Jimmy Springer, November 1st,
2013
Slowly
he trudged through the slop. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was going. But he
liked that. When he ran through his neighborhoods at home, he would wander
aimlessly, hoping to get momentarily lost before eventually popping out onto a street
he recognized. His feet splashed gently into occasional puddles as he continued
on his way. There was something almost peaceful about the scene. The tip-tap of the rain on his jacket
created a pleasant rhythm. A natural pre-race music routine.
Continuing
on his stroll, he spotted a crowd of people gathered near the bottom of a large
hill. The sounds of cheering floated to him and, as he squinted for a closer look
through the precipitation, he could just make out figures running up the hills.
Curious, he walked forward to the site of the commotion. A string fence with
flags hanging from it separated the spectators from the athletes. As he got
closer, he determined the runners’ were girls: their longer hair was a
giveaway.
This must be the
Large School Girls Championship,
Jimmy thought to himself. He positioned himself a few yards above the base of
the hill so that he was facing the competitors. He wanted to watch their
expressions change as the reality of their painful ascent set in for the first
time.
After
a few seconds watching, he realized there was a puddle in the small valley
before the hill. Most of the runners dodged it, running tight around the turn
and causing a pile up, but occasionally a particularly brave girl would run wide
splashing straight through and up into the incline. These same girls were more
likely to attack the hill head on rather than wilt at its feet.
Jimmy
fixated on one runner with long, black hair that was tied up with a red hair
tie that matched her uniform. She came flying through the valley before the
hill, somewhat madly racing through the mud. It splashed off her feet and onto
a few other competitors who cringed as the ricocheted dirt flew in their
direction. The girl in red tried to sprint aggressively, straight into the
hill, but the slick ground caused her to slip and fall. Around her, the crowd
groaned as she lay sprawled on the wet ground, her face catching mud kicking
off other’s shoes. But surprisingly, as miserable as the fall looked, she smiled.
And Jimmy watched in shock as she rose back to her feet and once again began to
sprint into the hill with the same reckless abandon. He watched as far up the
hill as he could, counting the number of girls she passed as she went. 3 … 4 … 5, 6 …
“Wow,”
a voice said quietly from just behind Jimmy. He whipped around, slightly scared
and looked up into the hooded face. Its eyes were following the same girl plow
through the field. Slowly, she disappeared out of sight. “C’mon,” the man said,
beckoning for Jimmy to follow. “If we leave now, we can probably catch the
finish.”
Chris Cline, September 2016
Chris dropped his backpack to the
ground and flopped sideways along his living room couch. His father was
watching a sports talk show, Pardon the Interruption, while his mother prepared
dinner in the kitchen. Inside his pocket, he felt his phone vibrate, but made
no move to open it. Instead, he moved his head onto one of the couch’s
decorative pillows and let his heavy eyes close.
His first week as a distance runner
had been far from a smooth transition. On Tuesday morning, when Chris climbed
out of bed, he nearly fell over. His legs were incredibly sore from his first
day at practice. Half asleep, he forced himself into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt
before catching a ride to school from his neighbor, Jacob Naughton. On Tuesday
and Thursday mornings, Chris had gym class periods, which, due to his injury,
he was instead filling with extra one-on-one film sessions with Coach Groff.
From the passenger’s seat of the car, he pondered what would be more painful:
the film sessions or his fatigued legs. He incorrectly picked his legs.
After a miserably long day at
school, he kept his fingers crossed that the afternoon’s cross country practice
would be better than his first. Technically, he supposed, it was. Although a
couple runners had deliberately given him bad directions for their training
run, Chris ran with Sam for a makeshift four-mile loop. With proper pacing
advice from the freshman, he was able to complete the run without stopping. It
wasn’t much, but it was progress.
On Wednesday, Chris experienced his
first cross country workout. Coach Finley had used some type of measuring wheel
to track 1,000 meters around the school’s baseball fields. Then he explained that
they would be doing repetitions of this loop with a rest period in between each
hard effort lasting for 90 seconds. The team was organized in four groups of
five runners, each ranging in ability levels and age. Group One, the top group
of runners, was assigned six loops.
Chris, on the other hand, was
relegated to group four. His group was assigned just three loops. Sam had been
placed in group three, meaning Chris was dealing with a collection of new
faces. After the first packs were sent off, they lined up across the starting
line, waiting for Coach Finley to blow his whistle. On the far left was Jason
Rosenwasser, a senior who seemed genuinely disinterested in cross country. He
waited for the start slouched and practically standing. Alongside him was
Thomas Partridge, a spacy junior who, politely put, marched to the beat of his
own drum. Next was Connor McIntyre, a timid freshman who Chris had yet to hear
speak a single word. And then finally, to his immediate right, was Nick Meyers,
a sophomore transfer student who had moved from North Carolina this past
summer.
Although Chris had been to only two
practices, as a proud and accomplished athlete, he had still seen his grouping
as a bit on an insult. The runners in his troop either showed little passion
and drive or were routinely at the back of the pack for drills, strides and
distance runs. Therefore, when the workout began, he took the first repetition
as an opportunity to prove himself. He powered through the first loop and
finished first from his group by about 10 seconds. In fact, he was gaining
ground on the five-some ahead of him.
