as the restless crowd grew and moved closer.

Coach leaned to look out at the faces, sensing it was time to share his team.

"Gentlemen, this is your trophy today. It will belong to Suitland High School as well as Prince George's County on Monday. Don't ever lose sight of what you did today and what it took to win this. Anything other than a maximum effort and Walter Johnson would own this trophy."

"Booooooooooooooooo!" came in a chorus as we grew restless.

"Next week, it's the Prince George's County Championship. Don't celebrate too much and don't forget that it will take another maximum effort to continue your winning streak. Don't let this fool you into thinking that teams like Northwestern and High Point are going to roll over for you. I'll guarantee you they can't wait to get a shot at you. Go on now and enjoy your weekend. Thanks."

A cheer went up as soon as the first guy stepped off the bus. It was a different greeting we received, but it was our first championship. While winning had become routine, even lesser sport fans recognized the magnitude of this win. Even if they didn't know anything about track, they knew Suitland wasn't supposed to win the big one.

We'd returned victorious all year long to an empty parking lot and a few interested baseball players congratulating us. and suddenly we were the center of attention.

Sports are weird.

Whitey refused any hand from me and so after exchanging handshakes with Coach Becker and my guys and a few of the team lingering in the parking lot, I slipped away still wearing my Suitland uniform.

My first stop was Tommy's. He wanted to hear every detail. While I understood that I had been part of something special, Tommy had a way of making me feel like things were always better than I first thought they might be. It's one of the reasons I shared everything with my friend, because I wasn't always sure about stuff until I saw his reaction to it, after I described what happened to him. Then, he almost always wanted me to tell him all over again, "and don't leaving nothin' out" and he looked at my gold medals as I talked. He was a good friend to have.

I left Tommy's happy, taking my medals home. I showed them to my parents before tossing them into my dresser drawer. They joined the bronze medal from the same track meet the year before. I took that one out and looked at it for the first time since the day I won it. Somehow the two gold medals made that bronze medal seem somewhat more palatable than it was before. We had redeemed ourselves in my eyes.

By Monday most of the excitement had worn off. It was just another day at school until the morning announcements announced our win. My homeroom teacher found it difficult to get order back once the questions started. Students I had little in common with and seldom talked to questioned me. I Dutifully answered until the teacher finally told us all to shut up.

There were more questions during the day and people spoke to me that had never spoken to me before. How so many knew I was on the track team, I don't know, but they knew. There were photos in the Echo, the school paper, every once in a while, and maybe they'd seen me in one of those or heard my name associated with the team.

By the end of the day the attention had worn me out, which wasn't that unusual. I was rarely a bundle of energy. As I strolled down the hallway to go to dress out for practice, Coach Becker called to me from his office,

"Thanks, Charles. Great day Saturday. You can be proud of yourself."

"Thanks, Coach," I said, stopping at the door. "How's Whitey."

He didn't say anything and then the answer came slowly, but I already knew what I would hear. It still hit me like a brick when it came from Coach.

"Says he's okay. I told him not to dress for the next few days. Rest it. You might want to work overtime on your starts. You're my man if Whitey can't go."

"He still limping?" I asked.

"Yeah, he is. Doesn't want any help. We'll see."

"He'll be able to run Saturday?" I threw in for clarification.

"I think so. I might hold him out of the hundred this week. Just run the relays and his race. You need to be ready though. Get in some starts."

Of course his race was the 200 and "it" was his right leg we'd never call right leg. Sports could get tricky if you weren't careful but I wasn't about to challenge this little bit of wisdom. I'm not sure why saying the word leg might somehow jinx him but some things you just don't take chances with. Everything had gone so well for so long, I didn't want to tempt fate by disregarding mindless superstitions that I didn't subscribe to anyway.

"Northwood Invitational Champion's. Nice!" I said, as I approached where Beaudreault and Droter sat on the locker room bench with Whitey Sheldon being uncomfortably absent.

"You hear about Whitey?" Droter asked, not reacting to the red meat I threw at them.

"Yeah, he'll be okay," I reassured them. "He's Whitey!"

"They don't heal on their own, Charles," Beaudreault said impatient with my optimism. "You need to come back to earth."

"Shut up. Whitey's tougher than you are. A little hamstring isn't going to put him out for the season," I snapped disagreeably.

