On Monday the track team was again recognized for their second championship in two weeks. The County Championship brought about accolades and complements from sources that had never mentioned us before. We'd had an excellent season and by far the best season of any sports team in some time.

My first year we were only mentioned once and it was no big thing. Now we were the talk of the school. People stopped me in the hall to ask me about the team. Some guys I hadn't spoken to since elementary school suddenly wanted to talk. I didn't mind. I'd never been a big deal before. I knew I still wasn't a big deal but I was lucky enough to be running with guys who were and so I accepted the generosity in people's words and considered myself lucky. It was better than being invisible.

The cold never let up and the overcast was almost as persistent. On Monday Coach Becker met with the team in the gym. He was low key and made no demands on his team. We were to do light exercise and everyone but the distance men could stay inside. I noticed Whitey's absence but it wasn't discussed and I didn't want to know.

I set the school record for jumping jacks that afternoon, since we had little else to do as practice. We were all in great shape and didn't need any extra conditioning, but we were also sixteen years old and had more energy than the law allows. By Tuesday Don Kennerly had eclipsed my jumping jack record. I had quit out of boredom and not because I was tired but I didn't have any interest in reclaiming that mark. I did move on to the sit-up record on Tuesday and Ronnie Powell and Charlie James stayed with me until five hundred before they lost interest in the competition. I wore a blister on my butt and threw in the towel at 850.

There was no break in the weather and these were the things that occupied our time, while we waited for the week to pass. It was the first time since I joined the team that I got involved in anything outside my own little niche. The confinement after so many months of being outside added to the need to do something to help the time pass. Mostly it was the first time I had interacted with other juniors.

While I knew and liked guys like Kennerly and Powell, they weren't the guys I was close to on the team. The guys I was closest to were all about to move on. Graduation was nearing and my guys would leave me behind, and the only guys I'd have to relate to were the guys in my class. It's not something I gave a great deal of thought to but we'd all drawn closer as the season progressed. We knew we depended on each other to get the desired result. Then there was a question if there would be a next year. I'd had a very distinct purpose in returning to the track team my junior year, but I had given no thought to a reason why I'd return my senior year.

Whitey still hadn't shown up at practice on Tuesday. By the time I was finished playing with school records both Droter and Beaudreault had gone on Tuesday. The weather was even worse. It rained. It could have snowed in my mind but it was only the deadly north wind that made it seem so cold. We'd lucked out with weather for months and now we were paying the price.

It did ease somewhat on Wednesday. The winds weren't blowing as hard and it got into the mid-fifties and even the sun shined between the big dark walls of clouds that ruled the May skies. Perhaps it seemed better because Whitey finally showed up and dressed for practice. He had on his sweats when I caught up with him on the backstretch as he walked down toward the junior high school, keeping a low profile and not having any interest in answering any questions about "it"

"Hey!" I said, after I trotting two thirds of the length of the backstretch to catch up with him.

"Hi, Charles."

"How are you?" I asked in an effort to ease my mind.

"Fine," he said, continuing his walk, while avoiding the subject that most interested me.

"Ready for Saturday?"

"I guess. How about you?" I probed further.

"Raring to go," he said, as I watched him favor his leg.

"You sure you should?" I asked, worried that his leg would give out on him.

"What kind of a question is that, Charles?" he asked, stopping to face me with his question.

"I mean you could make it worse is all," I said, sensing some hostility and wanting to get to the subject.

"Worse than what, Charles?"

"Worse! Worse than it is. Hurt yourself worse."

"It's hurt already. It makes no difference if it is hurt a little worse."

"I just don't want you to …."

"To? To what? To run? You've already got my 200 slot. You want to anchor too. You think you're the guy Coach'll pick to replace me when the time comes? You think you're that good, Charles?"

"No! What? What do you mean I have your 200 slot. I don't want the 200 slot and I sure don't want to anchor your relay."

Whitey looked me over for a second and then eased back on his anger with me. He started walking again and I walked beside him, silently waiting. For what, I wasn't sure?

"This is it for me. This is all I get, Charles. We have one more meet and then state and I graduate the week after that. I don't get next year or the year after that. I want to go out running not sitting on the bench."

"Your leg. I mean you haven't even been to practice. Why aren't you running the 200?"

"Starts. I knew Saturday it wouldn't take any more starts. It wasn't all that bad when I ran on it. My kick isn't there."

"I'm suppose to run the open?"

"Uh huh! Coach wanted me to talk to you about it. That's why he hasn't told you. You've got to pick up the slack. I'm done in the 200."

"It's not fair. That's your race. You're the fastest 200 man in the state."

"Yeah, well, we'll have to live with the fact that you and I know it."

"You're going to run the relays?"

"I intend to run the relays."

"Even though you might tear up your leg."

"You want me to quit? Just say I can't do it because I might hurt myself worse? I might feel pain?"

"No! I don't want you to quit. I don't want to hand off to anyone else."

"What do you want then? Why don't you just leave it alone, Charles?"

"I worry about you."

"Don't," Whitey said, stopping again. "What's wrong with you?" He barked, catching me by surprise.

"Nothing," I defended, not sure it was true.

"Let me see your legs," he ordered sternly.

"What?"

"Take off your sweat pants. You want to get in my business? Let's get into yours."

"It's not like that, Whitey."

"Take off your sweat pants."

I went in a circle pulling off my stiff sweats. Once I had them in my hand he looked at my legs.

"What's wrong with your legs?"

"Nothing," I claimed.

"What's that orange crap for then?"

"You guys told me to use it," I said.

"You've still got them? You limped around all day Saturday. You're limping now."

"I didn't. I'm not," I argued.

"You did too. I was there, Charles. Everyone isn't as dumb as you think. You think I didn't know your shin splints were back. Every time it gets cool your shin splints act up. Why do you run, Charles? You know you could hurt yourself? You know you can do some serious damage to your legs? The only thing that heals those things is rest. So, let's go over to Coach Becker right now and tell him you're going to rest 'em for a week or two."

