Race #10: Conference

 

It is been seven hours since I last saw Renae Holiday. All through my paper route I  can still taste the pasty sheen of her forehead on my lips. I wished I would have asked her out.  I am waiting on the front steps for Coach, who made it very clear that, even though I am not running today due to a stress fracture that has marred my season he still wants to pick me and have a talk with me before the Conference meet.

The house phone reverberates. Coach calls and says he is running late because he has had car trouble.

“Don’t worry Coach. I can just have dad drive me down.”

 

Coach tells me not to worry. He tells me that he will arrive shortly

As I was in the Notre Dame meet I am on the sideline for Conference. I am limping. I have been at the pool everyday this week. I want to run. I want to compete. I want to hurl myself at the competition. I have one more week to heal. I have one more week to ice my leg every night and run in the pool an hour before school and two hours after.

I am trying to get to the place I need to be in order to be the athlete I need to become.

I sit on the steps. I am wearing jeans. I am still walking with a noticeable limp to my gait.

 

I am waiting for Coach. I am expecting Coach to lead me to the locker room and to tell me that, once I am healed, he expects me to be a leader of a team whose Captain bowed out. I am anticipating Coach conveying to me not to over exert my rehabilitation. To take it easy after the season. To keep on fighting.

    
 There is a snorting sound echoing on the side alley. As I look to my left I see coach. He is straddling his motorcycle. He has box of donuts tucked under his arm in a head lock.

It is a motorcycle. I have no clue where he wants me to sit.

 

 

Coach always gets a box of donuts for the runners before the race. I have never been on a motorcycle before. Coach tells me that normally you at least have to wear something on your eyes but not to worry since I am wearing glasses. 

 He hands me the donuts to hold.

 “Here,” Coach says, asking me if I have ever ridden a motorcycle before. I tell him no. I take the donuts from his possession. Coach tells me to cradle my limbs behind him and to hold on with my hand to the back of his waist. Coach shuffle ball chains with his left foot ripping the snorting nautical shell beneath our shared seat to life.  We take off through West  Peoria. I can hear Coach say that it is actually somehow safer if we don't go down Western, just because.

He is running late. We get to Ligonier.

I can smell the scent of my Coaches neck. I can see his freckles and his back of his red hair. We are gliding as if on a single semi-cushioned ski. The wind rakes over the top of my head in thick atmospherical drapes. I have one hand rodeoed around coach’s waist. My other hand is holding the box of donuts that Coach has open in his office awaiting his team when they walk in.


As we arrive Hans and Logrotto are already at side door waiting. They give me a look of astonishment.

"We won't have much time." Coach tells me as he parks his bike near the entrance to the rubber gym.


The bus should be here is fifteen minutes.

As Beano and Leatric show up he tells everyone that it is a big day gentlemen.


My teammates take a donut. They seem less than enthused.


                                                                       ***

 

 

                                                

Conference is the last major race before regionals. The top five teams and five individual not on a winning team get invited to sectional. They top five teams and five individuals at Sectional will get invited to state meet, held at Detweiller in three weeks,

We are running at Detweiller. We are running the state meet course today.We are competing against schools we have battled in dual meets years long. Central with sheep dog boy and their clean-cut shit-talkers who I have garnered a respective for and in a weird way become friends with, Woodruff, who we massacred earlier in the season back when our team still had Jose and I still had my legs  and who has a precocious come  from nowhere sophomore who is battling around the same time as LaGrotto, Richwoods with their Bleach-blonde aryan-saluting hair and braces, Pekin with their buck teeth and innate bigotry, Notre Dame who are the proven titans conference with Adam White leading the herd.

With the exception of Adam White all of Notre Dame’s runners, perhaps emulating that of York, have shaved their heads.

 

I am trying to pump our team up. I am clapping. Beano gives me the finger. Hans is listening to the Hungarian techno music he listens to on his discman before the race while closing his eyes.  Quaynor seems like he is in another place.

 

Only Leatric and Peacock nod.

 

 

"Yall, got to do this man. Come on. Rams Pride. Ya'll go to win this one!"

 

Beano tells me to shut up.

 

"The sooner this race is done, Dave, the sooner we can stop running every day."  

                                                                                  ***





  I am still side-lined with an injury. Coach I have spent four hours in the pool every day, an hour n hour during early bird PE hushing laps and three hours after school. Performing aquatic exercises trying to heal.