However, the 90 seconds he was
allotted for rest went by in the blink of an eye. Before he could completely
catch his breath, Coach Finley was already ushering them back into line for
their next repetition. His thirst to prove himself still unquenched, he went
out hard again as the second interval began. But he tired much quicker than he
had a rep earlier and faded slowly back to the pack over the final 400 meters.
By the third, he was out the back of the group, wheezing horribly and
struggling to even finish. Coach Finley pulled him from the workout after that,
so Chris could only watch the fourth, fifth and sixth repetitions. He marveled
at the controlled, smooth power of the top group, particular their senior
captain Will Aldrich. He glided effortlessly through each rep, looking like he
could go plenty faster if necessary. However, the top pack of runners finished together
at the end of each interval.
“I know you’re frustrated,” Coach
Finley had said, pulling Chris aside at the end of practice. “You’re a
competitive guy and you’re used to being the best. I get it. But you have to
remember, these kids have months or, quite honestly, years of a head start on
you. Even someone as talented as you isn’t going to make that up in a week.
“But if you give me one month-one
month of complete faith-I can promise you, you will be a varsity runner on this
team.”
Coach Finley didn’t wait long to
test Chris’s faith. On Thursday, he had him go for a run with the girl’s team
during practice. He couldn’t help but feel humiliated as the boys team trotted
out the gates first and he, instead, sat on the ground with the girl’s team
awaiting the second set of instructions. There was some conspicuous pointing
and giggling from his teammates as they left. For a brief moment, he sat angry
and embarrassed before trekking out with three members of the girl’s varsity
team.
But to his surprise, he had a
productive run. The top tier girls were just as fast, if not faster, than most of
the junior varsity boys. He was able to run at the front of the group, which
gave him an extra shot of confidence. And although he was uncomfortable running
along in awkward silence, he at least didn’t feel like the people around him
hated his guts and were rooting for him to fail.
By Friday, he was in a rhythm. His
legs were less sore in the morning and his runs were less painful. He and Sam
even had company on their run as the quiet freshman, Connor McIntyre, joined them
on their run. Although, he didn’t say anything, it was still nice to have
another training partner. It wasn’t much, but it was progress.
Jimmy Springer, cont.
They jogged together side-by-side
through the rain. Jimmy paid particular attention to the puddles, taking extra
care not to splash the man beside him. The rain and wind made enough noise to
drown out the silence between the pair. After a few minutes, they reached the
apex of a steep hill lined with spectators. It was the race’s final and most
grueling challenge, “Cardiac Hill”, and Jimmy remembered it well from his first
trip to the course. He did not have particularly fond memories of it.
“This hill sucks,” Matt said,
pushing forward to get a better view, “And it looks like it’s extra sloppy
today.” He touched the ground with his hand and tracked a thick streak of mud.
“Awesome,” Jimmy said sarcastically,
looking at Matt’s dirty hand apprehensively.
“It kinda is though,” Matt replied,
seriously, a slightly crazy grin stretching across his face, “Everybody is
going to be so psyched out dealing with these conditions. All the kids with the
fancy gear and carefully constructed race plans got no chance today. This kinda
stuff-” he held out his hand, “-It’s a great equalizer.”
As Jimmy considered his words, a
string of cheers pierced the air from the bottom of the hill. The first few
girls were racing into sight, making their final surge for a state
championship. A girl in orange with dark black arm sleeves was leading,
followed closely by one in a dark blue singlet. They battled hard with one
another through the climb, both gritting their teeth and pumping their arms
furiously. Next was a runner in green with short blonde hair, a small gap, a
pair in black and then, gradually, more and more girls began flooding the
course.
Standing out among the group was a
familiar girl in red with a matching hair tie. She was sprinting quickly
through the herd, rolling past the other runners. While the others around her were
merely specked with small globs of dirt, her jersey and face were caked in it.
But she didn’t seem to care. As she came up the hill, Jimmy found himself
cheering for her, trying to will her forward passed even more runners. Once she
crested the incline, he turned to follow her sprint down the last straightaway.
“Did you see that?” Jimmy exclaimed,
looking around for Matt, who had removed himself from the crowd, “What did she
get? Like 12th?” His smile faded as he made eye contact with Matt.
“Don’t do it, Jimmy,” he said
seriously, looking the freshman straight in the eye.
“What?” He looked back, startled by
the abrupt change of tone.
“Don’t go out there and sandbag this
race.”
“Um … I’m not sure what you’re
talking about,” he lied.
“I know you’re pissed at me. You
might hate me for a while for going at your boy again-”
“He’s not-”
“But I’d hate myself even more if I
let you throw away a chance to do something great just because you might think it’s going to help the team.
There’s no reason to hold anything back. Every point counts, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, but it’s different-”
“Why?” he said emphatically, “Screw
Glenn. Screw Ames. In this sport, everyone goes out and fights until they can’t
fight anymore. And at the end of the race, when you shake hands with the guy
who finishes next to you, there’s a mutual respect between you. It doesn’t
matter who finishes first. That’s not why you respect the other guy. You
respect him because you know that he pushed you to the limit and he respects
you because you pushed him right back.