"No!"

"No, and why not?" he asked.

"I want to run," I said, not knowing why he was picking on me.

"So do I, Charles. Put on your sweats. It's cold out here. You're going to freeze your nuts off."

I had to trot to catch him again. I walked beside him wanting to say something to make him understand I didn't want to run in his place. I just didn't want him to hurt himself any more than he already had.

"This is all I get, Charles. It's all anyone gets. You're problem is that you always think you know what's going on and you don't and you're too willing to tell us what you think. Actually you don't know all that much. What you need to do is talk less and listen more."

"I know," I said. "I'm sorry."

"I wish you'd shut up some times," Whitey said, shaking his head. "This isn't about you being sorry. Why don't you just listen for a change?"

"I'm sorry," I said, feeling hurt by his words.

"Charles, there's nothing to be sorry about. You do what you do and I do what I do. You've just got to let me do what I do in my own way. I'm not doing anything I don't want to be doing. Do you understand that?"

"Yes. No."

"Charles, why do you run? You limp around here and smell like Atomic Balm and fall on your face every time you come out of the starting blocks."

"Only when Beaudreault makes me laugh," I defended.

"No, it's not only when Beaudreault makes you laugh. Your starts suck and we all know why they suck. You have shin splints. You can ruin your legs if you keep running with shin splints, so why do you do it is what I'm asking you. Why don't you just sit down?"

Whitey's anger resurfaced as he drew parallels between himself and me. He stopped to wait for a reply and I really didn't have one I thought he was going to understand.

"So I can run with you?" I said, looking to one side so I wasn't looking at his eyes to see his reaction.

"So you can run with me?" he repeated with surprise in his voice.

"You guys. All of you. It's what I do. It's the best thing I've ever done."

"We're all equal members of the team. We all have our job to do."

"I know that. I know I'm lucky to be able to run with you guys. If I give any indication I can't cut it, Coach has guys who can replace me. I can't take that chance."

We walked again but he seemed to have some understanding for what I was telling him.

"Charles, I do what I do. I don't do it for you. It's what I do is all it is. I'm going to keep doing it until I can't do it any longer."

"You're limping. That leg won't keep going forever," I said.

"Beaudreault wasn't?"

"Wasn't what?" I asked.

"Last year. He never limped a bit. He was running great. Bam! That was that. It just went. Season over. Maybe we should all quit running because our legs might just go all of a sudden."

"That's all the more reason for you to take care of yourself. What if you do serious damage to yourself. You might not be able to run in college."

"College? Charles, why are you so worried about me? College is a million miles away. This is here and now and what I've got to deal with today. When I'm in college I'll deal with college. If I quit then I'm done. I don't want to be done. If I can't run any more, okay. I can deal with that. As long as I can run, I will run. It's what I do, too."

"Yeah, I understand. It still worries me. I wish you weren't hurt. I wish you got to show them at Bi-County."

"It's what I do," he said. "We do the same thing. Why should I do something you aren't willing to do?"

"I don't know."

"Exactly. You don't know so just let loose of it and let me do it my way and you get to do it your way in a couple of weeks …"

"I wouldn't run if I wasn't running with you," I said. "You and the guys. I would have quit by now if I wasn't running with you."

"That's okay but I'd run no matter if you ran or not."

"I know," I said.

"We've got two more meets. If I'm lucky I'll make it to the end. That's what I want to do. We've had a good year. We're a good team. I know I'm not going to win any more 200 races but I can run the relays."

"We can't win at Bi-County," I said.

"We couldn't win, Northwood," he said. "But we did."

"Yeah, but we needed every point. Without you in the open we lose ten or fifteen points," I deduced. "Not only that, someone else gets them."

"Maybe! If we can't win we can still give them a run for their money. Everyone can't win all the time. There's a time for winning and a time to step aside. We've done more than any one ever thought we could. We've done okay. We'll do okay Saturday."

"I'm the only guy left, Whitey."

"Left? What's that mean?"

"When you guys graduate, I'm the only guy left from last year. That's where it started."

"I never thought of that, Charles. You're the only guy that'll stay here and be able to remember where it started."

"I've always been with you guys," I said. "I might not come back next season."

"Life's like that and it is what it is. You get to come back. You get to see what it means to be a champion. None of the guys from last year will ever know what that's like. You're lucky, Charles. We got the experience of being champions but we'll never get to see how it turns out. You'll be with a lot of these guys next year and new guys will be coming along. You can make sure they know about us."

"None of the juniors were with us last year. None of them know about losing, fighting each other, and all the lunacy when we lost and then we won and then Beaudreault got hurt. None of them know any of it," I complained.

"That's the way life is. You do know. You remind them it wasn't always winning for us. My first year was like last year. We couldn't get out of our own way. We only beat one or two teams the entire season. I didn't run all that much."

"How would they ever be able to relate to what we went through to get to where we are? The only experience they've had is winning," I said.

"Got me. I don't guess they've got to know. We've won all year and maybe they'll win next year and what else do they need to know?"

"Without you guys? You and Beaudreault."

"We're only two guys, Charles," he said, laughing at my insistence as we stood there talking in the middle of the third and fourth turns at the spot where I usually handed off to him in the 4x100 relay.

"You guys hold this team up. Yeah, we'd be okay without you. We'd probably be better than average, certainly better than last year, but without you two, no championships, and probably few wins."

"You give us too much credit. We just do what we do."

"You're the best, Whitey. I might run my mouth too much and I might not understand things, but you and Beaudreault are the best there is. I know that much. I consider myself lucky, getting to run with you the past two years."

