This is another one of those posts where I step into the forbidden territory of religion and politics. These are the two topics you never should discuss at work or with people who you would like to remain friends with. And yet here I am once again. The prayer listed below was too delectably controversial not to take a lick at it.
______________________
The Chronicle of Higher Education recently posted an online article about how an appeals court lifted an injunction against stem-cell research. A philosophy professor posted a comment about stem-cell research and included this prayer which he attributed to Rev. Billy Graham. A Google search revealed that the prayer is real, but the attribution to Billy Graham is incorrect. The Snopes website points out that the prayer is often misattributed to the Rev. Billy Graham, and Paul Harvey, but came from Rev. Joe Wright when opening the Kansas House of Representatives with this prayer in 1996, which was actually crafted from a prayer written by Bob Russell in 1995 for a Kentucky Governor’s prayer breakfast.
http://www.snopes.com/politics/soapbox/prayernation.asp
Yes, that is way too much information, but finally, here is the version of the prayer I’d like to discuss that was posted by a professor as a comment on the Chronicle of Higher Education –
Heavenly Father, we come before you today to ask your forgiveness and to seek your direction and guidance.
We know Your Word says, 'Woe to those who call evil good,' but that is exactly what we have done.
We have lost our spiritual equilibrium and reversed our values.
We have exploited the poor and called it the lottery.
We have rewarded laziness and called it welfare.
We have **killed** our unborn and called it "choice."
We have shot abortionists and called it justifiable.
We have neglected to discipline our children and called it building self esteem.
We have abused power and called it politics.
We have coveted our neighbor's possessions and called it ambition.
We have polluted the air with profanity and pornography and called it freedom of expression.
We have ridiculed the time-honored values of our forefathers and called it enlightenment.
Search us, Oh God, and know our hearts today; cleanse us from every sin and Set us free.
Amen
So here is my line by line reaction -
Heavenly Father, we come before you today to ask your forgiveness and to seek your direction and guidance.
No arguments from me so far. Who wouldn’t like some divine direction and guidance? And forgiveness, wow, a universal need. I can forgive others, but forgiving myself has been a lifelong disability. This first line I am willing to pray every day of my life.
We know Your Word says, 'Woe to those who call evil good,' but that is exactly what we have done.
This quote is from Isaiah 5:20. Apparently the guy is going to delineate for us exactly how we have gone about calling evil things good. I am looking forward to the particulars.
We have lost our spiritual equilibrium and reversed our values.
This is just a restatement of the previous point; evil is good and good is evil. The guy is saying we are confused. I think I got that point. Sorry to make fun of the guy. No doubt he feels passionately about the subject. Maybe I will agree with him, but I am still looking forward to the particulars.
We have exploited the poor and called it the lottery.
He is right-on about this point. The lottery does take advantage of the mathematically challenged. There have been plenty of articles over the years about having a better chance of getting hit by lightning than winning the lottery. A quick Google search shows a bunch of articles saying that lotteries exploit the poor and the gullible.
We have rewarded laziness and called it welfare.
I agree with the guy here. Sure, there are justifiable instances where welfare is called for. As a general rule I feel that welfare encourages sloth. It takes money from people who have earned it and gives it to those who have not earned it. If I choose to donate my money to someone else that is my choice. When others use the government as their instrument of plunder to take the fruits of my labor and give it to those who have not earned it, I say that is wrong. It’s MY money and I earned it. It’s not yours or anyone else’s.
We have **killed** our unborn and called it "choice."
This one is a matter of belief. Clearly this guy believes in Pro-Life. You either believe in the Pro-Life position or you believe in the Pro-Choice position. Perhaps there are other positions in-between, but whatever your position, it is one of belief. No doubt you can state your position and the reasons for your position, but ultimately your position is based on belief and doesn’t contain facts and arguments that would compel someone to change their position. Those who have chosen their position often think their arguments are compelling, but I’ve never heard of anyone who has been convinced to switch sides. I don’t know what’s right; I wish I did. I wish we all did. What I do know is this sort of self-righteousness is ugly.
We have shot abortionists and called it justifiable.
Yes, there are some nutcases out there who have shot abortionists, and it is not justifiable. That seems to be this gentleman’s point and I agree with him. Taking the law into your own hands and exercising what you believe is justice is wrong. I believe in Law and Due Process. But I have to say, no, “WE” haven’t shot anybody. This repeated “WE” statement is getting on my nerves.
We have neglected to discipline our children and called it building self esteem.
I agree that a lot of parents are neglecting to discipline their children. On the sidewalks at Stone Mountain, on the highways, and at the malls I see rude and discourteous behavior. It’s not just in children, but I see it in all too many adults too. The parents want the children to like them and be their friend, when it is more important to be respected and set an example. Parents are taking the path of least resistance when raising their children. They need to choose the harder right rather than the easier wrong. Self Esteem? I don’t know if that is the excuse parents are using these days, but whatever the excuse, there is no excuse for a lack of discipline and values.
We have abused power and called it politics.
This is true of both parties every day, all-day. The guy doesn’t need to cite specific instances to convince me. I’ve been reading the newspaper and watching the news for years and I know exactly how Congress operates. Bi-partisanship is a thing of the past. The political ads for the November 2010 elections sound like the candidates believe that the end justifies the means. The personal attacks and falsehoods have been astounding. Bravo to the networks for investigating the ads and exposing the lack of truth in most of the attack ads. I am worried for our country. Term limits would turn politicians back into representatives of the people. Term limits would allow our representatives to do what is right, rather than doing what will get them reelected.
We have coveted our neighbor's possessions and called it ambition.
Huh? Where did this one come from? I don’t get this one at all or what he is referring to. Who is coveting whose possessions, and how does that relate to ambition? I like my neighbor’s car. It’s new and shiny and has leather seats that are heated. I’d like to have one just like it someday. Is it ambitious to work harder and longer so I can afford one too? Is that coveting? Is working harder a bad thing? Whatever point he meant to make is lost on me. Oh well, let’s move on.
We have polluted the air with profanity and pornography and called it freedom of expression.
Is this a call for censorship? If so, I won’t have it. I do agree that a side effect of free speech is some unpleasantness in the media. A little too much skin, suggestive situations, graphic violence and profanity is going to happen when you have free speech. The alternative is a Theocracy like Iran, or the thought police as in George Orwell’s 1984. I’ll stick with freedom of expression. The alternative is unimaginable.
We have ridiculed the time-honored values of our forefathers and called it enlightenment.
If he is saying that society doesn’t value being trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent, I would agree with him. America doesn’t seem to value the clean-cut all-American Boy Scout image anymore. People are into dirty long hair, stubble on the face, piercings, and tattoos. The bad boy look has become cool. I don’t understand valuing a lack of values. How hard is it to look like a slob? That doesn’t seem like much of an accomplishment to me.
The other day the ladies at work were lusting after Johnny Depp, and I asked why. They said the bad boy image was attractive to them. The logic continues to escape me. No doubt their gushing was sincere, as is my confusion.
Search us, Oh God, and know our hearts today; cleanse us from every sin and Set us free.
Well good. It looks like the sermon is wrapping up. God would be that being than which nothing greater can be conceived. Surely a God that great can know my heart. Cleanse me from sin? I guess that is the forgiveness gig again, and we could all surely use a healthy dose of that. Keep me from sin isn’t too likely. We have free will and we know right from wrong, and can choose right over wrong. I don’t see this guy saying keep us from sin. He’s just requesting the forgiveness of sins, and I have no objections to that. Presumably the capitalization of the word “Set” is just a typo and doesn’t have any extra meaning. Set us free? I thought I was free already. Remember free will? If I am missing the point, feel free (get it?) to let me know.
Amen
Shame on this guy for delivering a lecture disguised as a prayer. If he wants to express his opinions, next time write a letter to the editor. This guy really is the poster child for the word sanctimonious. Amen, my foot.
At least my lectures aren’t disguised as prayers.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
CORRECTION – Mile and 880
Now that I’ve written the story of the 1970 state meet as I remember it, it is time to inject some facts that don’t fit with my memories. It turns out that it did NOT happen exactly the way I remember it. Close, but not quite, but I didn’t know that until after I wrote the story. It took many weeks to write the dad-gum thing and I just don’t have the motivation to re-write it to fit the exact facts. Let’s just call the story “creative non-fiction”, and itemize the creative parts here.