“To give anything less than your
best is to sacrifice the gift.”
They stood face to face, Jimmy
seemingly at a loss for words, Matt clearly finished with his. The cheering of
fans thundered around them as runners continued through the finishing
straightaway. Then, Jimmy stepped forward and embraced his friend. The rain
fell across his face, mixing with a single tear.
“I’m sorry about what I said,” he
said faintly.
“Are you kidding me?” Matt said as
the two broke apart, “I’m not. I’ve got my swagger back thanks to you.” He put
his arm around Jimmy and led him back towards the tent. “And you better watch
out, ‘cause I’m coming for you today.”
Jimmy smiled up at the senior, “I
don’t know man, after that pump up speech, I’m feeling pretty fired up. That
was one heck of a line at the end. ‘To
give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.’ Damn. Did you
come up with that on your own?”
“Jimmy, how much do you know about
Steve Prefontaine?”
“Steve Charlemagne? Never heard of
him.”
“Then to answer your question, yes,
I came up with that quote all on my own.”
Chris Cline,cont.
Buzz
… buzz …
Chris awoke in surprise as the phone
in his pocket vibrated furiously. Shaking his head to try and wake himself, he
sat up from the couch and looked around the living room. The TV was off and his
mother was standing a few feet away, putting food on the dinner table.
“What time issit?” he asked,
stretching his arms above his head. Then, reaching into his pocket for his now
motionless phone, he read the time across the screen. It was almost seven
o’clock.
“It’s dinner time,” Mrs. Cline said,
pulling out her chair and taking a seat. “Would you tell your father to come
down, Chris?”
“How is it already seven?” he asked,
scrambling to his feet. “I didn’t even realize I had fallen asleep …” As he
walked up the stairs to the family’s computer room, he flipped through his
missed texts and calls. There were fifteen unopened texts, two missed calls and
a voicemail. “She’s crazy …”
“Hope you aren’t talking about your
mother,” Mr. Cline said, appearing at the doorway opposite his son.
“What? Oh no-it’s … never mind,” he
turned and followed his father back down the stairs to the kitchen. “Are you
guys going to the game tonight?” Chris asked, still flipping through his unread
messages.
“I think we were planning on it,”
his mother replied. “And no phones at the dinner table, please.” She took his
plate and spooned some pasta from the center of the table onto it.
“Sorry,” Chris replied, hastily
stuffing his phone into his pocket. “And thank you.” He accepted the now full
plate back. “Do you think I could get a ride with you guys?”
“You ‘anna go wit us?” his father
replied in surprise through a mouthful of food. A piece of meat flew across the
table and landed next to the salad.
“Scott … really?” Mrs. Cline
replied, annoyed but smiling. Chris barely managed to contain his own dinner as
he choked down a laugh.
“Sorry, honey,” his mouth now clear,
he turned back to Chris, “None of your friends are driving over?”
“They’re basically all on the team
aren’t they?”
“Admittedly, that’s a good point.”
He forked another meatball and carefully chewed before continuing. “Well … your
mother and I would be happy to bring you.”
“It’s just like the old days on JV,”
Mrs. Cline said, “You remember those?”
“Yeah-barely,” Chris smiled, “You
remember the Avon Grove game that year?”
“Of course. That’s one of the best
games I’ve ever seen you play … Uncle Chris and Aunt Jill came down for that
one, too, right?”
“Yeah, they did. I always seem to
have my best games in front of them. Like you know the basketball game in
middle school where-” his phone once again began buzzing furiously. Melissa was
calling again. “Mom, can I take this real quick? I think it’s about plans for
the game tonight.”
“Sure, Chris,” she said with a
smile, but her expression couldn’t completely hide the small sadness in her
voice.
“Thanks, Mom,” and he stepped away
from the table and upstairs as he answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Oh
my god, where have you been?” the voice of his girlfriend, Melissa
Fredricks, came loudly back to him through the phone, “You’ve haven’t answered, like, any of my texts.”
“Sorry … I fell asleep and then we
had dinner so-”
“Whatever,
you can apologize to me later … You’re coming to the game tonight, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Who’s
driving you?”
“I was probably just gonna get a
ride with my parents since they’re going too-”
“Ew,
no. That’s definitely not happening. Gabby’s boyfriend Seth is driving us. He
can just get you on the way. We’ll be there in, like, 10 minutes.”
“Um … ok, I guess I can be ready by
then,” he checked his hair in the mirror across from him and sniffed under his
armpits. He hadn’t been able to shower since cross country practice ended.
“Perf.
See you soon, babe!”
“Bye,” Chris hung up the phone and
went straight for the bottle of cologne Melissa had given him for his birthday.
He sprayed it quickly up and down his body, coughing slightly as the fumes hit
his face. Then he stuffed his wallet in one pocket and his phone in the other
before returning to the dining room.
“So what’s the pl-holy moly, Chris,
did you just fumigate your bed room?” Mr. Cline said smelling his son’s cologne
from a few feet away. Chris grinned sheepishly.