He didn't have anything to say about that. He looked at me and knew I was serious about what I had to say. He was a senior and me being a junior left a pretty wide gap between us. It's not like I knew anything about him away from the track or like he knew anything about me, but I'd been as close to him and my guys as I'd ever been to anyone. I trusted them as much as I trusted anyone. We'd shared something special and I didn't want to let go of it.

"Thanks, Charles. That's a nice thing for you to say. I never thought of it that way. I've never tried to see it from your point of view. It's all about winning and competition for me."

"It's not enough. I want to say more. I want to go with you guys. I don't want to run without you. I don't want it to end, Whitey."

"It's your team next year. Who will Coach depend on to bring continuity to the team if not you? You'll be his only returning three-year man and you'll probably be captain. You two will be here and you two were both here last season when it all started. So, you see, you aren't alone. You and Coach both know the history. You've had the experience. It's up to you to pass it on to the guys that follow us. It's your job to pass it on so they know we did good things."

"... And I didn't mean that stuff I said about you mouthing off. That's something a senior says to a junior and when we're out there on the track, Charles, you've never let me down. I was just mad about you wanting my spot, you know? I know that's not true. Maybe I'm just mad about the way it's got to end for me. It's not easy sitting down and watching your team go on without you."

"You're okay, Charles. You've done everything you've been asked to do, but it is going to end and you're going to be the only one left. Whether you come back or not, that's nothing I have anything to do with. I think you need to come back if it's going to end the right way for you. I don't get that choice."

"I know that," I said solemnly. "But I won't forget you. Never. I'll remember you guys and I'll remember what we did this year and no one beat you all year in the 200 and not in the relays. I'll remember that, too."

"Have you practiced starts? You've got to get a good start," Whitey said, concerned for how his race would be run.

"Some last week. When I fell on my face? Remember?"

"You're taking my place. A lot of guys would kill to get a shot at running the open 200 in a Championship."

"No one can take your place and I don't like it at all."

"Maybe not but it's your 200 now. I can't tell you what to do. The start is the key. You've got to stay in the race from the start. Then you make your move when you can. It's your first time and the rest of these guys are seniors."

"You know what it's like when I think about running your race?"

"No, but I hope you think you'll give it your best shot."

"You know why I don't want to run your race?"

"Your race, Charles. No, but I'm sure I'll know soon," Whitey said, smiling but failing to slow me down.

"I think I don't want to embarrass myself. They'll be expecting Whitey Sheldon and I'm going to show up," I said. "Speaking of having a good laugh."

"Cut it out, Charles. You've got to get your feet wet sooner or later. It's your time."

"I don't know about that."

Coach Becker made the decisions necessary to get the most out of our team. I was aware that his sudden interest in me practicing my starts wasn't a whim that came over him as we entered the championship season. He was already making plans for me to step in when Whitey stepped out, and he knew Whitey would step out for the good of his team. There were twenty points to be earned in our relays if Whitey anchored them both, and there was a good chance that Whitey's leg wouldn't make it through another round of starts. The decision was tactical so we could get the most out of what we had.

I understood what was going on but with my shin splints, starting made them more obnoxious and the pressure it added to my shins drove me to distraction, but to run the relays I'd have to run the open 200 and I wasn't going to miss the relays if I had anything to say about it.

*****

It couldn't have been a nice day. In fact it was threatening rain and the winds were gusting when we arrived at Walter Johnson for the Bi-County Championship. There were fifteen teams in all and once again Coach Becker reminded us to take it one event at a time.

"Two weeks ago, when we were on our way to Northwood, I told you that we'd had a successful season. We won at Northwood and we won the Prince George's County Championship since I said that. Success doesn't describe what you've boys have done. You've all contributed and you've all been part of what has been a perfect season.

"Today, we face even more teams, Whitey's out of two events that accounted for 17 points at Northwood. We won't earn those points today and another team will. This is the reality we need to face.

"Gentlemen, this track meet comes down to one event at a time. Today we go out there and give a maximum effort in every event. If you give me what you've given me all season, we'll be fine. You are already champions. You are undefeated and you have every right to be proud. When you go out there to face the fourteen other teams, you hold your head high and walk with pride in your step. You've earned that right. I couldn't have asked you to do more than you've done. So, today, go out there and have fun, and do your best, as I know each of you will."

The rules at the Bi-County only allowed a participant to compete three times. You could do two running and one field, or two field and one running, or in my case I was listed on the chart to compete in three running events. The two sprint relays and the open 200. Seeing Whitey's name scratched out and my name written over top of his was not reassuring or comforting. I would run the race, give it my best shot, and hope for the best, and that was the optimistic view.

The day started off just fine. Beaudreault had no difficulty qualifying for the finals of the hundred and both Ron Payne and Don Kennerly were in the finals of the hurdles. We'd started out right where we'd left off. With fifteen teams there would be less points to go around and more competition. Montgomery Blair had shown up and we'd been trading the Bi-County record in the 4x100 relay all year. For the first time we'd be going head to head in that event. Both teams were undefeated.

We knew they were serious competition in a year when there had been little serious competition, but with Whitey's leg as the wildcard, the relay team knew that Blair would give us a run for our money and that's if Whitey's leg held out.

When the call came for the first relay, we were all ready to go. We had stayed close together once Beaudreault qualified for the 100, not talking but mentally preparing ourselves. For the first time Whitey's teammates got a look at his leg, when Coach Becker came to double check his handiwork. The leg was now wrapped from just above his knee and the bandage extended up under his running shorts, covering completely his thigh. It probably took two or three bandages to accomplish the feat.

At first it alarmed me but I tried not to give it more significance than it was worth. It didn't make me feel any better about our prospects, and both Beaudreault and Droter took turns looking at the wrapping on our anchor's leg. It was supposed to give him the support he needed to keep the leg from getting worse, but that too was wishful thinking as far as I was concerned. Mainly I watched the way he walked as Coach Becker made adjustments to accommodate each complaint. We all watched until the sweats were back on. We waited until the last minute to leave the bleachers. The cold blustery weather, still threatening rain, would be a real chore when it came time to get out of our sweats to run.