While I remember Dennis Schultz from Manchester winning the mile AND the 880-yard dash in 1970, the record book shows that he only won the 880. Apparently I have mixed up parts of the mile and the 880 in my memory.
http://www.iahsaa.org/track/2010_Track_Stat.pdf
Dave Krantz from Waterloo Columbus ran 4:18.0 to win the mile. Dennis Schultz was second. My third place 4:19.9 isn’t as far back as I portrayed it. I actually did get fairly close to Krantz and Schultz. Finishing 1.9 seconds behind Krantz means I was roughly 13 yards behind at the finish. Not exactly close, but hey, not as far back as I portrayed it in the story. I guess I was so physically wasted at the time it just felt like a long way back. As yet another consolation prize for me there is some satisfaction in running a faster time (4:19.9) than any of the state champions in the smaller school divisions. (4:21.9, 4:26.7, and 4:35.2)
The record book does show that Dennis Schultz ran a 1:55.2 to win the 880-yard dash in 1970. Just glancing through the record book it appears that that time was the fastest time ever in the state of Iowa. This must be the spectacular race I remember the fans going nuts about and when I gave Dennis a shove towards the stands and the newspaper reporters. Again, there is some satisfaction that my 1:59.9 in the slow heat was faster than the state champions in two of the smaller school divisions. (2:03.1, 2:00.1, 1:59.1)
I remembered someone other than Dave Krantz from Waterloo Columbus winning the mile my junior year in 1969. This is also incorrect. The 2010 Track & Field State Meet Stat Book shows that Krantz won the mile in 4:22.9 in 1969, and I know Dennis Schultz finished in front of me, and I finished fourth. There must have been a senior battling Krantz for first place that year. I guess I didn’t finish too far back this year either with my 4:24 and some change. Again, it looks like I was closer than I remember my junior year. If I had been in any of the three smaller classifications I’d have won the dad-gum thing as a junior. (4:24.9, 4:25.0, and 4:26.5)
http://www.iahsaa.org/track/2010_Track_Stat.pdf
The shocking conclusion I’ve drawn from all of this is that I’ve been wrong for 40 years! After 40 years of thinking otherwise, I now discover that that I was much closer to Krantz and Dennis than I remember. Maybe I wasn’t with them at the finish of the mile, but I was in the neighborhood.
Who’d-a-thunk-it?
While I remember Dennis Schultz from Manchester winning the mile AND the 880-yard dash in 1970, the record book shows that he only won the 880. Apparently I have mixed up parts of the mile and the 880 in my memory.
http://www.iahsaa.org/track/2010_Track_Stat.pdf
Dave Krantz from Waterloo Columbus ran 4:18.0 to win the mile. Dennis Schultz was second. My third place 4:19.9 isn’t as far back as I portrayed it. I actually did get fairly close to Krantz and Schultz. Finishing 1.9 seconds behind Krantz means I was roughly 13 yards behind at the finish. Not exactly close, but hey, not as far back as I portrayed it in the story. I guess I was so physically wasted at the time it just felt like a long way back. As yet another consolation prize for me there is some satisfaction in running a faster time (4:19.9) than any of the state champions in the smaller school divisions. (4:21.9, 4:26.7, and 4:35.2)
The record book does show that Dennis Schultz ran a 1:55.2 to win the 880-yard dash in 1970. Just glancing through the record book it appears that that time was the fastest time ever in the state of Iowa. This must be the spectacular race I remember the fans going nuts about and when I gave Dennis a shove towards the stands and the newspaper reporters. Again, there is some satisfaction that my 1:59.9 in the slow heat was faster than the state champions in two of the smaller school divisions. (2:03.1, 2:00.1, 1:59.1)
I remembered someone other than Dave Krantz from Waterloo Columbus winning the mile my junior year in 1969. This is also incorrect. The 2010 Track & Field State Meet Stat Book shows that Krantz won the mile in 4:22.9 in 1969, and I know Dennis Schultz finished in front of me, and I finished fourth. There must have been a senior battling Krantz for first place that year. I guess I didn’t finish too far back this year either with my 4:24 and some change. Again, it looks like I was closer than I remember my junior year. If I had been in any of the three smaller classifications I’d have won the dad-gum thing as a junior. (4:24.9, 4:25.0, and 4:26.5)
http://www.iahsaa.org/track/2010_Track_Stat.pdf
The shocking conclusion I’ve drawn from all of this is that I’ve been wrong for 40 years! After 40 years of thinking otherwise, I now discover that that I was much closer to Krantz and Dennis than I remember. Maybe I wasn’t with them at the finish of the mile, but I was in the neighborhood.
Who’d-a-thunk-it?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Car Keys - Part 1 AND Part 2 (NEW)
Car Keys, Part 1
It was the first and only time I can recall intentionally disobeying my parents. It was May of 1970 and I had just graduated from high school. Mom was so gentle and kind that I hated to disappoint her, but Dad was such an authoritarian that it seemed right to be willfully disobedient at least once before heading off to college. And that’s how it came to pass that I stayed out past curfew on the night before the high school state track meet.
When I got back to the house that night I just expected to slip in the back door like I always did and head up to bed. Mom and Dad would never know because the door was never locked and they never stayed up for me anyhow. There was no reason to do so because I never stayed out late, I never disobeyed, and was absolutely trustworthy. Well, except for this one night. When I got home the door was locked.
At first I thought that Mom and Dad had just forgotten I was out and did not intentionally lock the door. When I checked for the spare key in the garage and it was missing, I knew it was locked on purpose and they were upset. I thought about sleeping in the car, but decided that that was just delaying the inevitable. I rang the doorbell and awaited my fate.
It seemed to take forever, but eventually Mom and Dad both showed up at the back door in their bathrobes. Dad took forever unlocking the door and it seemed calculated to let me stew a little longer and speculate on my impending doom. As soon as the door opened Dad started in on me. I don’t remember specifically what he said, but no doubt it included my being irresponsible and risking a poor performance at the track meet the next afternoon. I was accustomed to my dad’s tirades, but this one was particularly stinging because he might have been right this time. Even more painful however was my mom’s look of disappointment.
The bottom line of it all was I was grounded until further notice and they took away my keys to the car. This was a first for me or for anyone in my family.
In my own defense it wasn’t just an evening of willful disobedience. I was pretty anxious about the state meet and knew I wouldn’t sleep well, if at all. I’d been training for this one track meet for an entire year. The previous year I’d finished fourth in the Mile at state in a 4:25. One of the guys in front of me was a graduating senior and the other three of us were juniors, so if I was going to move up a place, or just maintain my place in the pecking order, it was up to me to do the workouts. The problem was this; I was positive the two guys in front of me knew this too. They didn’t get in front of me by sitting on the couch. No doubt the guys behind me had placed a bull’s-eye on my back too.
I’d run throughout the previous summer in preparation, even after a full workday, or a graveyard shift, at the factory. I’d run two-a-day workouts frequently during the fall cross country season. I gave up my one true love, wrestling, in the winter when I separated my shoulder during a JV match, and it became clear I wasn’t going to make the varsity. So I focused on running through the ice and snow of winter with my separated shoulder, again, often twice a day. Every reasonable and unreasonable sacrifice had been made over the period of a year in anticipation of this one race. In fact, my girlfriend had dumped me just prior to the track season both years. Gee, I wonder what caused that.
So getting back to losing the car keys and getting grounded, I went up to bed and slept like a baby. Whodathunkit?
I had to get up early the next morning and catch a ride with an assistant coach who was driving me and a couple other guys over to Ames, Iowa, the site of the track meet. I was still a bit sleepy from my “late” night, so slept during the two hour drive over to Ames. By the time we got there I was well rested and felt ready to run.
Car Keys, Part 2
(You really should read the previous posts about the state mile first.)
My 4:19.9 Mile at state was a phenomenal improvement over my previous best of 4:24 and several tenths that I have forgotten. What I haven’t forgotten is that Coach Wilkinson claimed the official who was standing at the finish line got my time wrong. Wilkinson, sitting in the top row of the stands, said I had a 4:20.0. Either time was the school record by several seconds, but Wilkinson didn’t care what the official time was. He decided he would post the school record as 4:20.0 in the gymnasium.
I never got back to the high school to see my name and my time on the records board in the gym. Wilkinson had a dry sense of humor and liked to give me a hard time. It’s possible he was just razzing me and actually posted the 4:19.9. For the last 40 years I’ve told people that I ran a 4:20 mile just to be sure I don’t take credit for a tenth of a second I didn’t earn.
After finishing third in the mile at state I had an hour or so to recover before running the 880-yard run, aka the half-mile. Dennis Schultz and I got a chance to chat for a few minutes between the races. Dennis had won the mile with an impressive finish, which I didn’t really see from my distant vantage point. He said he was pretty tired from the effort and was thinking of scratching from the 880 in fear of embarrassing himself.