“I was trying to kill a fly, but I
missed him a couple times.” He joked.
“Well none of them will come near
you any time soon …” he paused, watching his son check out through the window,
“So what’s the plan?”
“Oh …” he snapped his head back to
the dinner table, “Um … is it cool if I get a ride with Melissa and one of her
friend’s to the game?”
His parents exchanged a brief look
before his mother granted permission. “Sure, sweetie. They giving you a ride
home, too?”
“Uh … good question,” he took out
his phone and typed out a text as he walked off to grab a sweatshirt. “Can I
let you know later tonight?”
“No problem … We’ll be there if you
need us.”
“Thanks,
mom,” he replied, still without looking up from his phone. Then, throwing the
coat around his arms, he opened the door to wait outside. “See you guys later!”
As he stepped out, he looked back at his parents and waved. His father had
grabbed his mother’s hand and was stroking it gently. With a sad smile, they
waved goodbye to their son.
After
waiting in his front yard for 20 minutes, a black Audi arrived in his driveway,
prepared to transport him to the stadium. The driver, Seth Hammerstein, had
graduated West Chester North the previous June and was now a freshman at the
West Chester University. It was close enough that he could still visit home on
weekends. Chris didn’t particularly like Seth. He was a bit pretentious and
liked to brag about his wealth whenever possible. At the pair’s most recent
meeting, Seth had purchased a variety of designer clothes at the local mall
while bragging to Chris about how much alcohol he had drank the previous
weekend. And it wasn’t any of the cheap
stuff either, Chris remembered him saying. Riding beside Seth was his
girlfriend, Gabby Shepard, one of Melissa’s best friends from the cheerleading
squad.
When
Chris first arrived in the car, Melissa immediately played with his hair,
styling it to her own personal preference. Then, after she documented their
reunion with a snapchat, she turned back to her friend. To Chris’s relief, the
two girls dominated the conversation, allowing him to drift off freely. He
seized the momentary independence to text his friend Ernie about Seth’s new
driving gloves.
But
his reprieve from colloquial duties was short lived. Once they reached the high
school, Seth dropped the two girls off by the entrance to their locker room and
the two boys were alone without a female buffer. There was an empty seat in the
front which Chris was unsure if he was supposed to fill. They would only be
driving another minute or so before parking in the nearby lot. After a short,
awkward pause, he tentatively unbuckled his seat belt, just as Seth decided to
put the car in drive once again. Chris rolled to his left before steadying
himself and re-strapping.
“Sorry
about that bro,” Seth said, after he parked the car, “It’s an Audi so … you
know how it goes.”
“No
problem,” Chris said flashing his best fake smile, “I’m just grateful you had
those driving gloves to help you control things!”
Together,
the two boys walked to the stadium and entered through the ticketing gate.
Having been recognized immediately, the attendant let Chris get in for free
but, to Chris’s great pleasure, Seth had to not only pay, but pay full price as
he was no longer a student at West Chester North.
“How
lame was that?” Seth said as they continued toward the student section, “That
old hag charged me ten bucks just to get into the stadium. I only graduated
like three months ago!”
“Man,
that does suck … Good thing you’re rich!” This time Chris didn’t have to fake
his smile. Unfortunately, he didn’t get to enjoy his companion’s misfortune for
long.
“Yo
Seth … Chris!”
As
they made their way up into the stands, they were flagged down by a group of
Chris’s classmates: Bucky Lassiter, Anthony Hawkins and Mike Mizzanti. All
three were wearing different colored polo shirts. Bucky wore a light blue knit
cap that wasn’t covering his ears and a pair of lightly worn jeans. Of the
trio, he was the most loud and obnoxious. Hawkins was a bit more reserved. He
kept his hair cut clean and his face well shaven. Everything about his
appearance, from his scarf to his shoes, seemed carefully calculated and well
organized. Mizzanti took more after Bucky than Anthony. He was wearing a pair
of sunglasses, despite the fact that the sun was down, and he was carrying a small
water bottle that Chris suspected wasn’t filled with water. It was a group of
people that, even a few years earlier, he never would have dreamed of sitting
with. And, to be fair, they probably never would have wanted to sit with him
either.
“Seth,
bro, how have you been?” Bucky said, pulling him into a brief hug. “We’ve been
trying to carry on y’all’s legacy here at North.”
“I’ve
been having a blast, man. College life is wild,” Seth sat down in between Bucky
and Mike while Chris sat on the end next to Anthony. “My frat has mad parties.”
“When
you say ‘mad’ do you mean ‘mad’ as in, like, ‘a lot’ or ‘mad’ as in like
‘rad’?” Mike asked in a dreamy, far-off voice.
“That’s
the thing, bro. I mean it both ways.”
And the two laughed and high fived.
“And
how’s the tail at college? I bet there are all sorts of fine honeys around.”
“You
know it. I’m all up on those dime pieces like FDR.”
Chris
looked around in stunned amusement, hoping there was someone else would could
share his amusement at the absurdity of the conversation happening beside him.