There was no question about us being in the fast heat, although fast was probably a misnomer when considering the quality of the day. The way the winds gusted around the Walter Johnson track, there was little chance of any records being set. Blair's team was posturing as we came to the start finish line. They were currently holding the 4x100 relay record and we wanted it back. They all took turns checking out Whitey's limp but nothing was said. It was too late for talk. The moment of truth had arrived.

The draw for lane assignments turned into a small defeat for Suitland. We found ourselves out in lane seven. Blair drew lane three and they would have us in their sights for the entire race. We wouldn't get a look at them until Whitey came off the fourth turn and hit the front stretch. This wasn't good for Beaudreault either. He liked being drawn out by having the runners in front of him, but that's not what we had to work with.

So far everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. We stayed huddled together until the slow heat started. We wished each other well near the starting blocks and Whitey and I moved into the infield for a silent walk until he stopped at the point where he split off from me.

"Get me the baton and I'll do the rest," Whitey said as he avoided putting his weight on his bad leg.

"I'll do it," I said and we parted halfway across the football field.

I stood watching him walk. It did not give me a great deal of confidence. This was such a quick race that there wasn't any room for mistakes but I wasn't sure it wasn't a mistake for Whitey to keep running. I walked the rest of the way across the infield, leaving my sweats next to the curb before moving all the way out to the next to last lane. It seemed awkward, like I wasn't banished out beyond the competition in the forbidden zone.

My preparations had me lacking the focus I needed and the brisk winds kept reminding me how much I hated the cold. I lost track of the count after the starter's pistol fired and when I turned to find Droter, he was coming out of the second turn, I could read nothing into our positioning as I'd never seen it before. We might have been leading and we might have been trailing Blair but the stagger distorted the appearance of where we stood in the race.

We had passed the team in the eighth lane by the time I got the baton, so I knew we weren't last. I tried to get into the race as best I could. My instincts told me to look to see where Blair was. My race never felt right but it was over too fast to know what was wrong.

The bitter day added to the discomfort of not knowing where we stood but I did my best to hold my own and I was handing off to Whitey before I could pull my race all together. I still had no idea where we stood with Blair seeming to be several yards behind me but they were on the inside and would pick up several yards between the third and fourth turns. I didn't think anyone would know who was leading until the runners hit the straightaway and I was a quarter of the track and a few hundred people away and my sweats were in another time zone and which way to go was a real quandary for a few seconds.

I stumbled over the curb as I tried to retrieve Whitey's sweats on the run. One of the officials grabbed my arm to keep me from ending up on my face, pulling me back to my feet and bidding me, "be careful" as I sped off for the finish line.

Even when I got there I wasn't able to sort out the ending. Whitey stood in front of the bleachers and Beaudreault and Droter stood next to him. I crossed the track to join them as Coach Becker raced up to where we stood.

"I'm sorry," Whitey said to me. "I just didn't have a kick. I tried but there wasn't anything there."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Second," Droter said. "Blair by a step."

"You okay?" Beaudreault asked.

"I'm sorry," Whitey said to Beaudreault. "I didn't have it. I should have held him off. There wasn't anything there. I shouldn't have run. I let you guys down."

"Who else was going to run?" Beaudreault asked with certainty in his voice. "We came to win. We gave it our best shot. We'll get them in the next race."

"It's our first loss," Whitey said somberly. "No one beat us all season until today. I didn't have it. I just didn't have anything for him."

"It wasn't your fault," I said. "I didn't have it. I never really got going. It's too damn cold for a good race. You did what you could."

"It's cold all right," Beaudreault said. "I'm cold. I need my sweats and I've got a race to run in about fifteen minutes. We'll get them in the next race."

"How does it feel?" Coach Becker asked.

"Fine. The leg's okay. It's fine. I just didn't have anything for him."

"I've got it wrapped pretty tight, Whitey. I'll loosen it some before the 4x200 relay. We can try that if you want to run on it. That might help."

"Want to?" Beaudreault asked. "We can't let them get away with that. We don't have any chance without Whitey. I want to win the 4x200. I want those guys."

"Me too," Whitey said. "We can beat them. I know we can. One step," he lamented.

I handed Whitey his sweats and went back across the track to retrieve my own. When I came back, Whitey was sitting in the front row next to Coach Becker. His elbows were on his thighs and his head was bowed as he leaned forward in a defeated posture. It was hard to see him less than perfect. He had carried the weight all year as long as the winning streak lasted and now he was going to carry the weight for our loss.

"Second out of fifteen teams isn't bad," Coach Becker said to no one and if Whitey was paying attention, he had nothing to say.

The seeds of doubt were sown and Beaudreault came to say Whitey might withdraw from the 4x200 and he would withdraw as well if Whitey didn't run. Beaudreault suggested that we all go ask him to run and it didn't take any more than a suggestion for us to get onboard. On one leg Whitey was head and shoulders above most anchors and we needed him to win. We had run as a team all year and we wanted to finish as a team if we could.

We did well in some events and not so well in others. The quality of the day took the enthusiasm out of us as it had at Northwestern the week before. We ran our events, did the best we could do, and scored our share of points. Our predicament was never more clear than after Beaudreault won the 100. We had lost five points from what we scored in the same event at Northwood even though Beaudreault won the race, adding another championship to his record.

Even Beaudreault was less thrilled than he had a right to be. It was obvious that the 4x200 relay was already on his mind. He stayed in race mode and had nothing to say, smiling weakly as his teammates stopped to congratulate him on the day's first victory. Droter and I stayed close to Beaudreault and we sat behind Whitey, who wasn't talking or showing any signs that he might be ready to run.