I chewed Dennis out for even thinking about it. He’d won our district race and had a time that put him in the fastest heat of the 880. While I was second to him out of our district, my time put me in the slow heat of the 880 and essentially out of contention. He had a chance to place with the fastest half-milers in the state. It was our final high school race. It was an opportunity not to be missed. I told him he owed it to the other guys to give them a chance to kick his ass after winning the Mile. It wasn’t fair to deny the other guys a chance to say they beat the state champion in the mile. We both had a duty to run the race to the best of our ability with whatever energy we had left. It was the right thing to do.
The slow heat of any event always preceded the fast heat so the faster runners would know what time they had to beat to win the event. The times of runners in the slow heat never seriously challenged those of the fast heat, but they were there to make the runners in the fast heat nervous and run exceptionally hard.
My mom and I have different versions of the slow heat of the 880. I suppose that Mom’s version is correct as she was actually sitting in the stands with Dad and has an unfortunate inclination to tell nothing but the truth. I much prefer my version of events as it doesn’t let facts get in the way of a perfectly good story.
In my version, everybody in the stands knew from the Mile race that that Friar Tuck-like bald man two-thirds of the way up in the stands was the father of the skinny little puke Miler from Cedar Rapids Washington. It wasn’t possible not to know this. The man was so obscenely loud and agitated during the Mile that everyone knew who the father was cheering for.
In my mom’s version my father was not the least bit embarrassing during the Mile, which would be a first occurrence for him, and did not draw any extra notice to himself above that of anyone else in the stands. I find this hard to believe as it would be uncharacteristic for my father.
Anyway, what remains uncontested is this. The slow heat of the 880 was of little interest to the fans. Slow heats never were of any interest to anyone but the parents of the kids. Nobody was paying much attention to us lining up in our lanes for the start. The crowd was deathly quiet. It was at this moment that Dad stood up to yell, “HEY TOM! IF YOU BREAK TWO MINUTES I’LL GIVE YOU THE CAR KEYS BACK!” Everyone in the stands heard it, and laughed.
A man down at the bottom of the stands stood up, turned around, and yelled up to my father, “HEY DAD! WHICH LANE IS HE RUNNING IN?”
“LANE 6.” my dad yelled.
I heard this easily down on the track and had to chuckle. My best time in the 880 (half mile) was a 2:04, but still, it was a day of miracles. I’d set a PR in the Mile by 4 seconds. That was a miracle. I thought, “What the hell, why not go for it? Who knows what might happen?” But best of all, I knew that my father had just forgiven me for my intentional disobedience the night before. I knew that all would be well again at home.
I had hoped to just enjoy the 880, but now, thanks to Dad, the entire crowd was focused on me, a crummy seed, in the slow heat of the 880. Many of the guys in my heat had not run the Mile and were fresh meat for the 880. Where I had been hoping just to finish the 880, I now felt obligated to make a good faith effort to run a good time so as not to embarrass myself or my father.
When the starting gun went off I took off like a bat out of hell, just like everyone else, and once again found myself in last place at the end of the first curve. Fast just wasn’t in my genetics. I don’t remember any more particulars of that first lap other than remaining in last place and thinking what a disappointment I must be to the fans after the brouhaha my father started.
At the beginning of the backstretch, with 330 yards to go, I began my kick for the finish. I didn’t have much speed, and I still don’t, but I could maintain what speed I had for a fairly long time. So I kicked it in with 330 to go and started passing guys, and I heard the crowd come alive. I thought to myself, “After what Dad said, who else would they be watching?”
The more noise they made, the more adrenaline I had, and the faster I went. Every time I passed a guy, the crowd became louder, and I got faster. I was having fun! Down the backstretch I passed a bunch of the guys, and tucked in on the final curve. As I came out of the final curve there was one guy left and a hundred yards of real estate left to cover.
We were both sprinting for all we were worth and I was gaining on him. The crowd was going crazy with the drama, of all things, of a close race in the SLOW HEAT of the 880. It was a drama, and was of interest only because of Dad’s remark prior to the race. Out of the corner of my eye I could see half the crowd watching the stadium clock and the other half were watching me.
Just like the Mile, those final yards hurt like hell, but I did pass the guy, and at the finish line I leaned for the tape like a sprinter, and heard the stadium roar for me, the winner of the slow heat of the 880. I looked up at the stadium clock and saw 1:59.9. I laughed along with the rest of the crowd. It was a crowd pleasing come-from-behind worst-to-first finish in a pretty decent time for the slow heat. It was the fastest 880 I would ever run. Again, whodathunkit?
The man down at the bottom of the stands stood again to face up into the stands and yelled, “HEY DAD! WHERE ARE THOSE KEYS?” The crowd laughed as my dad stood up and held the car keys up for all to see. Dad made his way down out of the stands with great fanfare and met me at the fence. I got the car keys back then and there. Mom might have been taking pictures.
Epilogue –
I walked down to the end of the track to watch the fast heat of the 880. Dennis and Krantz ended up battling each other yet again and Dennis won in an incredible time of 1:55.2, the fastest time ever in any class at the high school state meet. I had to laugh. Dennis wasn’t going to run the 880 until I talked him into it, and now he was state champion in the 880 and the star of the meet. Way too funny.
If it didn’t happen exactly that way, it should have.
It was the first and only time I can recall intentionally disobeying my parents. It was May of 1970 and I had just graduated from high school. Mom was so gentle and kind that I hated to disappoint her, but Dad was such an authoritarian that it seemed right to be willfully disobedient at least once before heading off to college. And that’s how it came to pass that I stayed out past curfew on the night before the high school state track meet.
When I got back to the house that night I just expected to slip in the back door like I always did and head up to bed. Mom and Dad would never know because the door was never locked and they never stayed up for me anyhow. There was no reason to do so because I never stayed out late, I never disobeyed, and was absolutely trustworthy. Well, except for this one night. When I got home the door was locked.
At first I thought that Mom and Dad had just forgotten I was out and did not intentionally lock the door. When I checked for the spare key in the garage and it was missing, I knew it was locked on purpose and they were upset. I thought about sleeping in the car, but decided that that was just delaying the inevitable. I rang the doorbell and awaited my fate.
It seemed to take forever, but eventually Mom and Dad both showed up at the back door in their bathrobes. Dad took forever unlocking the door and it seemed calculated to let me stew a little longer and speculate on my impending doom. As soon as the door opened Dad started in on me. I don’t remember specifically what he said, but no doubt it included my being irresponsible and risking a poor performance at the track meet the next afternoon. I was accustomed to my dad’s tirades, but this one was particularly stinging because he might have been right this time. Even more painful however was my mom’s look of disappointment.
The bottom line of it all was I was grounded until further notice and they took away my keys to the car. This was a first for me or for anyone in my family.
In my own defense it wasn’t just an evening of willful disobedience. I was pretty anxious about the state meet and knew I wouldn’t sleep well, if at all. I’d been training for this one track meet for an entire year. The previous year I’d finished fourth in the Mile at state in a 4:25. One of the guys in front of me was a graduating senior and the other three of us were juniors, so if I was going to move up a place, or just maintain my place in the pecking order, it was up to me to do the workouts. The problem was this; I was positive the two guys in front of me knew this too. They didn’t get in front of me by sitting on the couch. No doubt the guys behind me had placed a bull’s-eye on my back too.
I’d run throughout the previous summer in preparation, even after a full workday, or a graveyard shift, at the factory. I’d run two-a-day workouts frequently during the fall cross country season. I gave up my one true love, wrestling, in the winter when I separated my shoulder during a JV match, and it became clear I wasn’t going to make the varsity. So I focused on running through the ice and snow of winter with my separated shoulder, again, often twice a day. Every reasonable and unreasonable sacrifice had been made over the period of a year in anticipation of this one race. In fact, my girlfriend had dumped me just prior to the track season both years. Gee, I wonder what caused that.
So getting back to losing the car keys and getting grounded, I went up to bed and slept like a baby. Whodathunkit?
I had to get up early the next morning and catch a ride with an assistant coach who was driving me and a couple other guys over to Ames, Iowa, the site of the track meet. I was still a bit sleepy from my “late” night, so slept during the two hour drive over to Ames. By the time we got there I was well rested and felt ready to run.
Car Keys, Part 2
(You really should read the previous posts about the state mile first.)
