a life in sports, part three

Being an irresponsible hedonist, I’ve whooped it up with the best of ‘em.

Can in hand, fist punching at the sky, freakin’ to a verse or a sledge riff or a guttural yelp emanating from stereos so loud they oppress every ear in range, awash in sweat, dreaming romanticized dreams of supple women and rogue adventure and decades that now exist only on moving film and in photographs and dreaming also of Europe and any place that is not my own, spending money I do not have on things that might provide--if even for a fleeting moment--reminder of why I’m alive, voraciously researching life’s curious minutiae (what hue is mauve, exactly?) by reason of pride, driving far too fast on a too-dark road, staying out past hours of decency and trailing the sun, saying all the wrong things whilst cowering under the dubious umbrage of proper intentions, wondering how some electric human beings--those who “get it”--manage to experience two hundred years of life in less than forty, grasping profound epiphanies while intoxicated from lack of sleep or overabundance of stimulae (and beer), laughing at the world, in on the joke, back behind the curtain interrogating the wizard.

Anyway, the reason I got on about all that hedonism junk is that I took in a ridiculously good film over Thanksgiving weekend, one that realerted me to the single greatest pleasure--running--I’ve ever known.

Nothing approaches the organic, corporeal high of a brisk 10-miler in the dark. There's really nothing else like it.

Sarah Cate, this one’s for you. Thanks for telling it like it is.

About a month ago I received this message in my Yahoo! inbox:

Elwood! The long awaited sports blog #2 just came across my eyes! Ok. Here's the deal, I am unhappy with it. But this is a good thing. Now you know that I really mean "that's awesome" when I say "that's awesome" and it's not just me being a kiss up or something. Elwood, that blog was not awesome. I was really looking forward to some insight to this huge mystery about you---you ran cross country in college?? Damn right you were sick of writing.

Sarah’s right; that blog was not awesome. Here’s part three (there will be a fourth, too—one running entry probably won’t suffice).

The aforementioned film (“The Long Green Line”) is a documentary about Joe Newton (ultra-tiny pic at right), who may be the finest high school cross country coach in history. He’s helmed the York squad in Elmhurst, IL for 50 years; 26 of those years have yielded a state title. Quite simply, he’s one of the most dominating, inspirational coaches--of any sport, and at any level--the world has ever seen.

York and Lyons Township (my h.s. alma mater) share a conference, meaning we’ve been on the receiving end of York’s trouncings on more than a few occasions. To put things in perspective, allow me to relate a few cold, non-negotiable figures:

York’s top 5 guys placed 1, 3, 4, 6, 10 at State in ‘99, making for a 24 point total (to determine a team score, one takes the sum of the finishing places). For comparative purposes, consider that the second-place team, Schaumburg, scored 139. It’s disgusting how convincingly York flattened their competition. Illinois--like California, Texas and other large, densely-populated states--boasts terrific depth and quality in prep cross country, but you wouldn’t know it by those results. York's 24-point performance came during the fall of my senior year. I was in the race.

I worked my ass off to compete in that meet. As a freshman, four years prior, I’d barely managed a 6:00 mile. Completely neophytic in all things running and grossly underdeveloped (I entered high school measuring in at just over five feet and barely 100 pounds), I hadn’t yet shown any real promise. During practice runs I lingered at the rear of the pack, clopping along in ill-fitting shoes.

Four years and a few thousand miles later, I toed the line at the state meet representing our top 7 (we numbered about 85 in total), competing for a school that hadn’t reached the state finals as a team since the 70’s. To earn our berth, we’d subverted a decades-long drought by placing third in our Sectional meet the week prior.

Let’s rewind, though. I logged 508 miles in the summer of ’99 (works out to about 6.5 per day), and that’s on top of the miles I walked while caddying. Seeing as I worked nearly every day that summer, I probably averaged 50 miles a week over at the country club. After four or five hours of bag-carrying, I’d arrive home, switch over to running tee and shorts and set off on my evening run--a solitary, cathartic affair.

Day One. I was ready. We were ready. Things went accordingly. Every day we put one foot in front of the other.

A month before state, I clocked my best performance to date: 16:33 on a hilly, slow three-mile course, good for 4th on the team. I’ll be the first to admit that time isn’t particularly impressive, but I felt smooth and controlled throughout, suggesting that I was ready to uncork a biggee in the coming weeks. Three days later, I lowered my mile best to 4:51 during a time trial on the track.

Then disaster struck. For reasons unknown, I peaked nearly three weeks early. My 16:33 was the apex, the toppermost, the high point, the gold star of my season. After that, the ol’ bod let me down. I felt sluggish and fatigued during practices, competed poorly in the Regional meet and went from being our 4th guy to our 7th (only 7 run).

Sectionals was particularly painful, selfishly speaking. Our team got third, as I said, and pandemonium ensued. LT had eclipsed all expectations, but I’d run one of the worst races of my high school career. Struggling through a pathetically slow last mile, utterly spent, I was our 7th and final finisher. When I heard we’d made it, I cried as I hadn’t cried in years. It was one of the greatest feelings of my life, albeit bittersweet. All those miles, all those practices, all those late-nite runs borne of desperation and a vague vision, took on new meaning. We were actually heading to the state finals. I couldn’t believe it. There’s an amateurish home video floating around somewhere; one of the parents shot it that day on a camcorder. I remember seeing my face upon replay and being taken aback. Is that what I look like when I cry?

Days later, I faced the unenviable task of appealing to my head coach for the chance to compete at the Big Show. My performances in the preceding weeks hardly qualified me for the task, but I pleaded my case. I remember breaking down in tears in the locker room, overcome. Coach, I said, I put in the miles, I’ve put in four years of miles. I’ve dreamed of this moment since I first fell in love with the sport, back when I was a freshman. Hell, I've been in our top 5 for the majority of the season. He didn’t answer me just then. Mike, he said, we’ll decide this on race day. Be ready to go.

One week after sectionals we took a chartered van to Peoria, Illinois. I awoke on the morning of the meet with my fate still hanging in the balance. Warmed up with the team, breathed it all in (to this day, the smells of fall make me ache for cross country), laced up a pair of well-worn spikes, safety-pinned a paper number to my torso, right across the abdominals. Wasn’t until ten minutes before the race that my coach took me aside and told me I’d be competing.

So then the gun went off, four years reduced to a race lasting just north of a quarter of an hour. I ran poorly, but the team impressed. Our top guy, Brendan Gaffney, grabbed 4th in 14:33(!), running the race of his life in the process. We secured 8th as a team, a solid showing. At the finish (I refuse to enter my time--you can look it up if you wish), we were greeted by an army of supporters, many of them crying those same tears I’d cried the week before. I grinned, stupidly, thrilled to be alive and fit and involved in such a beautiful sport, surrounded by the greatest friends and teammates one could hope for. As seems to be a trend, I look back on that day and wish I knew how to embrace such a scene in all its fragile, picturesque sublimity without sacrificing any detail. Alas, I’ve relegated it to fuzzed memory, a memory I’ve reconstructed for the better.
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