As the meet went on and my race neared, the butterflies flew like condors inside me. No matter what I did, or thought, or tried to divert my mind with, I couldn't get excited about the 200. The weather got no better but after a few sprinkles it had improved a bit. It was a long way from a sprinter's day and the glorious days we'd known all season.

Whitey perked up long enough to wish me well before I went off to run, but he stayed put beside the coach when I got up to report for the 200. Droter walked with me and kept reassuring me that I would do fine. He wasn't much of a salesman. It was a high powered meet with the best 200 men in the state and it was a straightaway 200 to boot. I knew all the difficulties the straightaway two hundred could bring to a runner experienced in the race, but I knew better than to look down the track at the finish line. I knew it would appear to be about a mile away.

The one saving grace was it wasn't run in heats. There was a slow heat and a fast heat and by virtue of Whitey's times, I ended up in the fast heat. I drew lane seven and remembered the same lane from the 4x100. I wasn't sure if it was a good sign or a bad one. Seven was a lucky number after all.

Droter kept trying to get me to focus. For once I didn't have much to say. He stood with me as I sunk down into my starting block to try it out. My legs glowed orange from the extra application of Atomic Balm. I had to strain to get back up as the shin splints fired up. Droter shook his head and looked away as I walked it off.

My butterflies turned into nausea as I shivered after removing my sweats too soon. I worked hard at getting my mind back on my business. The other nice thing was the starter wasted no time getting the show on the road. I sunk into my block, came up to the set position right away, and almost as soon as I was set, the starters pistol was ringing in my ear. I tried to stand up fast, knowing my race was running and not starting, so the sooner I got to it the better off I'd be.

I seemed to be a step behind everyone except the Northwestern sprinter who ran stride for stride beside me in lane six. I saw the finish line for the first time and it was still a mile away and it felt as though I'd already run at least a mile.

It took me the first fifty yards to be sure my shins weren't going to fall off. I was still running behind most of the runners and beside Northwestern as I started to open up my stride. I wasn't sure which of us was last but one of us was and I didn't like it. I was determined I wouldn't be last at the finish line.

As the race unfolded I finally felt a small surge of energy that had me running more smoothly. As we came to the finish line elbow to elbow, I did my best to give it my best lean, throwing myself in front of the Northwestern runner, and at the same time falling flat on my face, sliding the last five yards on my stomach. For good measure and as a token of the Northwestern's appreciation for my effort, the Northwestern runner ran up my right arm. I had a face full of cinders and an arm and a hand full of spike holes for my effort. I thought that was an indication I had to be in front of him in order for him to run up my arm.

I knew I didn't want to run that race.

I rolled onto my back and had lost all ability to breathe.

Before I knew anything else, Coach Becker was kneeling beside me, first checking out my cinder filled face and the cinder burns on my elbows and knees.

"You okay, Charles," I heard in the Coach's voice only the sound was coming from a distance.

"Huh?" I said in my most lucid fashion.

"He's bleeding," Droter said, as he appeared in my vision just behind and above Coach's shoulder.

"Can you get up?" Coach asked.

"Huh."

"Someone bring me the medical kit," he yelled as I tried to regain some control over the situation.

Coach took to sorting through my hair to dislodge the cinders that had ended up there. He did his best to wipe the cinder dust off my elbows and knees as Whitey and Beaudreault appeared in the frame.

It was then that I realized someone was holding my head in their lap and at the same time Droter leaned over to drop his sweatshirt over my chest.

"There goes the relay," Beaudreault grumbled to no one.

"You okay, Charles," I heard in a voice that didn't belong to any of my teammates.

"I don't know. I can't breathe. My arm hurts."

"Just keep still and I'll get some alcohol on that arm," Coach said.

As I got some sense of the situation, I looked up to see Sandy Perry looking down into my face as she sat on the track with my head in her lap. At first surprised and then comforted by her presence, Coach Becker spent the next five minutes cleaning and decinderizing me while bathing my arms and legs in alcohol.

As someone was directing an ambulance that suddenly appeared on the track to back up to where I lay, I got control of myself fast.

"Get me up. They aren't putting me in there," I objected. "I'm fine."

"All right," Beaudreault said, and three hands reached down for mine as my guys pulled me up on my feet.

"You okay?" Coach asked, still checking extremities for damage.

I started brushing myself off and then felt the arm starting to throb.

"Ouch! My arm hurts. I didn't fall on my arm," I said confused.

"No, but someone spiked you," Coach said. "Let's go back to the team and I'll fix it up. Are you okay."

"Where did I finish? I didn't finish last?" I questioned.

"Good grief," Beaudreault said. "Never mind that. Can you run, Charles?"

"What?" I asked, thinking he was confused or I was.

"Can you run the relay?" Beaudreault insisted.

"Sure," I said. "I'm fine."

"No, he can't run," Coach Becker protested indignantly. "Get someone to take his place. He's got holes in his arm. He's got a pound of cinders he's carrying around."

"What?" Beaudreault said, in a stalling tactic.

"You know who we have. Pick one," Coach said as we walked back to the bleachers.

I was suddenly getting more attention than I needed. Sandy held my hand while Coach Becker drowned me in more alcohol, trying to exorcise some of the cinders. The arm didn't hurt nearly as much as my knees and elbows when he got to using the alcohol on them. Whitey, Droter, and Beaudreault stood off to one side watching the operation. No one made any moves toward picking out a substatute but I wasn't paying much attention.

"Where'd I finish?" I asked Whitey.

"Seventh, I think," Whitey said. "You were never really in the race, Charles. These were pretty experienced guys. You did okay."

"I did okay? You're serious? I don't feel like I did all that well."

"You did fine, Charles. You gave it your best shot," Coach said, starting to wrap up my right hand and forearm to protect the puncture holes from any more dirt.

"Coach!" Whitey said. "Ease up on the gaze. He's got to take the baton in that hand."

"I wasn't ready for how fast he startled us and then my legs … ouch," I said, once I realized I was going to tell on myself and I shut up.