The look Beaudreault gave me wasn't one of friendship and joy. We still had the ability to rub each other the wrong way in half a second. Droter didn't look very happy with either of us.

"You two cut it out. You might have plenty of opportunities to excel but these relays are all there is for me."

"That's all I've got, Droter," I argued, offended by his supposition.

"You've got next year, Charles," he said with hostility, and that shut me up.

"And you've got the 200," Beaudreault said, glancing at me as he tied his shoes, knowing that would send me into orbit.

"Don't even say that, Beaudreault."

"I'm telling you that you'll be running the open 200 before the seasons over."

"I'm not running the 200," I insisted. "Whitey is going to run."

"And just who do you think the air apparent is for the open 200? If Whitey can't go, you sure as hell better be ready," Beaudreault said. "We can't afford to just give up those points. You know how many points Whitey scores every track meet?"

"About the same amount as you, I'd say."

"Yeah, well why don't you give me some respect then?"

"I don't know. It's fun watching you get all pushed out of shape maybe?"

"Yeah, well, you'll have even more fun in the 200."

"That's right," Droter said. "You're the guy after Whitey."

"Whitey'll be fine," I repeated. "I couldn't carry his jock on my best day. I don't want to run the 200."

"We know that, Charles, but you better be ready just the same," Beaudreault advised.

"Shut up," I said.

"Are we getting all pushed out of shape?" Beaudreault asked, giving me his biggest grin.

The winds of change had come on Sunday and it had grown cloudy and cold, barely reaching sixty by Monday. The season that had each week a little better than the last ended, being replaced with harsher stuff and along with the bone chilling cold came the shin splints I'd fought last season and at the start of this one. While always just below the surface during the season, they surfaced with a vengeance, swiftly turning my legs into boils and out came the Atomic Balm.

Practice was disorganized. Droter and I stayed close while Beaudreault went to practice starts. The different groups mingled and there were a lot of small happy gatherings. While Northwood was last week's victory, it was still enough to get our juices flowing. The team was more of a team than ever before. It was enough to keep me entertained until I looked over to see Whitey in his red and white letterman's jacket, standing next to Coach Becker. It was not good to see him, not like that. It was a reminder of the unpleasantness I faced if he didn't return.

I found it necessary to get up and go over to see what was being said. I watched them chatting casually like all was well. Whitey shifted from leg to leg as he talked and I checked to reassure myself he was putting weight on "it". He was and there were no crutches, no cane, and no sign of any kind of aid to help him to walk.

"Hey!" I said as I stopped next to them.

"Hey, Charles," Whitey said, nodding and watching my approach.

"You okay?"

"Yeah! I'm fine."

"You'll run Saturday?" I asked, encouraged by the first answer.

"I'll be back Wednesday. Coach wants me to rest "it"."

"Cool!" I said approvingly. "I knew you would."

"Hi, Droter," Whitey said, giving him a smile.

"You okay?" Droter inquired as he looked at "it."

"Fine," Whitey repeated. "I'll be back Wednesday."

"He'll be back Wednesday," Coach Becker said loudly as he looked over my shoulder.

"Oh, how are you?" Beaudreault asked as he moved up beside me. "You okay? Going to be back Wednesday?"

"He's fine," I said and Beaudreault shoved me, not wanting my opinion on the subject.

"Fine. I'll rest it for a few days is all. I'm in good shape. Not many meets left. I'll just be careful with "it"."

"Told you," I said to Beaudreault, shoving him with a little more force than he shoved me.

"Hey! Hey! You two …," Coach Becker ordered.

"Shut up, Charles. You're getting on my nerves," Beaudreault said, giving up on the shoving match but shoving me with the look in his eyes.

Much to my relief, Whitey was back at practice Wednesday, limping a little more than I felt comfortable watching. He kept a low profile. There was no baton practice but something a little more distressing for me. Coach Becker called me down to the starting blocks and pointed me at Beaudreault's shinny aluminum block that was installed next to the cast iron versions restricted aluminum block.

"Take some starts. I want to watch you," he said.

"Why?" I asked no one.

The cold had intensified and Wednesday it was 52 degrees and the gusty winds blew like it was March. Each time I came out of the block I masked the pain as best I could but it was seriously getting in the way of what I was doing. The balm stayed hidden under my sweats but not the smell.

