Fractured

“It’s a stress fracture,” The doctor notes, after the x-ray, showing me the fissure along the bone.

 

I want to tell him that the season is only half over. I want to tell him that I just clocked my fastest time a little less than a week ago. I want to tell him that finally, things are working out.  That I have a beautiful girl with blonde hair and a glazed forehead I can’t stop thinking about. That I have a troika of History, English and French teachers that are nothing short of amazing. That I have a cross-country coach I try to emulate by drinking coffee . That finally, after being bullied and tested incessantly throughout all of junior high things are coming together.

 

The doctor says it’s probably best if I miss the rest of the season.

 

I explode.

 

“No. It’s not that bad. There has to be some sort of rehabilitation I can do.”

 

The Doctor nods. He says he doesn’t want me running for two weeks.

 

“Tell your coach. He will understand. It’s probably best if you spend time in the pool working out. That you avoid hard workouts for about a week."

sunday after central invite

 

It is Sunday and the papers are getting thicker, anticipate the holiday rush with commercial inserts.   am limping on my route.I have been using my Journal Star paper bag. On the other side of the street I note that my father is way ahead of me. I hurt.  I should not have run yesterday, I should have taken the race off. Every step I take I am biting my lip.

“Something is not right.”

I limp when I am the Crucifier at Church leading the choir in, alighting the crucifix above my forehead so that it casts a shadow of a lower case t or plus sign across my glasses and on my chin.
I limp when I am going to the bathroom in the community room and Eggplant Elmore habitually stands over me to verify that my urethra is sufficiently juicing.  I limp with my confirmation bible under my arm.

When I get home I can't move. I am welling up tears. I should have taken the day off yesterday and not run in the central Invite.

I am in tears. Exactly two weeks ago I chronicled my fastest time ever.

That night Coach will call my parents. That night I will writhe in pain. That night I will stay in my bedroom with my leg elevated while listening to Depeche Mode. That night was my sister’s carol down the stairs relaying to me in their svelte soprano that I have a phone call I will tell them to take a message.

That night I will bleed from a place I have never bled before. That night I will suffer and supplicate. That night I will refrain from limping down the avenues of West Peoria, collecting from patrons I deliver the world to every morning slipping a tautly optionally rubber banded exclamatory mark of collated ink into their screen door every morning, I will refrain from what I am only now beginning intuit are the rather over and highly sexualized advances of Bob and Frank, I refrain from stopping at the White house that looks like the White house inwardly drooling about the golden hair daughter lavishing inside.

My leg feels like a superfluous appendage made out of lead. It feels like the stem of a rifle adhered to my femur. I grope it with both hands while setting it off the bed.

I should be studying for my Algebra quiz on Monday, knowing that getting an A would all but assure that I don’t get a D for the first grading period

The weekend when the silhouettes of the college girls next door skitter throughout the shadowy rectangle of the window like a yawn performing foreign dances before groping vectors of their body.

 That night the only person I really want to speak with for some inexplicable reason is Dawn.

I bow at the lip of the bed and begin to pray. I tell God that I don’t care about Angelina Lighthouse. That I don’t care about Renae Holiday. That I don’t care about having another opportunity to travel to Paris in the incumbent spring. I barter with God. I promise that I will pray every night. I promise that I will be kind and will tithe 20 percent of my paper route money to his name. I promise that I won’t be obsessed staring into the frame of my window lost in the drape of the college girls next door.

I tell him I don’t care if I get a C in Algebra or in Cool Joe Thomas’s Bio (graphy) class.

I tell him that I will listen to nothing but God pleasing music as to invoke feelings of lust and that I will ferry the green Gideon bible in my right pocket to curtail sins of lust.

I am addressing an inscrutable deity in the male gender. I am reminding him that he raised the dead and healed the lame. I am trying to haggle a bargain of health with a cataclysmic unknown variable.

I am praying harder than I have ever prayed before.

I am asking for the opportunity to serve and further his kingdom with the orchestrations of my limbs. That I might serve as a beacon of his light.

 

“Please, heavenly Father, give me a chance.”

Please.

 When I try to get up the next day for my route I find can’t move.