My 4:19.9 Mile at state was a phenomenal improvement over my previous best of 4:24 and several tenths that I have forgotten. What I haven’t forgotten is that Coach Wilkinson claimed the official who was standing at the finish line got my time wrong. Wilkinson, sitting in the top row of the stands, said I had a 4:20.0. Either time was the school record by several seconds, but Wilkinson didn’t care what the official time was. He decided he would post the school record as 4:20.0 in the gymnasium.
I never got back to the high school to see my name and my time on the records board in the gym. Wilkinson had a dry sense of humor and liked to give me a hard time. It’s possible he was just razzing me and actually posted the 4:19.9. For the last 40 years I’ve told people that I ran a 4:20 mile just to be sure I don’t take credit for a tenth of a second I didn’t earn.
After finishing third in the mile at state I had an hour or so to recover before running the 880-yard run, aka the half-mile. Dennis Schultz and I got a chance to chat for a few minutes between the races. Dennis had won the mile with an impressive finish, which I didn’t really see from my distant vantage point. He said he was pretty tired from the effort and was thinking of scratching from the 880 in fear of embarrassing himself.
I chewed Dennis out for even thinking about it. He’d won our district race and had a time that put him in the fastest heat of the 880. While I was second to him out of our district, my time put me in the slow heat of the 880 and essentially out of contention. He had a chance to place with the fastest half-milers in the state. It was our final high school race. It was an opportunity not to be missed. I told him he owed it to the other guys to give them a chance to kick his ass after winning the Mile. It wasn’t fair to deny the other guys a chance to say they beat the state champion in the mile. We both had a duty to run the race to the best of our ability with whatever energy we had left. It was the right thing to do.
The slow heat of any event always preceded the fast heat so the faster runners would know what time they had to beat to win the event. The times of runners in the slow heat never seriously challenged those of the fast heat, but they were there to make the runners in the fast heat nervous and run exceptionally hard.
My mom and I have different versions of the slow heat of the 880. I suppose that Mom’s version is correct as she was actually sitting in the stands with Dad and has an unfortunate inclination to tell nothing but the truth. I much prefer my version of events as it doesn’t let facts get in the way of a perfectly good story.
In my version, everybody in the stands knew from the Mile race that that Friar Tuck-like bald man two-thirds of the way up in the stands was the father of the skinny little puke Miler from Cedar Rapids Washington. It wasn’t possible not to know this. The man was so obscenely loud and agitated during the Mile that everyone knew who the father was cheering for.
In my mom’s version my father was not the least bit embarrassing during the Mile, which would be a first occurrence for him, and did not draw any extra notice to himself above that of anyone else in the stands. I find this hard to believe as it would be uncharacteristic for my father.
Anyway, what remains uncontested is this. The slow heat of the 880 was of little interest to the fans. Slow heats never were of any interest to anyone but the parents of the kids. Nobody was paying much attention to us lining up in our lanes for the start. The crowd was deathly quiet. It was at this moment that Dad stood up to yell, “HEY TOM! IF YOU BREAK TWO MINUTES I’LL GIVE YOU THE CAR KEYS BACK!” Everyone in the stands heard it, and laughed.
A man down at the bottom of the stands stood up, turned around, and yelled up to my father, “HEY DAD! WHICH LANE IS HE RUNNING IN?”
“LANE 6.” my dad yelled.
I heard this easily down on the track and had to chuckle. My best time in the 880 (half mile) was a 2:04, but still, it was a day of miracles. I’d set a PR in the Mile by 4 seconds. That was a miracle. I thought, “What the hell, why not go for it? Who knows what might happen?” But best of all, I knew that my father had just forgiven me for my intentional disobedience the night before. I knew that all would be well again at home.
I had hoped to just enjoy the 880, but now, thanks to Dad, the entire crowd was focused on me, a crummy seed, in the slow heat of the 880. Many of the guys in my heat had not run the Mile and were fresh meat for the 880. Where I had been hoping just to finish the 880, I now felt obligated to make a good faith effort to run a good time so as not to embarrass myself or my father.
When the starting gun went off I took off like a bat out of hell, just like everyone else, and once again found myself in last place at the end of the first curve. Fast just wasn’t in my genetics. I don’t remember any more particulars of that first lap other than remaining in last place and thinking what a disappointment I must be to the fans after the brouhaha my father started.
At the beginning of the backstretch, with 330 yards to go, I began my kick for the finish. I didn’t have much speed, and I still don’t, but I could maintain what speed I had for a fairly long time. So I kicked it in with 330 to go and started passing guys, and I heard the crowd come alive. I thought to myself, “After what Dad said, who else would they be watching?”
The more noise they made, the more adrenaline I had, and the faster I went. Every time I passed a guy, the crowd became louder, and I got faster. I was having fun! Down the backstretch I passed a bunch of the guys, and tucked in on the final curve. As I came out of the final curve there was one guy left and a hundred yards of real estate left to cover.
We were both sprinting for all we were worth and I was gaining on him. The crowd was going crazy with the drama, of all things, of a close race in the SLOW HEAT of the 880. It was a drama, and was of interest only because of Dad’s remark prior to the race. Out of the corner of my eye I could see half the crowd watching the stadium clock and the other half were watching me.
Just like the Mile, those final yards hurt like hell, but I did pass the guy, and at the finish line I leaned for the tape like a sprinter, and heard the stadium roar for me, the winner of the slow heat of the 880. I looked up at the stadium clock and saw 1:59.9. I laughed along with the rest of the crowd. It was a crowd pleasing come-from-behind worst-to-first finish in a pretty decent time for the slow heat. It was the fastest 880 I would ever run. Again, whodathunkit?
The man down at the bottom of the stands stood again to face up into the stands and yelled, “HEY DAD! WHERE ARE THOSE KEYS?” The crowd laughed as my dad stood up and held the car keys up for all to see. Dad made his way down out of the stands with great fanfare and met me at the fence. I got the car keys back then and there. Mom might have been taking pictures.
Epilogue –
I walked down to the end of the track to watch the fast heat of the 880. Dennis and Krantz ended up battling each other yet again and Dennis won in an incredible time of 1:55.2, the fastest time ever in any class at the high school state meet. I had to laugh. Dennis wasn’t going to run the 880 until I talked him into it, and now he was state champion in the 880 and the star of the meet. Way too funny.
If it didn’t happen exactly that way, it should have.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
State Mile – The Final Lap
Though I wasn’t great at kicking balls, or hitting balls, or catching balls, or throwing balls, or bouncing balls, it was time to show I had balls. It was time to show that abnormally tall people, and abnormally large people, and abnormally fast people, and abnormally strong people are not the only athletes on the planet. Small skinny kids have talents too, if society bothered to value them. Did I have a chip on my shoulder? Hell yes, and it’s still there 40 years later!
As I started around the first curve of the last lap I began a slow but steady acceleration to close on, and catch, the guy in front of me by the time I reached the back stretch. As I was accelerating around the curve I conjured up Mom, Dad, God, my brothers, Coach Wilkinson, my teammates and my friends. I thought of every person who was near or dear to me. I contrived my own emotional moment in order to generate the adrenaline when I needed it, and I knew I would desperately need it for this last lap. I started to run with as much emotion as I could muster and enjoyed the surge of adrenaline and speed it generated. The next 220 yards were for all the people who believed in me.
As the first curve ended I slipped out to lane two to pass the guy in front of me. Passing him gave me confidence and I rolled down the backstretch in lane two surfing a wave of adrenaline. Each guy I passed gave me another shot of juice, which took me to my next victim. I didn’t push, I didn’t strain, because I knew from experience that my body would just tie up in knots. I just let my body do what it could, running at 90% effort, and hoped I wouldn’t pay too dearly for it on the final straight.
By the end of the backstretch I was in fourth place and on the heels of Des Moines Dowling, who’d heard me coming. Krantz and Dennis were already into the curve about 30 yards ahead and had begun their all-out sprint for the finish line. It was time for me to do the same, that is if I didn’t have Des Moines Dowling blocking lane one during the last curve!
The last 220 yards – what should have happened
At the end of the back stretch I was challenging Des Moines Dowling for third place. Unfortunately he heard me coming. I was breathing so hard it was impossible for him NOT to hear me coming. Dowling picked up his pace to keep me on his shoulder as we approached the beginning of the curve. He started throwing his elbows out vigorously to keep me well out in lane two. I smiled inwardly at the wasted effort. I had no intention of getting close enough where he could put an elbow in my ribs or drop a fist down to my balls. I also wasn’t going to waste my effort running in lane two while he ran in lane one. I dropped back to his right shoulder and stayed close, but not so close that I would get hit with an elbow, fist, or get tangled in his back-kick. I felt like hell, but he looked worse, and I could see the extra effort he spent holding me off was taking a toll.