"Can you run, Charles?" Beaudreault asked again, standing behind Whitey's shoulder when he did.

"I told you to pick someone," Coach Becker snapped.

"Yeah, I didn't hurt my legs. Maybe my pride a little. I can't believe I fell down. I haven't fallen down since I was a kid."

"Whitey, you pick someone," Coach ordered.

"He says he can run, Coach. We've got to beat those guys. We've got to have a shot at them."

"I can't let him run. He's injured. Look at him. He's a mess," Coach Becker complained.

"I'd rather not," Beaudreault said. "His legs look fine."

"Season's almost over, Coach. If he wants to run let him run," Whitey said. "Those guys just kicked our ass out there and maybe Charles wants to get a piece of kicking there's right back. What do you say, Charles?"

"I can run. I didn't hurt my legs. I'm fine," I said, not daring to look at Coach while I was defying his orders.

"Let me see the hand," Coach Becker said, going into runner preparation mode. "Do your fingers."

"Do my what?"

"Your fingers, Charles. Flex your damn fingers," Beaudreault yelled impatient with the question.

"I don't know. How does it feel, Charles?" Coach asked.

"Fine!" I said. "I'm fine. I can run. I don't want to finish my day like that."

My guys all moved forward as everyone checked out my legs to be sure.

"Coach," Beaudreault said. "We want to win. Let him run. I want to get those guys. Don't let them get away with beating us and we then we don't at least give them a run for their money in the 4x200. No way they can get away with that!" Beaudreault complained, half moving out from in back of Whitey.

"You guys work it out. I'm not in favor of what you want to do. I'm not saying yes. Just work it out between you. When the call comes, have a team ready and I'll consider it. I'm not making you any promises."

Once again he ran his fingers through my scalp and spilled a few more cinders out of my hair. He shook his head and checked the gauze bandage, moving the tie point to the back of my hand and out of my palm so the baton would fit there unrestricted.

"Get the baton and let's warm up," Whitey said, helping me to my feet as both Beaudreault and Droter came between me and Coach Becker as they ushered me across the track and into the infield and away from doubt.

"Here," Whitey said, handing me my sweats.

"Give me my shirt back," Droter ordered. "It's cold out here."

Once we got off to one side, we ran through the handoff in a relaxed fashion. My biggest problem wasn't taking the baton from Droter but giving it to Whitey. Once my hand closed on the aluminum cylinder, it didn't want to give it up.

"What if I can't let go of it during the race. I don't want to screw you guys up," I said. "Maybe you should get another guy. James is fast. Powell."

"It's all of us or none of us, Charles," Whitey said. "We're already running on seven cylinders. Replacing you isn't an option here. I'd rather lose it trying than lose it quitting. I'm not a quitter."

Beaudreault and Droter both nodded as they stood beside us and refused to change the team.

"Let's go back and tell him this is "The Team," Beaudreault said. "Everyone agree?"

"Yeah," Droter said. "This is our team. It's been our team and we're going to finish up as a team. We've won together, we've lost together, and now we'll finish together."

"All right," Whitey said, patting Droter's back.

We straggled back across the track with the entire team watching every move we made. Right in the middle of it all was Coach Becker, staring at us as we approached him.

"Well?" Coach asked as he examined our long faces.

"He can take the baton fine. There is a little difficulty when it comes to him letting go of it," Beaudreault explained. "We want to go anyway. It's our best shot. We all agree."

"Get someone to replace him," Coach said resigned to the facts. "What's the point in running it if he can't give Whitey the baton? If there was a chance I'd let you go ahead."

"I'd rather take a chance on Charles," Beaudreault said again more forcefully. "You said pick someone. I'm picking, Charles. Right guys?"

"Right, we all voted."

"Can't he run the race without letting go of that baton thingy," Sandy suggested without a clue.

"He's got to hand off," Droter carefully explained to her. "He's the third leg. The fourth leg needs the baton to finish the race. That's why it is called a relay race, Sandy."

"What if instead of him being the third guy that hands it off to the fourth guy, he's the fourth guy and never hands it off? You said he could take it but not let go of it," she reasoned without any knowledge of track and field to slow her down.

"He can anchor. I'll run his leg. Problem solved," Whitey said. "Can you do it?"

"What?" I said. "I can't anchor. I've tried to replace you once already today. It didn't go all that well, Whitey," I said. "I don't want to make a fool out of myself twice in less than an hour. You're our anchor."

"You want to run? You want to get those guys don't you?' Beaudreault said, in favor of anything that got us on the track.

"Yeah! I want to run. I want to get them. I want to run them into the ground. I don't want to take your spot."

"You'll run my leg. I'll run yours. It's the only chance we've got. It's probably better this way. I've got no kick and this is a longer race. If we're behind, we'll need someone with a kick and your legs are okay, aren't they?" Whitey reasoned, and everyone looked at my legs again.

"Yeah! They're fine. I'm fine. I feel better now that the 200 is overwith."

"Yes!" Beaudreault said.

Droter shook his head, not sure we knew what we were doing but unwilling to verbalize whatever second thoughts he was having about our plan.

"Just do it," Coach Becker said, no longer wanting to argue with us.

He still wasn't sure but I think he understood what we wanted to do and why. There was still a few minutes before the race and until we reported for our lane assignment he still might change his mind, but there wasn't anything we could do about that. We had to wait for the call.

For the second time that day I was put into a totally unfamiliar situation, only this time if I screwed up, my guys paid the price. We had too little time left together for me to let them down now. Running in Whitey's spot wasn't simply a big responsibility, it came with feelings I can't explain. Seeing him yield up the anchor position to me, even if it was dictated by circumstance beyond our control, was an admission he knew he couldn't depend on his leg and he trusted mine.