 

Meet #7: Central Invite, Detweiller park

It is Detweiller. There is a certain fairy-tale flair indebted to the grass. A cookie sheet of primly manicured green unfurled from the lip of St Andrew’s golf course, kicked like an emerald carpet.  The course begins as a free for all sprint before making a hard left, pushing around the contours of the park, the one mile mark   midway down the stretch abutting the jutted river banks route 29, before breaking into the nest of Evergreens guarding the Triangle, where races are won and loss, a geometric three corner hat near the entrance of the park, before pushing over the bridge, doing another continental loop along Route 29 before skimming across the bottom of the course, pushing 800 meters to the finish line.

It is the site of the State meet and has been for quite some time.

 

The Central Invite culls the Big Boys.

There are 45 teams competing in the Central Invite for a total of 300 plus athletes.

 Schools with names like O’Fallon and Deactur MarArthur and Salem. Schools from the suburbs with names like Palatine and Glenbrook South. OakBrook and Darien and Vernon Hills. Hinsdale and Glen Ellyn. Schools that sound like  gated subdivisions in opulent neighborhoods. Then there is Elmhurst York, the New York Yankees of Illinois state cross-country with 17 State titles as of 1992 a legendary no-non shit Olympic coach and Legions of fans bivouacked along the sidelines. At State meet every year they bring 800 students and a band.

 

As some sort of camaraderie they all have their hair shaved bald. It looks like they are running in unison out of the Chemotherapy ward.

Coach has informed us that this is are largest met by far and is going to see how massive a sport cross-country is in the state of Illinois. Coach keeps asking me how I am feeling. He has diagnosed my ailment as most likely a shin splint.  Much to protest and chagrin excusing me from practice and PE the rest of the week, informing me to ice my leg three times a day and to keep it elevated and get plenty of rest.

 

Dad has done my paper route for the past three days saying that I should just rest. Stating that I should just concentrate my focus on healing since I am excused from Early Bird PE.

 

Coach asks me how I feel. I am still hurting. My leg has been propped up inveterately numb the entire week. I lather it with balm.  I am stretching. Inside I feel that something is wrong.

I feel hands on the back of my neck. It is Hans, my uncircumcised brother. My closest companion on the team.

“I was really worried about you the other night when you pummeled the record board.”

“Yeah, Coach told me that even though I am not 100 percent I should still go out and run this best I can, so here I am, just running with what I got, which is now only one appendage.”

Hans and I give each other a dab. Outside several schools have giant flags flagellating back and forth as if it is a European soccer matches.

 There are seven of us. Everything is quiet and hushed at the start. There are over three hundred boys lined up at the line.  There is a crack of the gun and stampede of cleats galloping over a field of green.  Limbs jostling, hands and kneecaps pawing, we are roving down three footballs fields vying for the first turn. I am next to Peacock. Somehow the Richwood’s boys seem intimidated when they see York and their shaved heads.  In the crowd I spot Sexually Frustrated Gumby. I spot Sheep Dog Boy and Bitner.  I spot DiGregorrio from Metamora. We are all vying to remain close on the inside for the first turn before we go past the home stretch for the first time wending our way around the circumference of the course headed for the mile mark.

I feel fine.

The field goes out fast.  Peacock has been more assertive the first mile.  I stay with him. I should not be pushing myself this fast. I have been excused from practice since Tues. I have soaked my leg in the pool every night and iced it for two hours upon returning home. I have wrapped it so that it is practically a lithe splint.

 Last week at Richwoods I didn’t hurt until the second mile.

I am focused. There is no pain in my right leg as I swerve towards route 29. The leaders are still in sight, I am next to Peacock. Ironically Sheepdog boy is directly behind us. My leg is gauzed. It looks like I just stepped out of a Nike Sarcophagus.

We continue to push. Coach is looking down into his stopwatch writing down mile split on his notepad.  The times are 5:18, 5:19,5:20. Peacock seems comfortable. He has run this course at least a dozen times over his Cross-Country tenure at Manual. I don’t want to over do it. I am still thinking that somehow I have one more chance to quash my cousin’s record this Tuesday when Notre Dame visits us at Madison Golf Course for our final home meet of the year. 