"Needs work, Charles. We'd better practice this every day for the rest of the season. You need to be ready."

Coach Becker walked away as I brushed the cinders off my hands and knees. It was difficult to find cinders on our track by this time in the season, but when I practiced starts, they all found me.

I couldn't wait for a hot shower and a new application of the orange goop. Neither Beaudreault nor Droter mentioned the prospects of my running one of the open races but they both kept an eye on me when I was practicing starts.

Beaudreault didn't even get ornery about me daring to touch his block, although it was hardly my idea. On Thursday he came over after Coach was done with me.

"Start," he ordered.

"What?"

"Make a start. I'll call it. On your mark… set… bang."

When he said bang, I started out of the block and my right arm folded up and I lay on my side in hysterics.

"Bang," I said. "Bang!"

"Charles, you've got to take this seriously. You aren't very good out of the blocks."

"You're telling me? Tell the Coach. I can't start," I said, getting up and brushing myself off again.

"What's wrong with your legs?" Beaudreault asked, watching me move.

"Shin splints," Droter said from where he leaned on the bleachers.

"How bad are they?" Beaudreault asked.

"Not bad."

"Very bad," Droter said.

"Shut up," I said.

"You tell, Coach? He'll give you something," Beaudreault said.

"Yeah, and he might not. I've got Atomtic Balm. You want to take the chance he won't pull me off the relays. I've had 'em forever. They'll be fine."

Beaudreault shook his head in disbelief.

"Leg injuries don't heal up without rest," he reminded me.

"It's not an injury. It's shin splints," I rationalized.

Before I knew it Saturday had rolled around. The perfect weather that had blessed every track meet that season, didn't bless the Prince George's County Championship. The overcast had set in and there was no relief. The winds had eased some and the temperatures rose into the low sixties. With sun that would have been enough to make the day tolerable, without the sun it was the kind of day I hated to be out in.

Our arrival at Northwestern was hardly noticed. We were the third team to arrive and took our usual spot in the corner of the bleachers. Everyone was in sweats and some guys had an extra sweatshirt. Merrill wore no sweat pants and only his red shorts and a sweatshirt to protect him from the cold. I shivered every time I saw him and I was already dreading the call that would force me out of my sweats.

Whitey wore his letterman's jacket over top of his sweats. The limp was less noticeable, but he mostly sat or stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of the jacket. I could read nothing in his posture and no one said anything to me about running any of his events.

The track meet couldn't start too soon for me because that meant it would end all the sooner. Beaudreault came out of the blocks fast and won the 100 going away. It was a slow time for him but it was less than a sprinter's day. Whitey stood next to Coach Becker at the finish line and checked the watch for Beaudreault's time. The winds gusted, the clouds darkened, and I shivered. Some guys asked to get back on the bus once they were done. Winter was back.

Beaudreault had a second championship for his resume. He wasn't as happy as he was after the win at Northwood, but no one was happy. It was too cold to smile. The first call for the 4x100 relay came five minutes after the 100 finished and none of us were all that anxious to get going.

Whitey kept his sweats on until after the lane draw. Droter went to the scorer's table and came back with lane two. It was a good draw.

Whitey and I started toward our places on the far side of the track.

"I'll get your sweats for you after I finish," I said.

"Yeah, thanks, Charles. You know you need to give me something extra today. I might not be able to gain much ground today. It would be nice if you brought me the lead."

"I will," I said as he stopped somewhere in the middle of the football field to look at me.

"Get me the baton and I'll do my best," he said, not looking as confident as usual.

"I'll get you the baton and you'll do the rest," I said.

"Yeah, I will."

He patted my back and smiled, walking away from me and I watched his steps carefully. The limp seemed more pronounced than earlier. I stood there for too long and then realized I had a race to run. As I stepped onto the track the starters pistol fired. Beaudreault would love that. They were wasting no time. I guess the starter was cold too. I only bounced twice before the count was ten and I got into position for my start.

Droter came off the turn looking like his knees might touch his chest on every stride. I'd never seen him run stronger. He was five yards ahead of the Northwestern runner and even when the stagger came into play on the third to fourth turns, we still had the lead by a good margin.