While I was tying up with Dowling entering the final curve, Krantz and Dennis were motoring around the curve about 30 yards ahead of me. They were increasing their lead slowly on me, but I felt I could go with them and match their pace. Even though I could match their pace, I knew I didn’t have enough left in me to make up 30 yards in the 200 yards remaining. There was no way I could catch Krantz or Dennis at that point to finish first or second. At best, if I managed to pass Dowling on the curve I might make up some distance on Krantz and Dennis and finish a close third.
On the other hand Dowling had demonstrated his intent to make me run in lane two throughout the curve. It is what I would do if I were him. It would be a good investment of energy on his part. He should run whatever speed necessary to force me to run in lane two, thereby wasting my energy by running a longer distance, and giving Dowling an excellent chance to finish third.
It therefore made no sense to me to try to pass Dowling on the curve, running in lane two while he runs in lane one, and risk finishing fourth. I was going to finish third at best if I did get around him quickly on the curve, but I had a better chance to finish third if I tucked in behind him and passed on the final straight.
The last 220 yards – what REALLY happened
Yep. That would have been a good story, and logical too. Play it safe, tuck in behind Dowling on the curve, and pass him during the final 110 yards on the straight. The truth is I wanted to get close to Krantz and Dennis. I didn’t care that that I would be running in lane two. This was my final high school race and I wasn’t going to spend it tucked in behind some other guy on the final curve of the final lap like some pansy. The clock was ticking and I wasn’t going to waste time sitting behind what (I hoped) was a slower runner. I HAD to finish third AND I HAD to run a good time.
I also knew I’d be remembering this race for the rest of my life. I could live with losing third place due to a poor choice of strategy. What I couldn’t live with was lacking courage when courage was called for. The whole point was to show I had balls, not brains, so I went for it.
It is true that at the end of the back stretch I was challenging Des Moines Dowling for third place. It is also true that he either heard me coming or sensed me off his right shoulder. Dowling picked up his pace to keep me on his shoulder as we approached the beginning of the curve.
While the previous 220 had been fueled by adrenaline, the adrenaline was gone. The final 220 was up to me.
When Dowling jacked up his pace to hold me off, I jacked up my pace to a full sprint. I was running as fast as I could with 220 to go. Pace was no longer an issue; top speed was an issue. It took half of the curve to do it, but I did get around him. I was so happy to get a one step lead and cut into lane one in front of him I wanted to cry. I’d wasted a ton of energy getting around Dowling, but nobody was going to call me a wuss for waiting until the final straightaway. It was a ballsy move; stupid, but ballsy. No doubt Coach Wilkinson was going to give me hell for running in lane two, but time was a-wasting, Krantz and Dennis were getting further away from me. I wanted it to look like I belonged up there with Krantz and Dennis, rather than back where I was. I also wanted to convince myself that that was true.
By the time I finished the second half of the final curve I was running like a scared rabbit. I was deathly afraid that Dowling would come back on me and pass me dramatically just before the finish line. All my muscles were tying up. The Gorilla had come out of nowhere and jumped on my back. I must have looked like rigor mortis with a breathing disorder. I was losing any interest in closing the distance between me and Krantz and Dennis. I just wanted to finish before the entire field passed me back.
The harder I tried, the worse it got. I tried exaggerating my arm movements, but it didn’t help. I tried lifting my knees higher, but it didn’t help. My muscles were not responding to the messages my brain was sending, like “MOVE FASTER!!!!” In fact, some of the muscle groups were firing uncontrollably, and fighting each other. I was running in desperation, desperately trying not to get caught, trying to maintain some semblance of running form as my body rebelled. The only solution was to try to relax and accept whatever my body could give while maintaining a semblance of my running form.
Dennis passed Krantz sometime during the final straight to finish first in 4:18.0. I missed seeing it because of the sweat stinging my eyes and ruining my already poor eyesight. Not that I cared at that moment, though I would care later. I didn’t care about anyone or anything; I just wanted the race to be over and the pain to end. My agony was all-consuming. There aren’t any memories left of that final 50 yards. No strategy. No thoughts. No words. No emotions; just excruciating pain that wouldn’t stop and a body that was moving in slow motion to extend the agony, just like in the movies. It was a nightmare I’d experienced many times throughout the season, so at least it was a familiar feeling.
Even though I was out of gas, apparently everyone behind me was just as bad off as I was. Nobody passed me or challenged me down the final stretch. I never heard anyone get close. I have no idea if anyone ever got close.
After I finally crossed the finish line in third place, I staggered down the track to make way for other runners to finish. I didn’t hear anyone finish close after me. I don’t know if Dowling even finished at all. I didn’t care. It was over, and I’d finished third; half a success. Eventually an official with a stopwatch sought me out and told me I had a 4:19.9, and I knew that I was a total success. It put a smile on my face between the grimaces of pain and the gasps for air. I wondered if I should seek out a place to vomit, but surprisingly, I didn’t need to this time.
(The last lap was a 63.)
Dennis was waiting for me at the top of the straight to go on a warm-down run. We traded our times and place finishes and congratulated each other on our PRs – Personal Records. The crowd was still cheering madly, and I concluded that Dennis had a spectacular finish. He suggested we begin our warm-down run and I laughed. I told Dennis that track stars jog past the stands while waving to their adoring fans, and gave him a shove toward the stands and the gathering newspaper reporters. At the same time I turned and headed toward the backstretch for my warm-down and anonymity.
In retrospect it was worth the effort and the pain.
Forty years later I still happily relive that day.
It was the fastest Mile I would ever run.
As I started around the first curve of the last lap I began a slow but steady acceleration to close on, and catch, the guy in front of me by the time I reached the back stretch. As I was accelerating around the curve I conjured up Mom, Dad, God, my brothers, Coach Wilkinson, my teammates and my friends. I thought of every person who was near or dear to me. I contrived my own emotional moment in order to generate the adrenaline when I needed it, and I knew I would desperately need it for this last lap. I started to run with as much emotion as I could muster and enjoyed the surge of adrenaline and speed it generated. The next 220 yards were for all the people who believed in me.
As the first curve ended I slipped out to lane two to pass the guy in front of me. Passing him gave me confidence and I rolled down the backstretch in lane two surfing a wave of adrenaline. Each guy I passed gave me another shot of juice, which took me to my next victim. I didn’t push, I didn’t strain, because I knew from experience that my body would just tie up in knots. I just let my body do what it could, running at 90% effort, and hoped I wouldn’t pay too dearly for it on the final straight.
By the end of the backstretch I was in fourth place and on the heels of Des Moines Dowling, who’d heard me coming. Krantz and Dennis were already into the curve about 30 yards ahead and had begun their all-out sprint for the finish line. It was time for me to do the same, that is if I didn’t have Des Moines Dowling blocking lane one during the last curve!
The last 220 yards – what should have happened
At the end of the back stretch I was challenging Des Moines Dowling for third place. Unfortunately he heard me coming. I was breathing so hard it was impossible for him NOT to hear me coming. Dowling picked up his pace to keep me on his shoulder as we approached the beginning of the curve. He started throwing his elbows out vigorously to keep me well out in lane two. I smiled inwardly at the wasted effort. I had no intention of getting close enough where he could put an elbow in my ribs or drop a fist down to my balls. I also wasn’t going to waste my effort running in lane two while he ran in lane one. I dropped back to his right shoulder and stayed close, but not so close that I would get hit with an elbow, fist, or get tangled in his back-kick. I felt like hell, but he looked worse, and I could see the extra effort he spent holding me off was taking a toll.
While I was tying up with Dowling entering the final curve, Krantz and Dennis were motoring around the curve about 30 yards ahead of me. They were increasing their lead slowly on me, but I felt I could go with them and match their pace. Even though I could match their pace, I knew I didn’t have enough left in me to make up 30 yards in the 200 yards remaining. There was no way I could catch Krantz or Dennis at that point to finish first or second. At best, if I managed to pass Dowling on the curve I might make up some distance on Krantz and Dennis and finish a close third.
On the other hand Dowling had demonstrated his intent to make me run in lane two throughout the curve. It is what I would do if I were him. It would be a good investment of energy on his part. He should run whatever speed necessary to force me to run in lane two, thereby wasting my energy by running a longer distance, and giving Dowling an excellent chance to finish third.
It therefore made no sense to me to try to pass Dowling on the curve, running in lane two while he runs in lane one, and risk finishing fourth. I was going to finish third at best if I did get around him quickly on the curve, but I had a better chance to finish third if I tucked in behind him and passed on the final straight.