When his search came up empty, he turned his attention to the field. This game can’t start soon enough.
At
nearly eight o’clock, the West Chester North Warriors kicked off to the night’s
opponents: Avon Grove. The defense looked sharp early, led by Jacob Naughton.
He was flying around the field on the game’s first series, posting a tackle for
loss and a sack. That set up the Warriors’ new quarterback, Drew McDermott,
with excellent field position. He stepped out onto the turf with the offense to
the cheer of the home crowd. Compared to the senior offensive linemen, it stood
out how young and small the sophomore was.
On
the first play, he handed the ball off to running back Pete Washington.
Washington hit the hole hard, but the opposing defense was prepared and
contained him well. Based on their defensive formation, it was obvious to Chris
that Avon Grove wanted to force the young quarterback to beat them with his
arm. “They’ve got nine in the box,” Chris explained to Anthony, “Should run
some play action or something here.”
“Nine
in the box? Sounds like my Saturday nights, am I right?” Bucky called to the
perverse pleasure of his friends.
Chris
shook his head in shame and turned to the fans behind him, “Please don’t judge me,
I don’t even like them.”
McDermott
turned to hand the ball off once again, but this time, he pulled the ball back
at the last second and instead looked down field to pass. The defense bit hard
on the fake as Ernie Tyrell sprinted wide open behind the safety. McDermott
wound up and launched a pass toward him, but, due to nerves, he overshot his
target and the ball fell a couple feet ahead of the receiver.
“Oooo
… aww!” The crowd groaned slightly as the team walked back to the huddle after
the missed opportunity. Drew hung his head, but Ernie came over and said
something to him briefly, before slapping him on the backside and returning to
formation.
On
third down, Drew went right back to Ernie on a short slant route. This time, he
hit him right on the hands and Ernie hauled in the pass in stride. After
breaking his first tackle, he spun out of reach of the safety and dashed for a
twenty-five yard gain. The crowd roared its approval, screaming and stomping
their feet. From then on, the young quarterback looked much more comfortable
and the Warriors were able to dominate the first half of play on both sides of
the ball.
At
half time, the conversation among Chris’s section, returned almost instantly to
drinking and girls. So, claiming he was headed to the snack bar, Chris exited
the stands and began to wander around the football stadium. Surprisingly, the
walkways were packed tight with Warrior supporters even though Avon Grove was
far from one of North’s most hated rivals. Usually this sort of crowd was reserved
for match-ups with Coatesville or perhaps one of the Downingtown schools.
As
Chris walked, a few fans stopped him to shake his hand or get his opinions on
the offense. Some even asked for an autograph or a picture. At first it was
flattering, but eventually he became a little frustrated. Although it was
annoying to consistently put his plans on hold, that wasn’t what bothered him
most. He was finding it increasingly painful to discuss the game, knowing he
was standing powerless on the sidelines watching another kid do his job.
After
a slew of conversations, he smiled awkwardly for a selfie with an elderly
couple before finally escaping into the snack bar line. The West Chester North
football team was already making their way back onto the field, meaning the
second half was not far from starting. With a deep sigh, he waited to advance
to the front window. Then he ordered a soft pretzel and wandered over to the
bottles of ketchup and mustard. Standing by the mustard was a group of girls,
the closest of which he recognized from his most recent run with the women’s
cross country team. Trying to remember her name, Chris thought back to earlier
that day.
“You coming to
practice tomorrow morning?” Sam asked, looking across at Chris as the two
stretched on the turf.
“We have practice
tomorrow?” he responded in surprise, pausing from his hamstring stretch.
“Yeah, we have
optional practices on Saturdays.” Sam replied, pulling his two legs together
into a butterfly stretch. “Not everyone goes … I was just looking to get a ride
from someone.”
“What time do we
meet?”
“We usually meet at 8
o’clock.”
“Oooh, I don’t think
I’m going to be able to make it.” Chris said, standing up and stretching his
quad muscle. “I got some stuff going on tonight.”
Sam looked
questioningly back, but decided not to press the subject. Instead, he got to
his feet and stretched alongside Chris, looking out to the home straightaway. A
girl with light brown hair was lacing up a pair of pink and blue Ares spikes.
“Hey, who is that?”
Chris asked as the girl finished tying her laces and began a smooth, controlled
stride. “I think she is one of the girls I ran with yesterday.”
“Yeah, that’s Sarah,”
Sam replied. “She looks really good, don’t you think?”
“Well I mean-I have a
girlfriend so-but I guess, objectively
speaking-” Chris said awkwardly, caught
slightly off guard by the rather forward question.
“I wish I could look
like that.” Sam said, turning away from the straightaway and walking toward the
goal post to do some leg swings.
“What do you mean?”
Chris asked, following in his tracks, confused.
“Her running form,”
Sam replied, looking back over his shoulder with a perplexed expression of his
own. “Isn’t that what you were talking about?”
“Right … yeah, of
course. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”
“Hi
Sarah,” Chris said politely as he approached the group of girls. “How’s it
going?”