I bolted into action at the prescribed instant, taking no time to worry about all the things that could go wrong. The exchange went off without a hitch and I never saw Northwestern's guy again. I could hear him and a half dozen other boys who trailed us by a variety of distances.

Just as I felt my heart starting to pound wildly in my chest, I closed in on Whitey and he took off at an easier pace than usual. I watched him and adjusted my speed so that the baton hit him at precisely the instant he reached back for it. He took off, leaving me standing in the second lane, staring at each stride until he was well into the turn.

I walked along the curbing until I came to his sweats and after collecting them, I dashed across the infield. The Northwestern guy had passed me about the time I was slowing down. I'd estimate he was probably five yards behind Whitey with one or two yards he'd gain back before they reached the straightaway. I wasn't sure it was enough and I needed to know.

The cheers were loud as I moved over the curbing and onto the track, forcing my way between coaches and athletes to find my guys. Whitey was leaning on the front of the bleachers, while Coach Becker examined his right thigh. Droter stood to one side and Beaudreault stood on the other and both were intently watching Whitey, Coach Becker, and "it". I stood beside them.

"Put your weight on it," Coach Becker said.

"It's grabbing," Whitey said.

"Put your finger on the spot," Coach Becker said.

Whitey put all four fingers on a spot at the outside of his right thigh and rubbed deeply as he looked up at the top of the bleachers.

"Right there."

"I can wrap it if you think you want to try it," Coach Becker said, looking into Whitey's face.

"Yeah. Let's do that."

I sat behind Whitey as Coach Becker carefully wrapped the Ace Bandage in a crisscross fashion that would offer Whitey's hamstring some extra support. The team all stood on one side or the other and some stood in front of the bleachers, silently watching the operation.

"Try it," Coach Becker said after finishing the wrap.

"Hurts here," Whitey said, rubbing a spot close to where he'd rubbed before.

"Okay. Sit back down and I'll do it again."

"It moved?" I asked.

"A little," Whitey said. "I think it needs to go up maybe an inch."

It was unwrapped and carefully wrapped again while guys came and went from competition, some inquiring what was going on and others, like me, holding their breaths and hoping we had not lost our leader.

"Try it now," Coach Becker said, moving back to observe.

"Who won?" I asked, remembering what I came back for.

"We did," he answered with no sense of it in his voice.

I should have felt something but we'd won before. I was glad Whitey had finished for his sake, but it wasn't enough to make what was happening tolerable.

"Yeah," Whitey said. "That's better."

"You sure. Walk on it."

Whitey walked up and back as boys moved out of his way.

"Yeah, that's better."

"I can wrap it again," Coach Becker offered. "As many times as it takes."

"No, that's fine. It's okay. I think it was cramping up."

"You had a cramp," Beaudreault complained incredulously as his face showed the strain we all felt.

"Either that or Coach is a wizard. It feels better. Really!"

"He had a cramp," someone said, passing the acceptable word along quickly.

There was some nervous laughter as the boys had closed in as close as they could get to the activities.

"I can put Charles in the 200 if you want," Coach Becker suggested.

"He said he's fine," I said, not wanting to go there.

I handed Whitey the sweats I'd been clinging to and he smiled when he took them from me.

"Don't worry, Charles. I'm not ready to throw in the towel yet," Whitey said.

Even the suggestion made me uncomfortable.

"I know that," I said with relief.

"Just the same, you stay where I can find you," Coach Becker ordered.

"Where do you think I'm going to go?" I asked, being disagreeable.

"Maybe that girl will come for you again, Charlie," Ron Payne answered.

"Shut up," I said.

"Just stay close and keep yourself warm. Put your sweats on. You're going to catch pneumonia sitting around like that right after you just ran," Coach Becker said, being disagreeable back.

Beaudreault, Droter, and I had all forsaken our sweats while we sought news about Whitey.

"Fast and slow heats. You'll only start once," Coach Becker said, holding Whitey's sweatshirt as he put on the pants.

"Which heat am I in?" Whitey asked mischievously.

"You are the fast heat," Coach Becker said. "Even on one leg there's no one here that can catch you."

Beaudreault, Droter, and I sat directly behind Whitey. There wasn't much to say but we watched him like a hawk. None of us were going to be difficult to find if anything changed.

