Meet #8: Notre Dame

Our next meet is against Notre dame and I am not running. Notre Dame has the tightest Cross-Country program in the Conference. Their assistant Coach Dan Gray won the 15K at the Steamboat classic this year. They have Adam White who is poster child for the Journal Star and is ranked in the top five runners in the state.    My mom always blushes and holds her hand to her heart as if she is saying the pledge of allegiance commenting how good looking Adam White looks while prancing around the course.  It wasn’t supposed to have been like this. Running is the one thing I anticipated more than anything in High School. Since I was ten years old it has served as both my passion and my pulse.

 

The columns of marrow and flesh below more torso tilting, hurting irreparably 24-7.

 

I wonder what I did to piss off God.

I am not running but I walk to the line clapping my hands, goading my teammates.

“Let’s do this yo. Come on man. Southside yo. Southside!!”

 

Beano looks as if I just farted.

 

“Dave man you’re fucking retarded, yo. We ain’t gonna win this meet man. We ain’t gonna do nothing. Our season is tapped, dog.”

Tapped.

 

I watch the race. I ride in the golf course car with Coach. The Notre Dame All-staters form a cluster and a steady pace. Peacock is hanging with him In three weeks Peacock has gone from a modest talent to a Prefonatine mopped headed rockstar in cleats.  The first mile is 4:50. He is running hard. The remainder of the athletes hardly look like they are breaking a sweat.

I am riding with coach. I am helping out yell out splits. Peacock is hanging with the elite runners.

 

“I thought Adam White was going to be faster, Coach.

 

“Sometimes in dual meet they just go 80 percent. Adam White’s 80 percent is better than my 110. They will try to focus on a team win.”

 

I am yelling at Peacock. I am telling him that he is looking amazing. I am goading him to keep fighting.

Even though Adam White is not pushing it he is still running a sub-16 minute time. Peacock has never broken 17 minutes on this course.

 

I see myself in the first race running with Peacock and Jose where we tore up the course.  Notre Dame’s top seven is ahead of our second runner. Hans is coughing it up. He is pushing himself.  He is

 

Beano is dragging way behind. When coach glares at him he holds his side claiming that he has cramps.  When Coach looks the opposite direction he removes his hand from his side and smiles like Pee wee Herman.

Had I not gotten a stress fracture I would have been competing, I would have been running next to Notre Dame’s elite. Have I continued to improve on my hard work I would obliterated the FROSH record. I would have confidence to hang with anyone.

 

Somehow I am levitating off the golf cart, I am attired in my Running Rams jersey. I am tackling the course. I am next with Peacock running with the Peoria elite. Somehow even though I am rising with Coach  I am seeing myself next  to the lead pack. For a minute I see myself pushing with the Notre Dame elite.  For a minute, seated in the golf cart I am floating over the lead pack. I am next to Peacock. We are working harder at maintaining what in Notre Dame standards is a modest pace.  Somehow I am next to White and Donnelly and  Banister on a course which, one week earlier, I set a freshman record by nearly a minute. I am the sum of al the hard work outs I put on the instrument of limbs n beneath my torso. I am pushing the pace. I am reminding Peacock that this is our course and we can’t let these kids from a fucking rich catholic school fuck with us. I am insist that we play coy the first mile. That we throw the surge the second mile. That we display hardcore Southside pride.  That we push faster than they are used to. That we surprise them. That we make a statement so that at Conference and regionals in a couple of weeks there Coach offers a caveat to watch our for Peacock and Von Behren. I am running with Donnelly and Banister and Birkmeier.

We are making the final mile. Notre Dame has it one by number. I go the hole 5 and begin wildly spanking the palms of my hands together.

I am not running. I am next to Coach.

I am invalid. I am resting up for the meet in a couple of day out of town.

My time has not yet arrived.

 “This is it Peacock man this is it! This is your final race. This is your time baby.

Dan Gray runs with his head in gazelle semblance up like he is a wearing a toga and laurel leaves. Peacock is still behind the lead pack. It is obvious that Adam is not going 100 hundred percent.

 “Come on Peacock! Let’s go man this is your race baby. Come on bro this is your race!!!”

 

I am yelling at Randy. I am screaming that he can hang with these guys. I want to live vicariously through him.

“This is your course bro. You can do this shit. This is your course.”

 

I am wobbling. I would give anything to run today.

 

Beano is jogging. It looks like he is dog paddling again. Coach is furious.

 

“Sorry Coach, I have shin splint.” He says, mocking me, looking in my direction. Beano is a silent minute behind where he easily could be.  I can see Coach swiping his head back and forth in disdain.

 

“He’s fooling around. I could bench him but then he’d miss  Mattoon but if I don’t we wouldn’t have a team.”

 

Coach looks back at me.

 “Even though you are injured what I always admire about your race is that you always give everything you have.”

 I tell him thanks. Coach asks me how my leg is. I tell him the after school practices in the pool are helping. I tell him that I am still icing my left three hours a day.

"Just keep on doing that. We are rushing your recovery but I don’t want you to miss Mattoon. You ran at a Varsity caliber all season. You earned it.”

 

I tell Coach thank you. He nudges my shoulder.

 

“Chin up.” He says.

 

Chin up.

 

 

Peacock is behind the elite runners of Notre Dame. Still a caboose.  They have a strong kick. Notre Dame finishes 1-2-3. Peacock is four. Out of nowhere Hans Logrotto has the race of his life and finishes sixth. The rest of our team finishes outside the top ten.

 

The whole team seems lackluster. The team in its entirety seems to be running underwater.

                                   

At the far end of Madison Park I see a familiar car, There is someone wearing a hoodie and a flannel jacket over it. I am hobbling. The rest of the team is running back down to Manual. Although Peacock didn’t win he proved he could hang with the best in the conference.

 

I look again and I swear it is Jose.

 

This would have been his last home meet as a senior.

I walk out of the locker room with Hans LaGrotto. I look at the time on the board and my botched shot at immortality.

 

All I can see is the outlines of my face reflecting back at me.

 

All I can see is nothing at all.
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