Peacock is making his move. Sheepdog boy is next to me.

“Man bro, heard you had a killer time at Morton a few weeks back.”

I nod. I don’t want to instigate conversation. I am trying to stay focused. We are headed for the triangle. Ahead of me Peacock is already starting to kick. He looks like he is just getting warmed up.

Sheep Dog boy is talking to me. Sheep Dog Boy who gave me so much shit our third race of the year. Sheep Dog Boy whom I tackled down the stretch after he made an ill-timed jab at Jose about smelling like a taco.

We cross the diminutive bridge entering the triangle, the leaders on the second quadrant. I see Adam White from Notre Dame surrounded by bald heads and green jerseys.  

There is a slight gap between the runners who are running a sub 16:30 pace and those who aren’t. I am right at the end. Peacock is kicking. He is moving up. Three ago I was right next to him. Sheep Dog Boy and myself hit the last vector of the triangle in tandem. He spits.

We should be around 10:45 for mile two.  Sheep Dog Boy says Dude, what happened to you leg, it looks like it just got sodomized by the mummy, referencing the gauze when awe of a sudden I feel a jilt and a crack and then it happens again. 

I am wincing in pain.  I am hobbling. I should probably pull out of the race only I can’t. 

 

I am down for a full minute. When I get up I see Beano and Leatric.

 

“Dude, dave you alright man.”

 

I am hugging my leg into my chest as if I am trying to breast feed my knee cap. I am down for only a second. I get up. I refuse to stop. I am hobbling, I don’t know what is wrong. I don’t why I hurt.

 

I am hobbling. I am running with kind of stealth wobble to my gait. It’s like my left foot takes two steps every time I tersely set my right foot down.  We cross the second mile mark at 11:45, my slowest second mile of the season. I should drop out now. I am thinking about my cousins record. Beano is telling me lets go Dave. Both of them seem surprised that they are ahead of me.

I am being passed by a stream of runners, athletes I have dwarfed all season.

I can’t understand why I have busted my ass all summer preparing myself to be in top condition and I keep foundering at the exact moment I expect glory to arrive.

The team needs me. We are without our captain. Coach needs me. Tears are skiing down the side of my face and I don’t want any one to look at me. When anyone asks me If I am okay I involuntary snort.

 

I am having a hard time pushing myself.  After two miles a searing pain sprints up the side of my leg. I continue on. For some reason I limp when I run.

I finish at 18:30. Mt slowest time of the season. When I cross the line I bob over in pain.

 Coach is taping me up. I am hobbling. I tell Coach I don’t know what is wrong. I almost broke sixteen minutes three days ago in Morton.

I don’t know what is wrong.

 

Home Coming

It is Homecoming week and the student body is celebrating. Everyone is asking everyone to the dance. It is Homecoming and there is confetti and everyone is celebrating and dancing. Coach Mann goes out of his way top talk about how unless Lincoln is familiar with the military strategies of Hannibal and Xerxes than they just cannot touch us on the field. When I come into class limping Aron Rothmann mimes me from behind then makes little thrusting sounds.

Coach has excused me from practice. He has diagnosed it as a shin-splint. Instead of running after school I go up into the pool and simulate running laps.

 

I then go home and ice my leg for ten hours straight.

 

Our next race is the Central Invite with 45 teams and over 300 runners this weekend.

 In the locker room Banners are festooned throughout the aquatic hallways of the school I was planning on going down to the talent show with Tin but my leg has just been hurting too bad.  The day before

 

There are signs draped everywhere for the football team.

 

There a no signs for soccer or for cross-country.

Toilet paper is funneled everywhere like glens.

Coach says that in Chicago some schools have Homecoming over their schools Cross-Country meet.

 

“Yeah, we just get shit in here.”

 

I walk up to the pool. I still cant move my leg.

 

Tomorrow is the central Invite.

 

Tomorrow Coach wants me to run

 

After the final homecoming send off there is a fight in the hallway. Patrick gets boxed into a corner while two kids flail each other.  He can’t move. The dean and the cop who looks like Michelin tire man break it off, groping the students and prying them apart. Patrick is cornered.