We won a few events and finished well in a few others, scoring as many points as anyone as the meet unfolded. As usual Northwestern and High Point stayed with us in points but once again Fairmont Heights refused to quit, always finishing second and third no matter who won.

Henry, from Fairmont Heights, stood and talked to me when I leaned over the bleachers to look at the Fairmont Heights guys who still sat beside us but down on the lawn and never in the bleachers.

"How's that big guy?" He asked me right away.

"I don't know," I answered.

"Well, we might have a chance if he's not going to run anymore."

"He'll run," I said.

"Yeah, he's something," Henry advised me. "He won at Northwood, huh?"

"Yep!"

"That's about a hundred teams go there, huh?"

"Yep, about. How come you guys don't go? You're sure giving us a run for our money."

"What's the name of that track meet again?" Henry asked, having become bolder and more relaxed with our surreptitious meetings.

"Northwood Invitational," I said for him.

"What's that word, invitation? We don't get many invitations to Montgomery County. We aren't exactly Montgomery County proper, if you catch my meaning."

I caught his meaning and then realized that integration had not come to all things. There was no requirement that you had to invite black schools to your track meets but there were black runners. We'd never seen Fairmont Heights at Northwood or any other Montgomery County meet. Like us, they'd risen out of losing programs to be competitive but no invitations came their way. Last year it wouldn't have mattered. They'd have stunk up the place just like we did, but at least we were given a chance to stink.

"Bi-County?" I asked about our next big track meet.

They were part of the Bi-County.

"Nah, Coach Freeman says we don't go where we aren't wanted. We get to chase you guys around here. That's pretty good. Maybe next year?"

"Maybe, Henry," I said, wondering what it was like.

The track meet lacked the excitement of the previous meets that season. It was more like work and it was more mechanical. Each time there was a victory there were backslaps and happy faces when the victors returned from battle. It lasted a few minutes and then we all did what we needed to do in order to endure the bleak day.

It took forever for the first call to come for the open 200. I walked with Whitey and Beaudreault as they collected their lane assignments. They were both in the fast heat and everyone knew who they were. There were restrained nods and muted salutations as lesser runners recognized "the man." Whitey had beaten most of these guys last week at Northwood and earlier in the season at random track meets along the way. He had remained undefeated in his event and the two sprint relays for the season and everyone knew the facts. He was the man to beat.

Whitey stretched gently but he didn't get down on the cold ground or make any sudden moves. His tentative preparations caught the attention of other competitors, and at one time or another each of them watched Whitey for some sign of weakness. They were like wolves on the hunt and they smelled blood. If Whitey noticed these looks he showed no sign of apprehension. He remained stoic, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his lettermen's jacket looking dispassionately as they all waited for the starter to call them to their marks.

The starter still looked neat and comfortable as he approached in his dark sports coat with one white silk arm that would hold the pistol. He smiled happily and ordered, "Runners take your mark."

The boys in the first heat stripped out of their sweats and started loitering behind the blocks, waiting for everyone to get ready. On Northwestern's track the 200 was run on the curve. Only the richer schools rated a straightaway 200. I saw running off the curve as being to Whitey's advantage. He'd have less opportunity to tighten up.

I wanted to get back so I could see the finish but I didn't want to leave without his sweats and no one in the fast heat was in a hurry to shed them. Whitey walked up and down two or three different times. Beaudreault stood off to one side, trying not to look at him. He then shed his sweats in a sudden flourish of movement that revealed the bandage to his competition for the first time.

No one missed it and the wolves were ready to run.

"I'm going to need those when I get done, Charles," he said as I stood holding his sweats.

"I know."

"Well, aren't you going to take them to the finish line for me? I'll be there in a minute."

"Yeah, Whitey. Look … I …."

"It'll be fine, Charles. It feels good. I'm okay. Really! I'll see you in a minute."

"Good luck. I'd say break a leg but it doesn't quite get there."

"No," he said soulfully. "Not quite but thanks just the same."

"Good luck, Beaudreault," I said, reaching to shake his hand and he thrust his sweats at it.

Once I arrived at the finish line, I stood beside Coach Becker without offering to take times. I ignored the first race, already listening for the gunshot that would start the second. My nerves were reaching the breaking point and I just wanted it to be over.

