The day after the Cross-country race all I can think
about is the athletes I encountered. All I can think about is the glory of the race
I witnessed, the sight of human beings
heading down the opening 600 meter sprint at Detweiller park, the same park
growing up where all the rich kids from the north side of town played soccer,
jockey for position. The paper seem
light that morning. All I want to do is run. All I want to do is blast off. I
want to shave my head like a Buddhist monk and emulate the York Dorks who it
has been rumored run twenty miles a day. I want to find myself in a Cool Joe
Thomas Bio class only it is somehow in Naperville and the teacher almost cares
too much about the success of his burgeoning students and find myself sitting
next to the dark haired Frosh who took off early in the girls Double AA state
finals. I want to be at a school where my love for the sport is acknowledged.
In the paper the next day is a black and white shot of
the freshman Sue Gibson, the freshman who pushed ahead afte the first turn and
didn’t look back.
She is gorgeous.
While there is only a tenth of articles compared to
paper during basketball March madness, I lay out the pages delineating the race like an atlas to a future I will never know.
The front page has a picture of the Rushville German foreign exchange student
holding his arms in a victory Y after the race. The paper also notes that he
lost seven seconds off his time because he slowed down alighted his arms before
he crossed the finish line.
The
winner of class double AA race is wearing a hat. She is hugging her boyfriend.
She is rejoicing. She is beautiful. She was dressed to kill with a skirt and
inky tights as she bowed her heads as taking communion and the commissioner of
the IHSA placed the Medal around her neck like a slipped halo.
Manual
is nothing like that.
Nothing
like that at all.
Not a single student outside fellow cross-country
athletes came this year to cheer us on.
To watch us run.
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