If the baton never got to me, I was off the hook, and we had given it the good old college try and if fate stepped in to stop us, that's life. We could all live with that. If the leg did hold together, if Whitey did get me the baton, I not only had to take it, hold onto it, and get it across the finish line, I had to do it better than I'd ever done anything before. I was no longer the guy sandwiched between two guys who I depended on to carry me. I now had to carry my own weight and prove I deserved to run with them.

I flexed my fingers and each time I closed them, there was hesitation when it came to opening them. It was like the message took time to get to my fingers. Normally I didn't even think about it. It simply happened.

"You'll be okay, Charles," Sandy said, holding my good hand. "You'll do fine."

As Sandy issued her opinion our race was called and we stood to report.

"I'm advising you to use another boy," Coach Becker said, "But I'm not ordering it. If you're determined to run this race, then go ahead. It's against my better judgement but I won't stop you. I'll take the responsibility for it but I don't think it's the smart thing to do. If it was just one of you hurt, well that would make more sense, but too many things can go wrong with this plan."

"Let's go," Beaudreault said with impatience in his voice.

"Good luck, Charles," Sandy yelled after me as we left the team.

"Good luck, Charles," a half a dozen of my teammates cried in a falsetto voice that chased me across the track.

As if I hadn't been embarrassed enough that day I had something else I'd never live down. It was nice to see Sandy's concern for me and it was the second time she'd come to one of our track meets and I was sure that made her our number one fan.

"Do we practice or what?" Droter asked, after we stopped walking.

"No," Whitey said. "If we aren't ready now, we'll never be ready. Look you guys, if I'd been okay, we'd have won that first relay. I'm not going to let you down again. Charles and I both have something to prove. Don't we, Charles?"

"Yes, we do."

"Don't let us down. You've held us up for two years, Whitey," Droter said. "We're in this together. Let's give it our best shot and walk away with our heads held high. I'm proud to run with you guys."

"Yeah, you sure you're okay," Beaudreault asked us, concern in his voice.

"I'm fine," Whitey said softly. "I just want to get this over with."

"Charles?" Beaudreault said, "Tell me you're okay with this."

"I'm ready, willing, and able," I replied.

"We look like the walking wounded," Droter said. "All you two need is a fife and drum."

"Very funny," Whitey said.

"Well, you've got how many Ace Bandages holding your leg together and Charles has gauze running from his hand to his elbow. We make a fine picture indeed. Those Blair boys will be intimated to death they get a good look at us."

"Those Blair guys can be whatever they want. I'm not interested in them," Whitey said. "Charles, you'll be running against the guys you ran in the 200. They all anchor the 4x200, just like me."

"Great," I said. "Who was it said, leave them laughing."

We drew lane three and Blair drew lane one. They were the only team we hadn't faced in the 4x200 relay. We'd beaten all the other teams and they were also the team that had beaten us in the 4x100 relay earlier in the day. They were the ones that ended our perfect seasons in the relay. We all wanted this race more than any race we'd run together. Now if only Whitey's leg and my hand held up.

We already knew that Suitland couldn't win the track meet. It was one more steak that ended at Walter Johson. There was only one thing left for us to do, and that was to reclaim some lost respectability. I know I was ready to run. The 4x200 had never been our best relay but it was the one we had left to run.

"It's up to you," Whitey said. "You be in front of Blair when you give Droter the baton, he'll hold them off, and I'll hold them off." Whitey turned and looked at me. "Charles, I'll get you the baton but you've got to do the rest."

The words were heavy with meaning and responsibility. I had cotton in my mouth, a sinking feeling in my stomach, and an anvil on my right arm that suddenly weighed a hundred pounds or so.

"Okay," I said, not having any desire to make eye contact and show them how doubtful I was about this plan. I'd do the best I could do but I didn't know if it would be good enough.

For the first time in over a year I wished I hadn't gone out for track. I knew this was not going to go well. I was suddenly nervous and couldn't stand still.

Droter and I walked together to the far side of the track. It gave me an uneasy feeling of being out of place and time once again. It had been that way all day. He patted my back to reassure me before stripping out of his sweats. I remained silent. I didn't feel very good. I didn't feel quite as bad as before the open 200 earlier but I lacked the energy and focus I needed.

The wind blew, gusting dirt in my eyes as I turned to look for Whitey across the track. Maybe if I could see him it would make me feel better, I thought, but the crowd had closed us off from the start line. I turned back to look across the track in front of me at the bleachers that bordered the section where I'd fallen earlier.

It hadn't been a very good day for me and I wasn't sure what had happened in the earlier relay race. We'd been so far outside of everyone else that I had never had a sense that anyone else was in the race. We seemed to be ahead of everyone but the stagger was deceiving. We had no such uncertainty in this race. When Beaudreault came to Droter we'd know exactly where we were in the race and when Whitey came to me, I'd know exactly what I had to do to make things come out the way I wanted.

Right then I had to wait.

Beaudreault was in the lead by about three yards when he came to Droter. The Blair guy who won the 200 stepped in front of me to cheer his guy as they handed off just behind us. He then glanced at me, looking at the gauze on my arm, and there was a slight sneer on his face as he walked past me. By the look on his face he seemed certain the race was in the bag.

I got a little angry and thought about our lead and the fact that Beaudreault had done his job and now I was sure Droter was doing his. The rest was up to Whitey and I. We were the natural 200 runners and this was our race.

It was easy to know when the handoffs were going on out of our sight. The crowd roared their approval and cheered on the participants. I stepped onto the track and was immediately surrounded by seven other guys as we all waited in or near the first lane together. Suddenly the track opened up and everyone else stood aside, except the Blair guy whose arm was mashed against my chest. He seemed eight feet tall and unflinchingly in command of lane one.

I stepped off his elbow to see Whitey for the first time. He was charging at me all alone, leading the Blair guy by five to eight yards and three other teams were all changing lanes right behind Blair, trying to challenge them for second. The Blair runner sneered before stepping into lane two to wait. I held my ground, took my position, kept my eyes on Whitey, and suddenly felt that surge of energy that had been absent all day.