After the starter's pistol sounded an endless amount of time seemed to pass before the runners came into view. They stayed hidden by people who gathered on the corner of the infield to watch the start. I leaned out to see the beginning of the straightaway where the runners would first appear. My heart pounded as I waited for the line of runners to come racing out of the curve.

"Come on, Whitey. Come on, Whitey," I prayed softly.

It was difficult to tell who was in front as they all appeared off the curve at the same instant. Then I spotted Whitey and kept my eyes on his stride for any sign of failure. His lift was good, his strides were strong, and he was starting to take control of the race half way to the finish line. I didn't want to watch but lacked the ability to pull my eyes off of him for the final hundred yards. I cringed every time he put his weight on "it." No one seemed capable of overtaking him as long as he kept running.

I became more hopeful as they closed in on the finish line and then I prayed out loud.

"Come on, Whitey. Come on, Whitey."

The finish had never been in question except inside my head. Whitey was two full strides ahead of every one else. Beaudreault was two lanes outside of him and finished third, right on the shoulder of the Northwestern guy.

Whitey ran through the finish line after offering the perfect lean for a perfect race. The tape broke, sliding across his thick chest as his arms were raised up and out in perfect finishing form. It would have made a great picture and I was glad it was over.

Whitey was still the champ and I stopped watching his strides for signs of weakness. Whitey stopped twenty yards down the track, staying in his lane. He leaned forward with his hands on his knees and didn't move. Some of the other runners patted his back and then left him alone. Coach Becker and I ran together not so much to congratulate him but to see if he was okay. Beaudreault stood next to him with a hand on his shoulder as he spoke to him.

"I'm okay. Just glad that's done," he said, standing as we came up. "I didn't think I'd make it out of the block. The pain really hit me on my start but then it was okay during the rest of the race."

"Okay!" Coach Becker said. "It was beautiful. Great finish."

"Thanks, Coach. It was a good run," Whitey said, touching Coach's arm as he spoke.

There was a finality in the words that didn't fit the occasion. It wasn't a thank you for the compliment but a bigger thanks was mixed up in the comment. It took some time for me to figure it out.

"You sure you don't want me to get someone else for the relay?"

"What? No!" Whitey said firmly. "I'm okay. It's my starts."

He might have been okay but he limped back to the bleachers. The ace bandage was rearranged and Coach Becker missed the half-mile and other events as he attended to Whitey's leg. Every guy on the team stopped to tell Whitey what a great race he had run and to see if he was okay.

Beaudreault, Droter, and I sat behind him, waiting to hear that he wasn't going to take the chance of running again today. He never said it and he didn't move and neither did we.

I suppose, the excitement had drained out of us after our win at Northwood. There wasn't any discussion about us winning the County Championship but I never doubted that we would. Maybe I thought we would win some of the smaller track meets. I don't remember ever thinking that thought but I thought it at Northwestern that day. I expected us to win. All we had done was win every week that season. It was becoming safe to believe.

My worry had always been for my events and my guys. It took a lot of energy to keep that under control. The team at large had to be responsible for the other events. I didn't think large enough to be a believer until now. I believed we were good and I believed there weren't many teams who could beat us when we were on our game. Of course this was a setup for disappointment, too, especially when sport was so fluid and fortunes could turn on the slightest imbalance in a previously sound and stable team.

The other half of the winning equation at county was the fact we had beaten twelve teams last week and there were only half as many to beat this week. It wasn't much of a reach to see us being victorious. That's what a difference a week can make.

The first call came for the 4x200 relay.

"You want to warm up," Beaudreault said, leaning over Whitey's shoulder.

"No. Droter can go get the lane assignment. We'll walk over to the infield and wait. You know you guys need to get me something extra."

"We know," Beaudreault said, glancing at Droter and I as we got up to exit the bleachers.

Coach Becker had listened to the conversation but remained silent. I could see the concern on his face. For a second it looked as though he might intercede, but he didn't. I thought it was about respecting what Whitey wanted at this point.

I wasn't sure why Whitey wanted to keep running on a bum leg that might give out on him at any time, but he did, and in some selfish way I was glad he did. I didn't want to handoff to anyone else. There were only two meets left and I was hoping Whitey would be able to run both. I wasn't sure how well we'd run without him. I wasn't sure who'd anchor if he didn't. It wasn't something anyone was going to bring up until absolutely necessary.