“Hey
Chris,” Sarah looked slightly surprised to have been acknowledged, but
otherwise kept her expression straight. The two girls on either side of her,
however, were not so coy. The girl on her right, a slightly shorter girl with
curly brown hair and glasses, let out a tiny, high-pitched shriek in response
to his appearance. The girl on her left, who was taller with dark blonde hair,
was slowly crouching, as if trying to disappear into the corner wall.
“Er-These
are my friends,” Sarah said, blushing ever so slightly at their reactions,
“This is Maggie,” she gestured to the girl on her right, “And this is Alexa,”
the girl on her left. “Guys, this is Chris.”
“Um
… hi … nice to meet you …” Chris gave an awkward wave. Maggie beamed widely
while Alexa continued to sink backwards nervously, her eyes cast down. “Could
one of you pass the mustard?”
“Of
course, anything for you, Chris,” Maggie said, grabbing the mustard hastily and
offering it forward. However, in her eagerness she squirted some out of the
bottle, splattering the condiment across Chris’s shirt. “Oh my gosh!” She said,
turning bright red and frantically snatching napkins, “I’m so sorry,” she hurried
forward and started dabbing at Chris’s chest.
“It’s
ok …” he said, looking down awkwardly, holding the pretzel at his side. “I
don’t really like this shirt anyway … You can … um …” Maggie was now dabbing at
his right bicep which, as far as he could tell, had not been hit. “You can
probably stop now.”
“Right,
sorry. Really sorry.” Maggie backed up awkwardly, nearly running into the
table. Sarah was trying her best to not break out in a fit of laughter. “I’m
just going to … um …” she straightened her slightly askew glasses on her face,
“What was that Alexa?” She looked desperately at Alexa who had, very clearly,
not made any noise. In fact, she looked horrified to have been addressed for
the second time. “Um … ok,” Maggie said, pretending as if Alexa had responded,
“We’re just going to head back to our seats. We’ll meet you there, Sarah.” And
she pulled the tall blonde by the arm away from the snack bar, back in the
direction of the stadium.
Chris
grinned broadly as they scampered away. He stared at Sarah with his eyebrows
raised.
“Sorry,”
she said, smiling, easily handing him the mustard.
“Haha,
it’s cool,” Chris said, squirting carefully onto his snack, “I probably should
have been more explicit about the fact that I wanted the mustard on my
pretzel.” He gestured at his fresh yellow stain.
She
laughed at his joke. “Maggie’s actually super
sweet … she was just a little nervous because-well-you know-you’re the
‘quarterback of the football team’ or whatever.”
“Eh,
right now I’m not,” he looked back over his shoulder at the football field. The
second half had started and West Chester North was driving again. “Where are
you guys sitting?”
“We
are with a couple other juniors near the twenty-yard line,” she replied, the
two now walking off in the direction she indicated. “There’s some guys from the
team there if you want to join.”
“I
don’t know if that’s a good idea … I don’t think they like me very much.”
“Oh,
they definitely don’t.”
“Well
that’s great to hear,” Chris replied sarcastically. She laughed. “What’s so funny?” Chris said
with a small smile.
“Oh
c’mon, you don’t actually care what they think,” she said as they reached the
stairs. “Aren’t you just on the team so you can keep your football
scholarship?”
“No
… well-yeah, but-how do you-”
“If
you really want to be part of the team,” she said, walking away from him, up
the stairs, back toward her seat, “I’m sure you will be.” And she disappeared
from view, obscured by the rest of the bleachers. The crowd erupted into cheers
as West Chester North scored another touchdown.
Jimmy Springer, cont.
The final hour before the race was
the slowest of Jimmy’s life. They pushed their warm up routine back as far as
possible to maximize their stint under cover, but eventually it was time for
the ceremonial fifteen minute trot. Ames had them jog through the parking lot
to try and keep away from the mud and so they traversed the perimeter of the
large, concrete space.
While
on their jog, they crossed paths with many of the other top programs including
the District One Champions, Coatesville. They were the early favorites for the
state title and the school Glenn had preached about all week in practice. The
Coatesville team, dressed in matching black uniforms with the Ares insignia in
the top left corner, attempted to look fierce and stoic as they passed the
Union Valley boys. Their front runner, Dan Capriotti, looked quite convincing.
He was surprisingly bulky and muscular for a distance runner and had a
particularly imposing presence in a race. But Jimmy noticed a few other runners
near the back of the pack were unable to hide their discomposure in the storm.
A
short while later, they came across the PCL champions, Bonner. Jimmy recognized
a couple of their faces from the Pre-States Invitational he had raced in
September. Unlike Coatesville, they waved and smiled at the Union Valley team.
Just after they passed, Jimmy heard a splash
and turned to see that one of the Bonner runners had purposely stepped in a
puddle to try and soak his teammate. Naturally, his target mounted a
retaliation. He felt the laughter from their team nicely accented the tense,
melancholy tone in the parking lot.
“Such
immature idiots. They’re going to get themselves soaked,” Glenn muttered to
himself, “We don’t have to worry about them beating us, I’ll tell you that.”
Matt looked as if he had a retort in mind, but he bit it back and replaced it
with a smile, continuing the jog in satisfied silence.
