Steve Skogstad pushed open the gymnasium door like he was deflecting a tackler on the gridiron, talking animatedly about the Bear’s victory on Sunday as we walked towards the bleachers for Monday’s after school practice. In the background were syncopated thwacks of a ball from the tennis courts, in the other direction a flurry of whistles and shouts from football practice.
Ahead, conversation floated towards us from the rest of the cross country team, three or four voices high-pitched and piercing, others deep and throaty, all of them bright and buoyant. We crawled up the four rows of bleachers by the rest of the freshman and sat, listening to their patter as I stared at my beat up Keds resting on the bleacher in front, a big toe peeking from each shoe.
A peach-faced sophomore leaned into me.
“Did you guys watch the Bears on Sunday?” We both nodded at Chris. “That last touchdown by Sayers was unbelievable. When he broke to the sideline I knew he was gone. Who they playing…”
Our cross country coach cleared his throat.
“OK you knuckleheads. Listen up.” All eyes turned towards Coach Raffensperger. “Today we’re doing half-miles on the track. We’ll finish with four 220’s.” He looked up as a tennis ball slammed into the fence. “I want all of you do two loops around the cross country course for a warmup and then we’ll meet at the track.”
Sixteen runners slid out of the bleachers and stood in an informal huddle, everyone waiting for the captains to take the lead. Dave and John broke into a trot, jogging behind the tennis courts and down the hill towards 1st Avenue. The freshmen were clustered at the rear, none of us in a hurry to complete the distance, shuffling through the two miles at a slow trot.
Twenty minutes later we stretched on the football field grass by the starting line while Coach Raff spoke to the varsity and JV squads about their workout. Steve and I were thinking the same thing – how many 880’s we would be doing today.
While the varsity changed into spikes, he motioned us over.
“OK, you guys are doing four 880’s…”
Even though I was good at this type of training, I never relished work on the track. It had none of the allure of baseball or basketball practice, only a mind-numbing fatigue that showed how much pain you were willing to tolerate. I questioned my pursuit of this sport almost every day, berating myself for letting Steve Skogstad talk me into joining the cross country team. He claimed it would be fun. Yeah, right. The long intervals tested my willingness to finish the workouts, but if it got me a letter award, I guessed it was okay. Maybe the girls would think I was cool.
The first three 880 yard intervals were mostly an annoyance, my suffering growing with each successive repetition, but they weren’t too bad. The fourth one was another story. I had to draw on my inner demons to survive this distance, steeling my mind to push through the discomfort. Yet I knew I would get through it despite the unpleasantness – no matter how much it hurt. I always did.
That’s because I was groomed to handle it.
On the last interval Steve and I were at front of all the freshmen, racing each other down the final homestretch with all-out efforts, neither of us willing to concede an inch to the other. I leaned at the finish like a sprinter in the hundred yard dash, windmilling arms to prevent a fall on the cinders, barely hearing the “2:17…2:18” Raff shouted at our backs as we slowed to a stop. After that there was only pain. Though Steve had trained much of the summer for cross country and should have been in far better shape than me, but I could still match him in these tough workouts.
That’s because by the age of seven I had already developed something that would make me a very good runner. I discovered the human body can tolerate a tremendous amount of pain. And that I would always survive no matter how badly I suffered. Even if it meant stitches in my head, a cast on my arm, or a black and blue bruise where I was grabbed. I knew what it felt like to be slapped so hard that it loosened a tooth, or be shoved to the ground with so much force it knocked the wind out of me.
It was a family secret none of my teammates knew. Not even my best friend.
The frosh/soph squad toed the starting line on the early October Thursday afternoon, our backs only feet from a storm fence, the seven Little Hawks staring into the sun just over the treetops, flanked by ten opponents clad in the red and blue of the Washington Warriors. Each participant shuffled nervously at the white chalk line while we waited for the gun to fire, Coach Raffensperger walking towards us as he put shells in the chambers. This was our last dual meet of the 1973 season – from here it was invitationals.
Coach tooted on his whistle and I carefully nudged my foot forward towards the chalked line, moving it like I was poking a sleeping snake, glancing to the right at Steve’s dirty blue Avanti spikes and then back at my worn out Keds – my old shoes which had been white now gray. Would I ever have enough money get a cool pair of spikes like Steve had?
At the blast Steve and I jumped to the front and then led the 1.5 mile race from start to finish, crossing the white line side by side, a pair of 5’9” one-hundred nineteen pound beanpoles the winners. After exiting the chute we bent over in mirrored images as we slowed to a stop, waiting for the rest of the field to complete the distance. It was fun to win, but we’d come to expect as much – because that’s how we finished every time. Together and at the front.