Coach says that I should be ready for Regional and that the one that counts since those who qualify move on to sectional and then to State. 

 

 I want to apologize to Coach for not being able to participate.


Again I am on the sidelines during the bellow of the opening gun. Again I am cheering my teammates on. Again I am applauding as Peacock continues to have a season that seemingly has sprung out of nowhere.

The bald headed Notre Dame elite cluster together in the beginning. From behind they look like Charlie Brown running because he has the shits after ingesting something Snoopy cooked for him in a chef's hat.    Lanphier has nearly the same identical color jerseys as Manual. They are also the sole other school that has more than one black athlete. At first I think Leatric and Quaynor are in the top five at the first turn and then I realize it is two runners from a school I have never heard of before.


Adam White takes the lead. I am writing down splits.  White's first mile is 4:44. He is followed closely by his bald-headed teammate Bannister. Richwoods seem to be packed extremely tight, as if Pekin. Notre Dame is the favorite to win but are running without their third fastest runner who has a strained hamstring



At the mile mark  the only two members of our squad who appear to be fighting is Peacock and Lagrotto.  Coach says that Lagrotto has been taking the first mile too fast but that he is really turning into a splendid athlete.


The second mile Peacock takes off. He is fighting.  Coach looks at me and says boy, if you would have told me at the beginning of the practice last summer that Peacock would be our fastest runner and would have improved this much I never would have believed you.

 

“Do you think he’ll make State Coach?”

 

“He’ll make Sectionals the way he’s running. That’s almost a given. As long as he stays healthy.”

 

Coach looks at me.

 

“You’d be there to if you were healthy. You’ll be there next year for sure.” 

He nods at my direction. They are approaching the second mike. Lagrotto is running what would be 17:20’s pace. He is pushing it.

 

“Go Hans!! Looking great brother!!! Go brother!!!”

The rest of our team is straggling. Coach looks down and swipes his head from shoulder rand shoulder when the juniors trot past.

 

 

 

“It’s like they are not even trying. It’s like they don’t want to be on the team. It’s like they don’t want to run.”

 Beano looks like he is trying to hold back from farting. Quaynor is nowhere near where he should be. The two freshman we invited to fill the roster are trudging hard and sweating but at the best they are only six-thirty milers, trying to finish before twenty minutes would be a personal goal.

I don’t know what to say to Coach as our team skitters past.  I want to tell him that I feel that maybe I am at 60 percent. I want to tell him  that Coach Bruington suggested that I come out for swimming and said I was a really diligent athlete only I declined because running is my true love. I want to inquire what Coach wanted to talk with me this morning about. I want to ask him what happened to Jose. Jose who was a loyal runner and the team captain until this year. Jose who still holds the record fro the FROSH mile. Jose who I looked up to from the first moment I met him and who grabbed my shoulders from behind while I was eating at Old Country  buffet after a Music Man rehearsal.

Jose who has not been at school since the second week of classes.

I want to ask Coach  why Manual is different from the other schools. I want to ask Coach if schools like Pekin and the trust-fund twats at Richwoods have the same teenage pregnancy rate and low test scores. I want to ask Coach about sociology. I want to ask Coach about why kids who live only four miles away from each other can have disparate futures.

Can live in pain.


Instead I digress. I yell at Peacock. I cheer on Hans to kick. During the two minutes between Hans and the rest of the team I try not to think about Adam White crossing the finish line, accepting another victory. I try not to think about what he would think about Manual if he would somehow find himself attending classes at the school surrounded by houses with loose shingles, the school in the dead-tooth southside of town.

 I change the topic completely.

 

“Coach that was really crazy on that motorcycle this morning.”

 

Coach laughs. I don’t tell him that I was scared shitless. I don’t tell him that I riddled with anxiety when he took a left and went straight down the almost 80 degree tilt that is the waterfallesque drop-off  Ligonier Hill. I don’t tell him that it was the coolest thing I had ever done. I don’t tell him that when I get home I plan on asking my mom how much money I have in my bank account before inquiring that I want to save up and buy a Harley when I turn 16.

 

“You looked pretty good on that bike Von Behren. You looked at home.”