Somehow,
Matt managed to maintain that smile throughout the Viking’s pre-race
preparation, despite the disastrous final minutes. The weather was miserable
and there was little relief available other than their small tent. So they had
to continue most of their prep in the elements. Reggie Armstrong slipped and
face-planted during the team’s plyometric drills. Shortly after, while the team
was changing into spikes, Everett Paulson lost his balance and stepped directly
into a mud puddle, soaking his left sock.
Due
to the storm, the PAL had suspended the usual restrictions on team clothing.
That meant each runner was free to wear mismatching long sleeve shirts, running
tights, or pants, as long their official race singlet was the top layer. Jimmy
decided to wear a hat and gloves, but would otherwise wear only his customary
singlet and shorts. Most of his teammates added long sleeve under shirts while
Dan Scatena added a pair of dark blue tights. Matt decided to wear just the
official team uniform with no additional clothing. Depending on who you asked,
he was either the stupidest (Glenn) or the bravest (Matt) of the bunch. When
everyone eventually stripped down just before the gun, he had to hop up and
down and rub his hands together to keep from shivering.
Jimmy
was so distracted by the uncomfortable cold he was standing in that he had
nearly forgotten he was on the verge of the biggest race of his life. Just
before the gun, as the starter called them into a crouch, the familiar nervous
energy and adrenaline kicked in. He smiled, took a deep, calming breath and
then, just like any other race, they sprinted off the line in a wave of bodies.
Despite the depressing conditions,
the crowd erupted into massive cheers like Jimmy had never experienced before.
He fought the urge to sprint all out for a brief moment of glory at the front
of the state championship and instead followed just behind Glenn, gliding along
like his shadow. He could feel his teammates just behind him, all taking an
aggressive approach to the start. Union Valley’s starting box, on the far
right, meant most of the field would be collapsing down on them, so Jimmy ran
with his elbows out, protecting his position. A pack of runners in red and
white jerseys ran beside him, trying to slip into the ever narrowing path. As
one of them tried to fight in between Jimmy and Glenn, the freshman stepped
hard and stuck his elbow directly in his chest. He felt a hand on his back as
others ran up from behind, but there was no pushing and he was able to maintain
his balance.
After the opening 800 meters, people
seemed more comfortable in their spots. Jimmy began to look around for familiar
jerseys, particularly Coatesville. Looking ahead, he saw Dan Capriotti running
in 2nd place overall, trailing in the wake of another runner in a
red, black and yellow jersey. The pair had already opened up a small gap on the
rest of the field and Capriotti looked a little uncomfortable with the
aggressive pace the leader was setting, but he seemed determined to keep him
close. Two other Coatesville runners were near Jimmy as well. He monitored them
as best he could from the corner of his eye.
They made a slight right turn and
runners began to wobble tentatively in the mud. Edging to his left, Jimmy made
sure to take the turn wide and avoid the pile up on his inside. As he did so,
Glenn caught sight of him running in front. For a nervous second, Jimmy watched
Glenn, trying to gauge his reaction. To his relief, Glenn appeared unphased.
With the tiniest of surges, he dodged the traffic and led a path for Jimmy to
follow through a few more runners.
They
approached the mile marker that sat at the bottom of the course’s first steep
hill. Although he had been mentally preparing for it, he also had spent a lot
of energy getting into the lead group. He never started anywhere near this
quick. As they made the turn into the hill, he scanned the side path for the
clock. The rain fell on his face, causing him to squint. A string of beeping
filled his ears as the horde of runners cycled across the timing mat that had
been positioned at the one mile marker. Shoot,
he thought as he cleared the mat and charged into the hill, I missed the split.
“4:55 … 4:56 … 4:57 … 4:58 …”
He caught the string of numbers,
coming from a coach behind him. I got to
be at least three seconds faster than that, he thought, so 4:52? Is that right? Can’t be. He took the number with a
grain of salt, but even still, knowing he was running so fast through rough
conditions made him feel better about how tired his lungs were.
At the top of the hill, they made a
sharp right. On the turn, he looked back down the hill and watched as a sea of
bodies traversed the incline. A few orange jerseys were peppered near the
front. Plenty of black. A patch of green. He didn’t have time for anything more
than that. When he turned his head, he had subconsciously slowed and the runner
directly behind him nearly crashed into him. For a second, he wobbled in a
slick patch of grass before miraculously staying on his feet.
“Focus, Springer!” A familiar voice
shouted from somewhere behind him. Internally, he scolded himself and set his
sights ahead, searching in the pack for Glenn. Fisher had run the hill hard,
opening up a small gap and pushing into the top ten. The top two were still
clear, but they had not expanded their advantage.
The
field rolled into a downhill and Jimmy moved to the outside once again, opening
up his lengthy stride. He felt slightly out of control, especially when the
ground was so slick, but he raced on fearlessly, passing those too afraid to
fully utilize the elevation advantage. By the time the course flattened back
out, he was back on Glenn’s shoulder, riding the chase pack toward the front of
the race.
