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.