After getting the lane assignment, our preparations consisted of wishing each other good luck. None of us were taking off our sweats until absolutely necessary, so there was no ceremony or distraction for us beyond waiting to be released to our position on the track.

We all knew that we would need to get Whitey as much of a lead as we could if we were going to keep the pressure off him. He'd been the man ever since the team started running together and it was our turn to carry him for a change.

"I can run this but don't expect me to make up a lot of ground today," Whitey said with certainty. "Get me all you can."

"Stop worrying. We'll get it done," Beaudreault said confidently. "You're sure about this?"

"I'm sure," Whitey said resolute as his teammates pawed at the sod with none of us making eye contact.

"You need to bring me something, Charles."

"I will, Whitey."

"Don't let me down."

"I won't, Whitey."

"I'll do the rest," he said, a little less certain than usual.

He was limping noticeably when he walked Droter into the infield to go to their position. We'd drawn lane one and there couldn't have been a better time for that. It meant we didn't need to cut to the pole and everyone else did. It was a distraction we didn't need. If nothing went wrong it was a certainty that Beaudreault would be in front when he handed off to Droter. I was sure Droter wouldn't yield up a yard to his competition and that meant it was up to me to hold whatever they gave me and add to it if I could. Then Whitey wouldn't feel as much pressure to give all he had to the effort.

Once the race started, I got no objections when I settled into the first lane as soon as the blocks were carried off the track. The other runners knew who I was and they had all run against Suitland that year and knew we were likely to be in first when the baton came to me. I could see Droter all the way through turns three and four because most fans had taken refuge in the school by then. He was leading by half a dozen yards and came into the front stretch in command of the race. I'm sure we were leading by ten yards by the time he was approaching the zone. My heart still tried to leap from my chest as I waited to make my move.

I took off without maximizing my acceleration to make Droter's job easier. Once he passed me the baton, I took off with a vengeance. I could still hear Northwestern's guy behind me but he didn't sound like he was closing the distance between us as I went into the first turn.

I remembered the first day I ran track at Northwestern and how they went out of their way to humiliate us by running two relay teams. I kicked it up a notch to be sure I didn't lose any ground to Northwestern. They were the team I disliked most of all and I used the humiliation of my first track meet to enhance my performance. I wanted to look, make sure I was adding to the lead, but I didn't dare turn my head.

Whitey face gave nothing up. There wasn't a smile or any expression I could read, simply his steady gaze as he studied my approach. As he took off I tried not to pay attention to the way he favored his right leg. The exchange went as quickly as I expected it would and Whitey left me standing still. I stepped onto the infield and watched him, afraid that if I took my eyes off of him the leg would falter and fail him. Only after he was well into the turn did I collect his sweats and start for the finish line.

Coach Becker had carried a camera to one of the early track meets that season. He wanted to get a picture of our baton exchanges. I don't know if he was serious or just trying to make us feel good about our race. When the pictures came back, he said that there wasn't even one where he caught the exchange at the instant both runners had possession of the baton; our handoffs were that fast according to him.

I had seen the Northwestern runner fifteen yards behind Whitey after the handoffs were made and the High Point runner was trying to make a move to pass him before they had reached turn three. Whitey was already in the middle of the turn, heading for the front stretch.

I still kept my eyes on him until he was within ten yards of the finish line. It was then that he disappeared behind the coaches and observers that gathered at the finish line. He was still leading by fifteen yards with ten years to go. He might not have been able to run as fast as he wanted but he ran fast enough to keep the lead we gave him. Northwestern finished third behind High Point. I was happier that Whitey was still standing than I was about the victory itself. I felt a great relief as we all stood together and took the congratulations from a grateful team.

We climbed back into the bleachers and waited for the final events to be run. The quality of the day also put a damper on the enthusiasm. I was ready to get on the bus, figuring it would be warmer.

Todd won the mile and the regular 4x400 relay team competed with none of the fanfare of the previous week's performance. We won the track meet and were Prince George's County Champions for the first time and remained undefeated for the season. Next week was the Bi-County Championship(Bi-County as in two counties, Montgomery and Prince George's).


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

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