The
second mile was grueling and, after an aggressive start, the lead pair was
really slowing. Capriotti looked back over his shoulder and let himself be
swallowed in the pack, seemingly unwilling to lead. The runner in red and
black, realizing he was alone, decided to attack the first back hill and try to
put away the field. The chase group held steady.
The
wind was hitting them hard in this stretch, whipping rain in their faces and
punishing whoever chose to set the pace. Jimmy noticed a few runners rotate to
the lead and then, realizing the conditions were poor, slow down and
essentially beg their competitors to assume the pole position. No one felt
comfortable leading the race. As a result, the pack around him was growing in
size as more and more runners surged into the mix and the pace continued to be
pedestrian.
They
went back down the hill and Jimmy again tried to move wide and take advantage.
But this time he was boxed in. There were runners on all sides, most of whom
were tentatively navigating the decline.
With his eyes up, he chopped his stride, waiting for an opening. For a
split second, a gap between a runner in yellow and black and another in maroon
opened and he seized it. Springer stepped hard and slipped narrowly through
their shoulders. As his second foot came down, it skidded slightly, but the
runner in maroon reached out a hand and stopped his momentum, helping him stay
upright. Jimmy gave the runner a small nod of thanks, but then they raced on as
rivals.
That was close, he thought to himself, If you’re not careful, you’re going to fall …
The thought of tumbling combined with his location on the course, jogged his
memory. He was coming up on another steep hill, perhaps the toughest of the
course. Earlier, he had watched the girls’ race from the bottom of this hill. Witnessed
a girl fall directly in a massive puddle of mud.
Suddenly,
he had an idea. They approached a hard right turn. This stretch of the course
was on a small section of slanted ground. The lower ground was practically a
moat as rain and mud had run down to it the whole day. Therefore, most of the
field was pinning themselves to the inside. But at the base, Jimmy swung wide
and splashed his way through the bottom section. As they completed the tight
turn, the group who had taken the inside ran straight into a massive puddle of
mud. The exact one Jimmy had been waiting for.
He
took off hard around the turn as the frazzled pack tripped over themselves to
navigate the puddle. One of the runners in blue tripped and those closest to
him were hampered as well. In an instant, Jimmy had opened a gap on the chase
pack and was now all alone in second place. His adrenaline spiked wildly as he
looked up the hill at the last man he had to pass.
He
poured as much as he could into his ascent, knowing he had a huge mental and
physical advantage that he could not waste. He was closing quickly on the
leader, who looked completely spent. It was an incredibly taxing obstacle.
Jimmy’s legs were screaming in protest, but he pumped his arms and let his
emotions carry him.
As
they crested the beast, Jimmy drew even with the runner in red and black. They
looked at each other. He looked as tired as Jimmy felt. They were approaching
yet another sharp downhill next and Jimmy wanted nothing more than to take it
easy through this stretch and catch his breath. But instead, he shot off down
the hill as fast as he could, flying frenziedly down the sloppy surface. The
runner beside him forced himself to follow. His leg turnover was quicker and he
was able to match Jimmy’s momentum. As they approached the bottom of the
decline, he advance ahead. With the lead reopened, he seemed to be gaining
steam.
Then,
just after the base of the hill, he fell. The course took a deceivingly harsh left
turn that both runners had completely forgotten. As Jimmy watched the leader
careen wildly to the ground, he was able to adjust and slow his momentum just
enough to negotiate the turn cleanly. Upon clearing the bend, for the first
time in his life, he was winning a race. And a half mile stood between him and
the state championship.
His
bold surges through the mud combined with his opponent’s misfortune battling
the elements had created a suddenly large lead for the Union Valley freshman.
It was a perfect storm of good luck. Most of the top names had been slowed or
perhaps completely fallen in the chaotic conditions. Any step on the sloppy,
wet course could be your undoing. But as Jimmy pressed on through one final
down-hill, the number of steps he had left to take were dwindling.
He approached the bottom of the
final hill with an unbelievable amount of noise rushing to his ears. The rain
was splashing hard against his aching muscles. The crowd was cheering
maniacally. He could feel his body beginning to quit as he poured everything he
had left into the final hill. Once you
can see the finish, it will get easier, he lied to himself. You’ll find another gear. Don’t save
anything here.
He topped the hill and made the
final turn of the course. The finishing banner stared him directly in the face.
There was no one between them. The cheers seemed to be increasing in volume.
Increasing in urgency. He strained through the noise, listening for any hint of
challengers around him. But it was nearly impossible to utilize that sense
under the circumstances.
His strength and his energy were
depleted. And for the first time in his life, there was no runner ahead of him
to chase. To inspire that furious kick. So he thought back to his first
invitational with Matt. He thought back to the final meters where Matt had put
in one last ditch surge to nip him at the line. And i that moment, an orange
and blue jersey appeared at his right shoulder, ready to strike.
“Aggh!” he screamed, digging deep
within himself for one final gear. He elevated his sprint and with the extra acceleration
he powered through the finish tape, breaking it clean in half. Three bodies
came across the line, just behind him. One dressed in blue and red. One dressed
in red and white. And one dressed in black. There was just one orange and blue
jersey at the front. And it was his.the
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