 With the exception of Peacock and Logrotto our  team is completely mediocre, finishing next to last.  Even Brooks doesn’t seem to care. Quaynor apologizes to coach commenting that he was in a fight last night after some bros were talkin’ some shit but don’t worry it had nothing to do with school.

As with the story of our season once again our team fails.

Sadly the bulk of the runners today seem  to take pride in their short comings.



                                                                        ***

 

As we arrive back in the locker room Coach is furious. He tells Beano if they are gonna run this slow for the remainder of the season he might as well turn in his jersey right now. He says that the only people who have the honor is wearing a team jersey is Peacock and  Logrotto and the two Frosh who give effort every week so Coach allowed them to run Varsity to complete are seven.  Beano is looking down at his cleats as if he is at a funeral.

“I know its been a hard season with Jose dropping out, losing your captain but you guys need to be better role-models to the younger runners on our team.”

Coach points in my direction. He says look at David, he would give anything not to be injured and be able to run.

Coach tells us to shower. He reminds us that next week is Regional, the first elimination tier ending in the state meet.


Coach has not asked to speak with me of informed me that he is going to give me a ride back home on his bike.


Coach tells the juniors that if they are not serious about running they should just go home.

                                                                       ***

"Hey Coach, I’m gonna catch a ride with Logrotto’s mom. Thanks for the ride down here this morning. I really enjoyed my first motorcycle ride. "

“Von Behren, I almost forgot. I have something for you.”

I’m not sure what it is. He tells me to have a seat. He closes the door.

“I know you were really focused on achieving the Freshman record this season. I know how much it meant to you since your cousin is the current record holder and everything. I have absolutely no doubt that had injury not hampered you your name would be on the wall in the atrium next to Billy Tuck and Robert Clark and your cousin. Todd Brooks, who also owns the junior record.”

I tell Coach thanks. I tell Coach that I am honored to be a member of this team. Coach tells me that, as far as the individual standings go, I’m still way ahead on the FROSH-SOPH point scale, perhaps much to Logrotto’s chagrin.

“I’m coming back coach. I’m coming back stronger than ever. “

There is a silence between us. I still have renae Holiday’s scent backed around my entire body.  I still think I could have kissed her last had we had more than three seconds alone together. Had we had time to really talk

“One more thing,” Coach adds.

Coach opens his drawer. Inside he hands me a rectangular piece of paper. It is perfectly folded. It looks like he is passing me a note in the back of Coach Mann’s class.

“Actually I wanted to give this to you before the meet this morning but I have something for you. I thought you might want it.”

 

I accept the note.

“Open it.” He says, as if giving an order.
 

The paper has several creases. It looks like it had been previous waded up in a fist and hurled.

 

As I unfold the four quarters it reveals a race tag number. Runner 413. Class AA. STATE MEET 1983.

 

I have no clue what it is.

 

Coach is smiling.

 

“It belonged to your cousin Todd Brooks.” Coach says. I am shocked.

 

“He fought hard to get to state all four years he was at Manual. He made it his Junior and Senior. His junior year finished 31^s His senior year we were almost certain he would finished in the top ten—top fifteen at least. He had an off race. Some say he went out and drank the night before. Who knows. Anyway, he finished 26, just one place shy of being All-State. Just one place shy of getting a medal.”

 

I am shocked.

“Todd was so disgusted that after the race he ripped off his number and threw it on the ground and our team manager picked it up and gave it to me. I figured I would give it back to him someday if I ever saw him again.”

I am looking at the number. Somehow I can see him pushing down the final stretch at Detweiller. Somehow I can see him in 24^th place with 100 meters to go and getting picked off by  runners from Granite City and Arlington Heights in the final sprint.

 Coach states that it was the toughest field he could ever remember that year. Coach says that the tops 30 runners were all between 14:25 and 14:55. Coach says that normally only the tope five or six clock under fifteen minutes.


"Any other year he would have finished in the top ten. Any other year he would have been and all stater. He was faster than Adam White. It's just sad how it worked out."

I look at the digits. I see the number waded in his hand. Somehow I can feel his disappointment. His hurt. The sting of his tears.

“I know how much it would have meant to you to have broken his freshman record and to have your name on the HALL OF FAME. Your time is coming.”

Coach tells me that I am only a freshman.

 

He tells me that my time is coming.

 

He tells me as long as I keep working hard I can have anything I want.

 

Thank you, Coach.

 

Thanks.