 

‘’You okay bro?”

 

“I fucking hate this place. I can’t wait to get the hell out. All people here ever do is fuck with you. That’s all they ever do.”

 

 

 

 

I limp. Darkness is starting to weld the lavender lid of  its eye around 5:50. Tendrils of smoke quavering from chimneys. It is getting cooler. After the first five weeks we are no longer allowed to wear shorts during the day at Manual.

I am limping. I limp home. My father asks me what is wrong. There is a look on his face as if he is hurt inside.

 “I’m not sure dad. It was the last half-mile at hole five. I just passed the leader from richwoods and I was heading down the final stretch with a half mile left to go when I heard a crack and couldn’t move. I don’t know what I was doing. All I was doing was running.”

I have a limp. I have cool Joe Thomas’s second test the next day worth 60 percent of the grading period grade. He has not gone over anything. Last period he brought a vial containing his mother-in-law cataract to the classroom and passed it around snickering when fellow classmates offered verbal irks.

 

I should be icing my leg. Dad thinks that maybe it is pulled muscle.

 

All I can think is that I still have one more time to break the record. I still have Notre Dame on the sixth. All I have to do is heal 80 percent and I should make it.

                                                                        ***

“But Dave, I don’t do that. I mean I don’t do that. I mean...”

                                                                        ***

Father does the paper when I am hurt. For the second consecutive night I sleep all night with an icepack planted on the top of my leg like a melting mortarboard.

 

When I wake up I look at the front page I see the news.

 

I really liked him to begin with and I think he’s by far the most intelligent of the candidates but he dropped out. You don’t go half way, drop out and then drop back in. You just don’t, son.”

Columbus Day is one week away. Historically that is when the Journal Star announces the entries for the Young Columbus contest.

 

You just don’t go half-way, drop out then drop back in.

 

 

 

                                       ***

I ask Mrs. Peabody if it is okay if I come in after school and get help She telsl me no. She says she is sorry.

 
“Maybe I can come in on my study hall. It’s fifth hour.”

 Mrs. Peabody shakes her head again left and right. There is no reason for her to be this adamant.  She seems vindictive because I am just asking for help.

 “Look. Maybe you are just not advanced enough for this course. Maybe the mathematical curriculum offered at your grade school just wasn’t on par with state standards. Maybe you should see your guidance counselor and see if you can switch down to an easier class."

 I’m not backing down. Either in cross-country or in life.

Mrs. Peabody then says something infuriating.

"Just because you're a big time athlete and have your name on the announcements every day doesn't mean you get special treatment."

I am furious. I have a limp. I hurt all the time. I feel like following Patrick's lead and dropping out of the class.

I am just not backing down.

That night when I look at the Gideon bible next to my bedside I wonder if God is damming me for wanting something.

I wonder if he is damming me for trying to break the  FROSH record.

I wonder if he is damming me for being proud.

 

 

That night Hans is holding me as I walk out of the locker room writhing in pain.

“The problem is the parents. The parents get involved in a school like Richwoods and make sure the kids are involved in extra-curricular activities. Here no one gives a fuck. Half the school will be parents by the time they graduate at the rate it seems to be going.”

Well Hans is blathering it occurs to me that the freight train of hoity-toity Richwoods fucks who trampled me when my leg inexplicably gave out inevitably brushed past Dawn Michelle and Karen Christmas in the hallway perhaps several times earlier that day.

. Hans says hell, my folks and yours are the only ones who seem to come and cheer on the race.

No one has ever seen or inquired about Peacocks parents. When asked he says that his dad is always working.

Peacock easily sacrificed 20 seconds off his own time when he stopped to see if I was okay.

When I reach the pool atrium I look at the record board and, w/out thinking, furl my fingers into a cusped fist and plow into as hard as I fucking can.

 Hans tells me easy there. He says you don’t need a wounded hand to go along with my foot.

When I look back I see the time of 17:20. My cousin’s name is looking back at me through a spider web of self-inflicted ripples.

 

 

 

I scream out the word fuck as loud as I possibly can.