The last 220 yards – what REALLY happened
Yep. That would have been a good story, and logical too. Play it safe, tuck in behind Dowling on the curve, and pass him during the final 110 yards on the straight. The truth is I wanted to get close to Krantz and Dennis. I didn’t care that that I would be running in lane two. This was my final high school race and I wasn’t going to spend it tucked in behind some other guy on the final curve of the final lap like some pansy. The clock was ticking and I wasn’t going to waste time sitting behind what (I hoped) was a slower runner. I HAD to finish third AND I HAD to run a good time.
I also knew I’d be remembering this race for the rest of my life. I could live with losing third place due to a poor choice of strategy. What I couldn’t live with was lacking courage when courage was called for. The whole point was to show I had balls, not brains, so I went for it.
It is true that at the end of the back stretch I was challenging Des Moines Dowling for third place. It is also true that he either heard me coming or sensed me off his right shoulder. Dowling picked up his pace to keep me on his shoulder as we approached the beginning of the curve.
While the previous 220 had been fueled by adrenaline, the adrenaline was gone. The final 220 was up to me.
When Dowling jacked up his pace to hold me off, I jacked up my pace to a full sprint. I was running as fast as I could with 220 to go. Pace was no longer an issue; top speed was an issue. It took half of the curve to do it, but I did get around him. I was so happy to get a one step lead and cut into lane one in front of him I wanted to cry. I’d wasted a ton of energy getting around Dowling, but nobody was going to call me a wuss for waiting until the final straightaway. It was a ballsy move; stupid, but ballsy. No doubt Coach Wilkinson was going to give me hell for running in lane two, but time was a-wasting, Krantz and Dennis were getting further away from me. I wanted it to look like I belonged up there with Krantz and Dennis, rather than back where I was. I also wanted to convince myself that that was true.
By the time I finished the second half of the final curve I was running like a scared rabbit. I was deathly afraid that Dowling would come back on me and pass me dramatically just before the finish line. All my muscles were tying up. The Gorilla had come out of nowhere and jumped on my back. I must have looked like rigor mortis with a breathing disorder. I was losing any interest in closing the distance between me and Krantz and Dennis. I just wanted to finish before the entire field passed me back.
The harder I tried, the worse it got. I tried exaggerating my arm movements, but it didn’t help. I tried lifting my knees higher, but it didn’t help. My muscles were not responding to the messages my brain was sending, like “MOVE FASTER!!!!” In fact, some of the muscle groups were firing uncontrollably, and fighting each other. I was running in desperation, desperately trying not to get caught, trying to maintain some semblance of running form as my body rebelled. The only solution was to try to relax and accept whatever my body could give while maintaining a semblance of my running form.
Dennis passed Krantz sometime during the final straight to finish first in 4:18.0. I missed seeing it because of the sweat stinging my eyes and ruining my already poor eyesight. Not that I cared at that moment, though I would care later. I didn’t care about anyone or anything; I just wanted the race to be over and the pain to end. My agony was all-consuming. There aren’t any memories left of that final 50 yards. No strategy. No thoughts. No words. No emotions; just excruciating pain that wouldn’t stop and a body that was moving in slow motion to extend the agony, just like in the movies. It was a nightmare I’d experienced many times throughout the season, so at least it was a familiar feeling.
Even though I was out of gas, apparently everyone behind me was just as bad off as I was. Nobody passed me or challenged me down the final stretch. I never heard anyone get close. I have no idea if anyone ever got close.
After I finally crossed the finish line in third place, I staggered down the track to make way for other runners to finish. I didn’t hear anyone finish close after me. I don’t know if Dowling even finished at all. I didn’t care. It was over, and I’d finished third; half a success. Eventually an official with a stopwatch sought me out and told me I had a 4:19.9, and I knew that I was a total success. It put a smile on my face between the grimaces of pain and the gasps for air. I wondered if I should seek out a place to vomit, but surprisingly, I didn’t need to this time.
(The last lap was a 63.)
Dennis was waiting for me at the top of the straight to go on a warm-down run. We traded our times and place finishes and congratulated each other on our PRs – Personal Records. The crowd was still cheering madly, and I concluded that Dennis had a spectacular finish. He suggested we begin our warm-down run and I laughed. I told Dennis that track stars jog past the stands while waving to their adoring fans, and gave him a shove toward the stands and the gathering newspaper reporters. At the same time I turned and headed toward the backstretch for my warm-down and anonymity.
In retrospect it was worth the effort and the pain.
Forty years later I still happily relive that day.
It was the fastest Mile I would ever run.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
State Mile – More
Lap 2 of 4
The first lap was way too fast so I knew I had to give some time back on lap two, but the entire field appeared to be in front of me. How was I supposed to have faith that most of the field in front of me was going to die? My racing times were better than all but two of them, but they weren’t running like they belonged behind me, and I wasn’t so sure either. It was all irrelevant because my body was screaming at me to slow down. I had to ease up or I wouldn’t finish the race, but good grief, I was thinking that the second lap didn’t feel much slower or take any less effort than the first lap.
I think I passed one guy on the back stretch, and I thought him to be a sensible fellow. When I came into the final straightaway of lap two the crowd was roaring for the pack of runners in front of me. The cheering sent a jolt of adrenaline through my body and I was tempted to pick it up and pass a couple guys. That is always a crowd pleasing move, to pass a guy in front of the stands. I didn’t like showing other kids up in front of their parents, and I didn’t want to let the crowd influence my run. It was more important to maintain my pace right on the edge of oxygen debt. I wasn’t going to let them goad me into doing something stupid, like running too fast just to placate them. I maintained my pace and place right where I was.
As I approached the start/finish line for the second time I no longer cared what my split time was. The guy yelling splits to us would be calling out two-something for the half mile time, but that was useless to me. I needed to know what my time was for the second lap, not for the half-mile. If I’d miss-estimated the pace I could either pick it up a bit, or slow it down. Sure, all I had to do was the arithmetic, but I knew from past experience that the arithmetic was impossible given my current distractions.
I was too busy and didn’t have as much as a second to do the arithmetic. I was running furiously in order to catch up and pass some guys as they died during the third lap. The mental and physical effort of forcing my body to run faster than it wanted to go was all-consuming. It was important to mentally monitor my breathing and my lungs and adjust my pace accordingly. I had to constantly yell at myself to keep the pace as fast as I dared lest I cut myself some slack. There was strategy to consider. I had to be careful not to pass on curves. I had to be careful not to get boxed inside. I had to watch out for elbows and back-kicks. My worries were overwhelming. Later on I’d learn from Coach Wilkinson that the second lap was a 67. I continued to wonder if anyone else was hurting as bad as I was.
Lap 3 of 4
During the third lap I continued to persevere. I was encouraged to see several guys dying worse than I was and passed them on the backstretch. It pleased me to see that all was not lost. At least I would not be last, but the pace still seemed fast to me. Krantz and Dennis were still leading the pack, and were “only” 30 yards in front of me. Yeah, if the queen had balls she’d be king. Thirty yards was a long way out front in the Mile. On the positive side, I had run in lane one for the entire race. All the guys between me and the leaders had been jockeying around for position and had often run in lane two on the curves. Maybe they’d wasted themselves with too much fiddly fooling around. Maybe.
At the end of the third lap the man was there calling out split times once again. As I said before, it was useless information. I was too tired to think straight and the time was irrelevant. I was doing what I could and if the third lap was too fast or too slow it didn’t matter. There was only one lap left and there was no opportunity to adjust the pace based on the split time. It was time to get going. I knew there would be no slowing down unless my body rebelled against me.
Wilkinson later told me the third lap was a 68, but I didn’t know that at the time. It was a sensible time given the insanity of the first lap. I had doubts that I had anything left to give, but I was determined to give whatever I had on the last lap. The possibility of failure continued to haunt me. I simply HAD to finish in third place AND run faster than 4:24.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
State Mile – The start
All of my thoughts during a Mile are generally vulgar, profane or scatological in nature. The Mile isn’t a tea party where we say, “Please, after you.” Or “No, I insist, you were here first, after you.” The real truth is I want to rip your head off and blow boogers down your neck cavity. Every profanity I’ve ever heard occurs to me during the violence of a Mile race. That’s not me normally, but that is me during a Mile. Fortunately, every ounce of energy is focused on completing the distance. There is no breath to be wasted on speaking. No one can hear my vulgar thoughts, and that’s a good thing. Mom would be disappointed in her son.
