Chapter
Thirty One
Mark Miller, May 2016
At
9:45, they began to line up the competitors for the Boys Large School 3200
Meter State Championships. The 3200 (the approximate metric equivalent for Two
Miles) was an eight-lap race around the track, the longest event the PAL offered
at the State Meet. The field consisted
of eighteen runners, including five from District Three, the region of the
state in which Manheim Township resided. Mark recognized a few familiar faces
on the starting line, including, most obviously, his brother Jayson.
“Which
one’s Springer?” Ian asked as the runners took their marks, anticipating the
gun. Mark scanned quickly before
spotting a tall figure with an orange singlet and dark blue shorts.
“That
one.” As if on cue, the gun sounded and Springer sprinted forth, clearing the
crowded field and taking up the lead. It was a beautiful, graceful stride,
effortlessly gliding to the front. Jayson followed him, running tall and
powerful, a look of determination and focus engraved on his face.
“So
that’s Jayson’s nemesis, huh?” Ian said, watching the tall front-runner float
along the back straightaway. Jayson was tucked in among the chase pack in about
fourth place. “He doesn’t seem that impressive.”
“Yeah,
totally,” Mark said sarcastically, “What about seven state championships? Does
that impress you at all?”
“Wait,
seven state championships?” Tom asked
incredulously, “Are you serious?”
“Yep.
He won the 32, 16 and 800 at states last year. When he was just a sophomore.”
“Wow,”
Ian muttered, watching Springer continue to lead the field. As he came through
the first lap, they looked eagerly at the clock. “Did he just split that lap in
61 seconds?! How fast is he trying to run?”
“I
think he’s trying to go under nine minutes today,” Mark replied distractedly as
he watched carefully for his brother. Jayson came through in about 66 seconds,
packed in a crowd of ten runners, looking slightly uncomfortable. The younger
Miller fidgeted nervously with his short pockets.
Springer
continued to easily eat up track, rolling past the high jump pit and into the
back stretch. His lead was expanding, already approaching six or seven seconds.
Meanwhile, the chase pack was thinning. Some of the runners knew the early pace
was well over their heads. Others would find out soon enough.
At
800 meters, Springer hit the line with the clocking reading two minutes, six
seconds. Next to cross the line, through in 2:14, was a runner sporting a black
top with a red “C” on the chest. Jayson ran in 6th place, alongside one
racer in green and another in pale blue. He seemed a bit more at ease as the
pack around him continued to dissipate. But Mark seemed no less warry than a
lap earlier.
“You
recognize any of those guys around him?” Ian asked, peering intensely down at
the track. “Looks like Gonzalez is in 8th-maybe 2 or 3 seconds
back-but I don’t see Johnston.”
“That’s
gotta be one of those Coatesville dudes,” Tom said pointing at the runner in
black who was putting in a small surge away from 3rd place. “Those
guys are machines.”
“I’m
pretty sure that’s Andrew Rosato,” Mark replied, following Tom’s outstretched
finger. “He’s the guy Jayson outkicked indoors in the 3k.”
“Oh,
that kid?” Ian reacted darkly, “He
was such a tool.” They watched as Rosato set his sights on Springer. “I hate
those Coatesville kids. They’re so cocky.”
“Takes
one to know one,” Tom muttered quietly.
At
the halfway point, Springer held close to a seven second advantage over Rosato.
He went through the mile in a blazing fast 4:24, but his pace was noticeably
slowing after his ambitious start. Jayson sat back in 5th place,
going through the mile in 4:34. Mark watched as his brother battled for
position with the runner in light blue. He looked so much more tired than he
had the previous week, even though he was racing at roughly the same pace.
“C’mon, Jayson. Wake up.” He muttered
under his breath. A second runner in green approached his outside shoulder, but
the Manheim Township Blue Streak held his position and forced his trailer in
green to go wide. It was the first time since the start that a runner had made
to pass him and it appeared to shake him from his slump.
Refocusing,
the tall blonde put his head down and put in a small surge. “Atta boy, Jayson.” As he battled
forward, he gained quickly on third place. His head dipped back slightly as it
tended to when he was tired, but he kept his face relaxed and his arms pumping.
“Yo
Mark,” Tom said suddenly, tapping feverishly on his shoulder, “Look!”
For
the first time in minutes, Mark turned his attention back to the front of the
race. Jimmy Springer’s once insurmountable lead was shrinking quickly as Andrew
Rosato continued to make up ground. Springer looked uncomfortable, his legs not
popping off the track with the same bounce they had earlier. Meanwhile his
pursuant from Coatesville had a wild, fiery hunger in his eyes. With the tempo
to match. Gradually, the crowd began to realize a race was developing. A ripple
of whispers cut through the previously still air.
The
race approached the mile and a half mark, Springer’s lead down to some three
seconds over Rosato. The Coatesville Raider was charging forward, making Jimmy
look as though he was jogging on a treadmill. Then, as the fans increased in
volume, the Union Valley star looked back over his shoulder anxiously.
“He’s
scared!” Ian called, “He’s gonna get caught!”
The
spectators around them must have seen things similarly as many were rising to
their feet and cheering enthusiastically. Rosato was now within a second or
two, but Springer was still managing to fight him off. Every step seemed to cut
the distance in half, but, paradoxically, Jimmy held his lead.