With only four scoring in cross country, our team got through the regular season undefeated, the 1-2 finish from Steve and I were nearly an unbeatable combination in dual meet competition. My teammate was always ebullient after the meets but I was much more subdued, afraid I would be chastised for showing off, mindful of the reaction I often got from my father when boasting too much.
After everyone finished, Coach Raffensperger shook our hands, instructing us to lead the frosh/soph group on our cool down around the course. As we shuffled around the fields everyone argued back and forth about who was the best looking freshman cheerleader – as if any of the cheerleaders were ever going to ask us out – in the background a clash of cymbals from the marching band practicing on the fields.
When the varsity race was completed, Raff spoke to the team, sending everyone home with words of encouragement and a reminder that the conference meet was in eight days. Steve and I biked together, talking about the Homecoming game tomorrow night, separating as we approached our alley, my thoughts leaping to the hope that mom was making something good for dinner. I was starving.
“See ya later.”
As I approached our garage, shouts were spilling from the kitchen screen door, dad’s slurred words and mom’s shrieks loud enough to hear from twenty-five yards away. If Alice hadn’t been home I would have turned around and rode away, but I knew she was around by the pink bike in the back yard. I had grown tired of my father’s moods and meanness years ago, first aware of it when I was five or six, walking in on many such scenes just like this one today. Their quarrels had gotten worse with time.
I opened the door – the aroma of a meal absent. Shit. Mom backed into the kitchen with hands raised in front of her chest, the fierce look on dad’s face betraying a perceived injustice exacerbated by too much beer after work. At least he didn’t look as threatening today. There was no fierceness in his demeanor. No clenched fists. Today he only looked annoyed.
He frightened me the most when his stare was empty, the look on his face devoid of humanity. It was the look I saw when he broke my arm…the first time. Stepping between the two with hands raised I tried to distract dad, to get him to look me in the eyes so I could find out what was wrong. But I already knew the answer.
“What do you need?” Mom slipped around me, tears running down her face as she ran towards her bedroom.
“That bitch didn’t get me any beer! I come home from a hard day of work and all she has to drink is Kool-Aid. She knows that I want beer.“ He glared over my shoulder and shouted. “She doesn’t do shit all day but sit around and feel sorry for herself. That’s bullshit!”
I angled him towards the back door and out to the patio.
“How about if I go next door and get some beers from Mr. Johnson? Have a seat and I’ll be right back.” I sighed as he continued to mumble.
His eyes were glazed over when I came back with two Old Styles, handing him one and putting the other in the frig. He was still muttering as I stepped inside. Mom was in the bedroom with the door closed, a spot dad rarely ventured anymore. He slept in the living room every night, the black and white TV his nightlight, every morning empty cans laying by the sofa. Mom slept by herself on their bed.
I paused by her door, listening to the sobs she was trying to quiet, afraid to intrude on her misery. It was too awkward. The muffled sound made me so sad. I sighed and headed to my room to drop off my books, then knocked on Alice’s door with our special code – my five raps to the tune of “shave and a haircut,” her two knock response against the bedpost immediate.
She was sitting on the edge of the lower bunk and smiled as I walked in with hands hidden behind my back. Alice pointed to my right and I opened it up empty. She pointed to the left. I handed her the Hersey Kiss. She held out her hand.
“How was school today?” I sat on her bed, watching as she greedily peeled off the tin foil and popped it in her mouth.
“Tommy was mean to me. He pinched my arm.” She had an angry expression on her face.
“Why did he do that?”
“Because he’s mean. He doesn’t like me.” I grabbed my chin in a thoughtful pose.
“Hmmm, here’s what I’m going to do.” I put an arm over her shoulders. “First, I’m going to tie his legs in a knot, you know, just like the bow on a present.” She had a small grin. “Then I’m going to tie his arms together in another knot, dip him in butter, spread salt all over his body, and feed him to the squirrels.” She smiled. “How’s that sound?”
“Good.”
Her hopeful grin made me smile. The routine worked today but I also knew she was getting too old for this solution. I smiled at Alice.
“Do you want to help me cook supper? I’m going to make grilled cheese sandwiches.” She nodded. We walked silently down the hallway past mom’s bedroom, skirting the living room and turning into the kitchen. Dad was laying on the couch watching TV, already halfway through his second beer. I figured he would be asleep in twenty minutes.
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