So don’t be surprised at the obscenities that roll through my consciousness during the Mile. What you should be surprised at is how relatively tame my obscenities are. I’ve cleaned them up quite a bit for this blog, but wanted to include a few of them so you have a feel for the event as I experienced it. Simply put, the Mile is a violent act perpetrated by me on myself, but encouraged and abetted by those stupid sonsabitches who have the audacity to run front of me at any moment in time. If they’d just slow down it wouldn’t hurt me so much.
The Start
When I was standing in my lane waiting for the race to start I looked around at the other guys. Only a few of them were wearing decent running gear. Most were dressed like I was. My shorts and my shirt dated back to the 1950’s when my high school was first founded. I’d recognized my running gear in the pictures of the old-timers in the hallway trophy cases.
The running shorts were anything but short. They nearly came down to my knees. The shorts were made of a shiny red material that looked too much like satin. I thought they might be mistaken for women’s underwear or pajamas. My running jersey was heavy and must have been made of wool. It scratched and itched so badly that I only put it on just prior to the race start and removed it immediately thereafter. I felt like Old Stew-Ball, the racehorse, amongst a herd of thoroughbreds.
The underappreciated old racehorse was a self-image I’d fostered over the previous year while running 1500 miles in preparation for this race. Being a little bit angry helped manage the misery of running alone in the extreme weather of summer and winter. Even though I was physically punishing myself during all those miles, I mentally felt like I was punishing or “showing” all those who’d slighted or ignored me over the years.
I was aggravated that the newspaper focused on the “ball” sports and ignored cross country in the fall, and only covered the sprinters during the track season. I was angry that my classmates generally didn’t know I was a distance runner, and those who did had scant appreciation for the level of dedication required. I was hurt that only my family would ever bother to see me race. I was bothered that cheerleaders and the “In Crowd” went to football and basketball games, but never to one of my sports.
While I knew what I had achieved in the advanced classes at school, in the concert choir, in the church youth group, and through running, I felt overlooked and underappreciated. Yeah, I had a chip on my shoulder. And so there was a fair amount of anger and bitterness I’d accumulated over the last three years of running that I was prepared to unleash during this race in a fit of controlled aggression.
So there I was standing in lane 4, wishing I could have gotten to the bathroom one more time, with an extra guy in my lane on my outer shoulder, and the starter yelled, “Take your marks!” We all leaned forward to hold still and the gun went off immediately after he yelled “marks!”, and I thought “Asshole! You didn’t even make the sissies hold still for a lousy microsecond! Sonofabitch!” I was left standing there.
It wasn’t because I was caught napping. It was an unusually fast gun, especially for the Mile, and frankly, I am slow. I was still a skinny scrawny puke back then, not like the impressive hulk/hunk that I am today. (In my dreams) When the gun went off I went out hard because Coach Wilkinson wanted me to keep in contact with the leaders. Regrettably, the genetic cesspool I was born with didn’t include the gift of speed. Even though I’d started extremely fast for me, by the end of the one curve stagger I was in the back of the pack and dangerously close to last place. I might have been last but I didn’t dare look back to find out for sure.
I thought, “Oh crap, oh crap, oh CRAP! Wilkinson is going to kill me!” But there wasn’t anything I could realistically do about it. I was going as fast as I dared without all-out sprinting, and there was way too much distance left before I started that nonsense.
High school kids are generally full of adrenaline during the first lap of the Mile and can be found zigging and zagging through traffic, changing lanes suddenly, wasting energy with sudden movements, and causing all sorts of misfortune. Being next to last wasn’t such a bad place to be as it was safe, but I would never convince Wilkinson of that; not that I had a choice in the matter. Since I was Dead Flipping Last, or close to it, there was no urgency to move from lane four into lane 1. I took the whole backstretch to move over the four lanes. Still running way too fast, and still not catching anyone, I was thinking, “Assholes, what the HELL are you DOING?”
At the end of 220 yards I could see Krantz leading the pack into the beginning of the curve with Dennis close behind. There must have been 13 guys between us. I was easily 20 yards back already. I thought “If these guys can keep up this pace I am doomed. This has got to be 4-minute Mile pace. Am I unprepared? Has everyone else taken their workouts up a quantum leap that I can’t reach without me knowing it?”
I refused to get wrapped up in the adrenaline rush of the first lap. The adrenaline can make you run too fast and put you in oxygen debt. Sometimes the adrenaline can screw you up on the first curve and the back stretch, and then when you get in front of the main straightaway and the bleachers for the first time, everyone yelling for you gives you another jolt of adrenaline and screws you up a second time.
I heard my dad yelling for me as I came down the front stretch toward the start/finish line of the first lap, but I did my best to ignore his encouragement. Well, not exactly true. I welcomed his encouragement and support. Whenever any of my teammates would yell, “Pick it up, Tom”, I refused to take it literally. What they meant was to encourage me. They didn’t mean for me to literally pick it up. I was running the race. I was the horse and jockey. I knew exactly the fitness level of the horse and how he was feeling. That moment was not the time for emotional highs and feverish efforts. There would be an appropriate time for that later. The first lap was the time to run like a seasoned professional, running on logic, not on emotion. Pace was the key. I translated their exhortations into, “Run smart, Tom. Run smart!”
During the Mile I felt there was a right way and a wrong way for everything, and I was extremely particular about the way split times were called. That is just a kind way of saying I was an irritable SOB during the Mile. As I approached the end of the first lap I could NOT hear the official reading split times. “God BLESS the dumbass sonofabitch!” This was the state meet. Can’t they do anything RIGHT?
With the crowd roaring it was already difficult to hear. The official was facing the track and calling out splits every second at a right angle to our approach. As we approached the starting line we couldn’t hear the man. The only person who could hear him was the runner passing by directly in front of him and essentially shouting in the runner’s ear. If you happened to pass by between two seconds, you might miss your split entirely. If the dumb-butt would face down the track and call out splits as the runners approached, we would hear his cadence, would know the splits of the guys in front of us, and would have an excellent approximation of our own split as we crossed the line, even if we didn’t hear the man. It was yet another piece of consternation and anxiety in a day already chock full of them.
I got lucky and heard 62 seconds as I went past the start/finish line. “Geez-SUS, (emphasis on the second syllable) Crap, and many bad words!” I don’t run the first lap of my 880 yard (half-mile) races that fast! A 2:04 is my fastest half-mile time. My legs were already starting to feel stressed and I was breathing hard. “They CAN’T keep this up. I can’t keep this up. I cannot run this pace and finish.” Again I wanted to yell “What the HELL are you Dumb-ASSES doing? You are screwing up a perfectly good Mile race. You are screwing up MY Mile race. Do you realize I’ve spent an entire year preparing for this race and you guys have already SCREWED-UP the PACE?”
The only consolation to my screwing up and running a 62, which was much too fast for ANY of us, was that everyone else had screwed up worse than I had. The only guy who had the brains and balls to run a smart race was the guy behind me, and I wasn’t altogether sure that there WAS anyone behind me. Surely Coach Wilkinson would read his stopwatch and realize that I was running a relatively smart race so far. It was a mighty small consolation.
Seeing what appeared to be the entire pack in front of me generated buckets of anxiety. I’d like to say I was calm and sure of what I was doing, but that would be a monster-sized lie. What if I misheard the split? What if I misjudged my competition? What if I am having a bad day? This is supposed to be my greatest achievement. What if it turns into my greatest debacle? “Oh crap, oh crap, oh CRAP!”
So don’t be surprised at the obscenities that roll through my consciousness during the Mile. What you should be surprised at is how relatively tame my obscenities are. I’ve cleaned them up quite a bit for this blog, but wanted to include a few of them so you have a feel for the event as I experienced it. Simply put, the Mile is a violent act perpetrated by me on myself, but encouraged and abetted by those stupid sonsabitches who have the audacity to run front of me at any moment in time. If they’d just slow down it wouldn’t hurt me so much.
The Start
When I was standing in my lane waiting for the race to start I looked around at the other guys. Only a few of them were wearing decent running gear. Most were dressed like I was. My shorts and my shirt dated back to the 1950’s when my high school was first founded. I’d recognized my running gear in the pictures of the old-timers in the hallway trophy cases.
The running shorts were anything but short. They nearly came down to my knees. The shorts were made of a shiny red material that looked too much like satin. I thought they might be mistaken for women’s underwear or pajamas. My running jersey was heavy and must have been made of wool. It scratched and itched so badly that I only put it on just prior to the race start and removed it immediately thereafter. I felt like Old Stew-Ball, the racehorse, amongst a herd of thoroughbreds.