Another
ripple of whispers whipped through the stadium as the runners approached 500
meters to go. They were passing by the largest section of fans on the home
straightaway for the penultimate time. The noise was escalating raucously all around
them.
“Let’s
go, Jayson!” Mark’s father’s booming voice echoed loudly around the track,
causing his youngest son to snap his head around. There, streaking suddenly
toward the lead, was Manheim Township’s school record holder. Now it hit Mark
why he had heard that second injection of enthusiasm. It hadn’t been for
Rosato’s pursuit-it was for Jayson’s.
Positively
jumping with joy, the trio of teammates cheered manically for their captain as he
stormed across the finish line, the final-lap-signaling bell ringing loudly in
his left ear. As Jayson turned the pace up another notch, Rosato looked
mentally defeated. He had worked so hard to catch Springer, only to have
another, seemingly fresher, runner take over the lead instead. Conversely, the
exhausted-looking defending champion had surprisingly managed to latch on to
the surge, refusing to surrender his title that easily.
Overflowing
with excitement, Mark charged out of the stands and down the stairs toward the
near side of the track. He could hear his friends’ footsteps echoing loudly in
his wake as he kept his eyes pinned to the tall blonde. Frantically, he
sprinted forward, wedging himself along the fence between a duo of runners in
blue shirts and a girl in white. He craned his neck down the straightaway to
watch as the two harriers came storming down it for the final time, racing
through a wall of anticipation and exhilaration. They were stride for stride
with one another, running shoulder to shoulder as Springer swung wide to try
and rally a last ditch effort to steal the gold.
The
two passed directly in front of Mark’s face. He could see their gritted teeth.
The sweat flying from their hair. The muscles flexed powerfully into attack
mode. A second later they were on the opposite side of him. He could only watch
their backs as they tore off toward the finish. From this vantage point, unable
to see either face, they looked like a pair of robots charging ahead, just as
easily powered by electricity and technology instead of the grit and passion
that would became evident with one look at the painstaking expressions across
the athletes’ faces. Then, the machines powered down as the crowd gave one
final, climatic roar.
“Who
won?!” Mark asked to no one in particular, standing on his toes to try and
improve his view, but his spot yards down the straightaway was not ideal for
determining the victor.
“I
don’t know.”
They
watched as the two competitors shook hands. Jayson appeared to be smiling.
Ben Havleck, May 2016
“Hey,
nice race, man.”
“Thanks,
you too.” Feel free to lead some next
time. Ben shook the gold medalists hand without taking his eyes off the
track. Much more pressing matters than sportsmanship were happening. The
invincible Jimmy Springer had just taken the large school race out at suicide
pace. The complete opposite of the race in which Ben had just participated. But
it’s called suicide pace for a reason.
Currently
running in second place, Andrew Rosato of Coatesville was quickly closing down
the gap to the leader. Ben whipped out his watch and pressed a button
carefully, once when Springer crossed the finish, then again when Rosato did.
Thanks to the small school award presentation, he had missed the start of the
race, but he was hoping to get a feel for how each harriers current pacing
compared as the race’s sixth lap began.
He
watched the seconds spring to life on his wrist. Still about five and half second difference. Ben looked across the
track at the two lead competitors. The chaser looked so much stronger than his
prey. But a lot of time’s left.
As
the Union Valley junior passed in front of him, he shuffled hurriedly forward,
trying to get a better sight line for the finish. He checked down at his watch
as each finished their laps. That’s 72 for Springer. Yikes. He scanned for
Rosato and was surprised to see how much he had cut into the lead in just the
last half lap. 69 for Rosato. He’s
closing.
The
enthusiasm in the crowd was intensifying. He had considered his race to be
loud, but that roar was little more than a purr compared to the fervor
currently building within the Shippensburg stands. Ben looked up at the rows of
bleachers and soaked in the grandeur of the moment. It was amazing. Never
before had track and field felt so significant.
He
turned back to the race just in time to see a blonde streak surging powerfully
to the front. Wait, what just happened?
he thought as he looked hopelessly at his timer for some type of explanation.
Another runner, sporting a white and blue uniform with a lightning bolt on the
chest, had moved alongside Jimmy Springer’s shoulder. He had come seemingly
from nowhere and the fans were loving it.
Ben
watched the Coatesville runner’s expression as he passed. Rosato looked stunned
and defeated. Like he had taken a blow to the chest. Ben dwelled on him for
another solemn moment before ripping himself from this disconcerting mirror and
refocusing on the flurry of feet at the front of the field.
Somehow,
Springer had managed to avoid folding up like a lawn chair when he had been
passed. In fact, he rallied his energies and fought back. Sitting on the
leader’s shoulder. Hanging by only a thread, but hanging none the less. Together,
the duo sprinted off the final turn. Side by side. The crowd had risen as one
to their feet. As best he could in his fatigued state, Ben hustled toward the
finish line, hoping to get a better view for the tight finish. But even with a
massive head start, he couldn’t beat them. Wielding a furious final sprint, the
tall, lanky figures extended their bodies across the finish line.
“Who
won?” He asked aloud, slowing his body to a hobbled stop. It seemed the whole
stadium was waiting eagerly for the answer to the same question.
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