My heart raced and my brain spun inside my head. I wasn't sure what I was seeing but instinctively I readied for the handoff, taking off with no previous knowledge of Whitey's approaching speed. I timed it as I always timed it with Droter and let it happen. When I stuck back my hand the baton hit the gauze between my thumb and forefinger immediately. It was my race now.

I put my head down and drove with all the power I had in my body. I listened to the footsteps coming behind me and I ran for my life, knowing the Blair runner was closing in on me. I raced into the turn and was still holding him off and as soon as I came out onto the home stretch, the Blair runner swung out into the second lane beside me. The hounds of hell were once more chasing me inside my head. I was desperate not to let him catch me. I wasn't going to let my guys down.

It was like I was being chased by a hundred demons. I wasn't going to let them catch me. I wasn't going to let him catch me. I wouldn't give up what my guys gave me. I was going to do what they asked and trusted me to do and with the gauze flapping in the breeze and unraveling behind me, I threw out my arms and drove through the tape with my chest.

The tape broke on my chest!

We had won.

I was mobbed.

Pandemonium broke loose.

Both Beaudreault and Droter came rushing at me right after I crossed the finish line.

"Yes! Yes!" Beaudreault declared, shaking my hand and patting my back as the team closed in on me.

I'd never been at the finish line at the end of a relay race. I was always the one who had to come the furthest to get there, but this time I was the first one there and it was good.

Even the hostile crowd roared their approval and it gave me an amazing feeling to be there, victorious with my guys. I felt wonderfully redeemed after having a terrible day. We had done what we needed to do and I hadn't screwed up and I hadn't let my team down.

Whitey came through the team as we moved toward the bleachers and I stopped as he shook my hand and put his arm over my shoulder.

"Good job, Charles. I couldn't have done it better myself."

"Right!" I said. "I thought that guy was going to catch me. I could hear him right behind me"

"What guy?" Beaudreault said.

"Blair," I said. "I wasn't sure I could beat him to the line."

"Blair," Droter said laughing, "You finished fifteen yards ahead of him. You ate the guy alive, Charles. He never gained an inch on you."

"I did? He didn't?"

"You added to our lead. The handoff went really good," Whitey said. "It was a perfect race. Here's your sweats."

Whitey handed me my sweats as we climbed into the bleachers and I pondered the hounds of hell that chased me throughout my races and my brain and I was thankful for them. They helped me run and there was a certainty that came with running and the vagary that normally haunted my days and my life disappeared while I was running.

It was my best moment and memory of running track at Suitland High School. With Whitey running on one leg, me in bandages after taking a fall, I got up and anchored the undefeated 4x200 relay team to victory. For two seasons I'd been in the rocking chair, nestled between Droter and Whitey who I trusted more than anyone on the track team.

For the first time I felt like I had earned the right to run with the guys I admired. With the odds against us, the order of the team shuffled to match up with our injuries, we'd run to victory. My guys got me all the yards I needed to win and I didn't let them down.

In reality they did what they always did. They took care of me. They gave me a responsibility and then gave me what I needed to fulfill it. And while it was the most glorious moment of my track career, it also marked the end of "The Team."

Whitey was done for the season, his leg beyond any ability to compete without a long rest. I had nerve damage from the spike holes in my hand and arm and I didn't run again. We finished third at Walter Johnson and beat the same number of teams we'd beaten two weeks before at Northwood, 12. On the season we'd defeated close to 50 teams and in the final track meet we lost to two.

Sandy Perry had come to sit with me in the bleachers once we'd won the 4x200 relay. She felt personally responsible for me anchoring the relay and she was pleased with the outcome. There was no further uproar over our proximity and Coach Becker never mentioned her presence out of respect for TV Warthen I'm sure, but she was still our only fan.

The ride back from Walter Johnson went well. There was no moaning or what ifing. We'd had a great season and we'd gone to Walter Johnson undefeated but wounded. We did the best we could with what we had. Our winning streak did end there, because all winning streaks end, except for our 4x200 relay streak and Whitey season ended with him being undefeated in the open 200 each time he ran it.

I do remember that there was a short good-bye among the sprinters, after we got back to school. Whitey already knew he wasn't running again. I didn't know I wasn't done, but "The Team" was done and we parted friends and proud of what we'd done together, and now I've told you the story.

I could say what if we'd beat Blair in the 4x100 relay and if Whitey had run the 200 … just maybe our streak would have continued, but sport is sport … it simply didn't happen that way. Everyone can't win all the time, except for the Yankees.

We had climbed the mountain and stood a top the track world in and around Washington DC for a time and then someone else stood there, after we were done. We had one of the best sport seasons in Prince George's County history and we pulled off one of the biggest upsets in scholastic sport in the area. We had champions and championships and if anyone had told me any of this would come true half way through my first season, I'd have laughed myself silly.

You just never know in sports. Put the right coach with the right boys and anything may be possible.

Whitey and I were done for the season but it didn't make much difference. The state championships were held in torrents of rain. We spent the day on the bus bickering and being obnoxious boys, while Coach Becker ran back and forth, trying to figure out what was being run and what had been cancelled.

My most vivid memory of that track meet was of me in my street clothes, standing between the third and fourth turn in the middle of the Overlea track. The water was over my ankles as it poured down rain.

There were no rainouts in track. It was the end of May and seniors were graduating the following week, so they did what they could but they couldn't do much under those conditions. I have no memory of anyone being declared a winner in anything that day.

It was not a sprinters day.

The bus returned to school in the late afternoon and that was the end of the season. Some guys stood around, shaking hands, and wishing one another well, and I said good-bye to my guys and headed home.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

On to The Epilogue

Back to Chapter Eight

Chapter Index

Rick Beck Home Page