The underappreciated old racehorse was a self-image I’d fostered over the previous year while running 1500 miles in preparation for this race. Being a little bit angry helped manage the misery of running alone in the extreme weather of summer and winter. Even though I was physically punishing myself during all those miles, I mentally felt like I was punishing or “showing” all those who’d slighted or ignored me over the years.
I was aggravated that the newspaper focused on the “ball” sports and ignored cross country in the fall, and only covered the sprinters during the track season. I was angry that my classmates generally didn’t know I was a distance runner, and those who did had scant appreciation for the level of dedication required. I was hurt that only my family would ever bother to see me race. I was bothered that cheerleaders and the “In Crowd” went to football and basketball games, but never to one of my sports.
While I knew what I had achieved in the advanced classes at school, in the concert choir, in the church youth group, and through running, I felt overlooked and underappreciated. Yeah, I had a chip on my shoulder. And so there was a fair amount of anger and bitterness I’d accumulated over the last three years of running that I was prepared to unleash during this race in a fit of controlled aggression.
So there I was standing in lane 4, wishing I could have gotten to the bathroom one more time, with an extra guy in my lane on my outer shoulder, and the starter yelled, “Take your marks!” We all leaned forward to hold still and the gun went off immediately after he yelled “marks!”, and I thought “Asshole! You didn’t even make the sissies hold still for a lousy microsecond! Sonofabitch!” I was left standing there.
It wasn’t because I was caught napping. It was an unusually fast gun, especially for the Mile, and frankly, I am slow. I was still a skinny scrawny puke back then, not like the impressive hulk/hunk that I am today. (In my dreams) When the gun went off I went out hard because Coach Wilkinson wanted me to keep in contact with the leaders. Regrettably, the genetic cesspool I was born with didn’t include the gift of speed. Even though I’d started extremely fast for me, by the end of the one curve stagger I was in the back of the pack and dangerously close to last place. I might have been last but I didn’t dare look back to find out for sure.
I thought, “Oh crap, oh crap, oh CRAP! Wilkinson is going to kill me!” But there wasn’t anything I could realistically do about it. I was going as fast as I dared without all-out sprinting, and there was way too much distance left before I started that nonsense.
High school kids are generally full of adrenaline during the first lap of the Mile and can be found zigging and zagging through traffic, changing lanes suddenly, wasting energy with sudden movements, and causing all sorts of misfortune. Being next to last wasn’t such a bad place to be as it was safe, but I would never convince Wilkinson of that; not that I had a choice in the matter. Since I was Dead Flipping Last, or close to it, there was no urgency to move from lane four into lane 1. I took the whole backstretch to move over the four lanes. Still running way too fast, and still not catching anyone, I was thinking, “Assholes, what the HELL are you DOING?”
At the end of 220 yards I could see Krantz leading the pack into the beginning of the curve with Dennis close behind. There must have been 13 guys between us. I was easily 20 yards back already. I thought “If these guys can keep up this pace I am doomed. This has got to be 4-minute Mile pace. Am I unprepared? Has everyone else taken their workouts up a quantum leap that I can’t reach without me knowing it?”
I refused to get wrapped up in the adrenaline rush of the first lap. The adrenaline can make you run too fast and put you in oxygen debt. Sometimes the adrenaline can screw you up on the first curve and the back stretch, and then when you get in front of the main straightaway and the bleachers for the first time, everyone yelling for you gives you another jolt of adrenaline and screws you up a second time.
I heard my dad yelling for me as I came down the front stretch toward the start/finish line of the first lap, but I did my best to ignore his encouragement. Well, not exactly true. I welcomed his encouragement and support. Whenever any of my teammates would yell, “Pick it up, Tom”, I refused to take it literally. What they meant was to encourage me. They didn’t mean for me to literally pick it up. I was running the race. I was the horse and jockey. I knew exactly the fitness level of the horse and how he was feeling. That moment was not the time for emotional highs and feverish efforts. There would be an appropriate time for that later. The first lap was the time to run like a seasoned professional, running on logic, not on emotion. Pace was the key. I translated their exhortations into, “Run smart, Tom. Run smart!”
During the Mile I felt there was a right way and a wrong way for everything, and I was extremely particular about the way split times were called. That is just a kind way of saying I was an irritable SOB during the Mile. As I approached the end of the first lap I could NOT hear the official reading split times. “God BLESS the dumbass sonofabitch!” This was the state meet. Can’t they do anything RIGHT?
With the crowd roaring it was already difficult to hear. The official was facing the track and calling out splits every second at a right angle to our approach. As we approached the starting line we couldn’t hear the man. The only person who could hear him was the runner passing by directly in front of him and essentially shouting in the runner’s ear. If you happened to pass by between two seconds, you might miss your split entirely. If the dumb-butt would face down the track and call out splits as the runners approached, we would hear his cadence, would know the splits of the guys in front of us, and would have an excellent approximation of our own split as we crossed the line, even if we didn’t hear the man. It was yet another piece of consternation and anxiety in a day already chock full of them.
I got lucky and heard 62 seconds as I went past the start/finish line. “Geez-SUS, (emphasis on the second syllable) Crap, and many bad words!” I don’t run the first lap of my 880 yard (half-mile) races that fast! A 2:04 is my fastest half-mile time. My legs were already starting to feel stressed and I was breathing hard. “They CAN’T keep this up. I can’t keep this up. I cannot run this pace and finish.” Again I wanted to yell “What the HELL are you Dumb-ASSES doing? You are screwing up a perfectly good Mile race. You are screwing up MY Mile race. Do you realize I’ve spent an entire year preparing for this race and you guys have already SCREWED-UP the PACE?”
The only consolation to my screwing up and running a 62, which was much too fast for ANY of us, was that everyone else had screwed up worse than I had. The only guy who had the brains and balls to run a smart race was the guy behind me, and I wasn’t altogether sure that there WAS anyone behind me. Surely Coach Wilkinson would read his stopwatch and realize that I was running a relatively smart race so far. It was a mighty small consolation.
Seeing what appeared to be the entire pack in front of me generated buckets of anxiety. I’d like to say I was calm and sure of what I was doing, but that would be a monster-sized lie. What if I misheard the split? What if I misjudged my competition? What if I am having a bad day? This is supposed to be my greatest achievement. What if it turns into my greatest debacle? “Oh crap, oh crap, oh CRAP!”
Thursday, November 18, 2010
State Mile – Perspective
I believe I was a normal teenage boy in at least one aspect, which is to say I was pumped up with whatever chemicals God naturally pumps teenage boys up with, making them goofy as hell. It is unfortunate that while all these natural chemicals were making me goofy as hell, I was at the same time completely inexperienced at dealing with my condition, and also completely unaware OF my condition. So while it may not have been right, I do remember what my mindset was at that time. In my mind the stakes at the state track meet were enormous. The stakes weren’t inherently enormous; I’d made them enormous.
I am not saying my logic was right, or that any logic was involved at all, but I had decided that this race was a test of who I was, and who I was going to be. Even though I’d run plenty of races before, this was my final high school race. There would be no opportunity for redemption at a later race. I had to do well in this race, or I was a failure; a failure as a teenage boy, a failure as an athlete, and possibly destined to be a failure as a man. If I failed at this race I knew that I would have to live with that failure for the rest of my life. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life dwelling on my failure to perform.
All of the top guys in the Mile either knew each other, or knew of each other. We’d met each other at big meets throughout the year, or knew of each other via the times listed in the squint print section of the newspaper. I have no doubt the other guys were scouring the sports section every Sunday like I was to see who had run a good time the previous day.
Realistically, I knew I wasn’t going to beat David Krantz from Waterloo Columbus. Krantz had the fastest times in the state and had not been beaten once all year. While I’d beaten my good friend from Manchester, Dennis Schultz, at the district meet with a 4:25, it was a rare and random event, and we both knew that Dennis was the only person who might get close to Krantz. I would be fortunate to be third as the kid from Marshalltown had beaten me once, as had the kid from Dubuque and the kid from Des Moines Dowling. If I didn’t run a new personal record time, I could easily end up sixth or worse.
Since I’d finished fourth the previous year, success was defined as finishing third; exactly third. Finishing higher than third wasn’t possible and worse than third was all too probable; third-place was an iffy proposition.
The state meet was my first and only opportunity during the spring track season to race unencumbered by fatigue. There was a full-day track meet every Saturday throughout the season. Usually there was also a dual meet during the week on Tuesday. I’d have to run the Mile and 880-yard run at each meet, with only an hour’s rest between the two races. There were full workouts on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Friday would be the only day of light running, and I typically ran alone on Sunday while the rest of the team was sleeping in. The state meet was the only time I had an entire week of light workouts in preparation for a single event. The week was designed for an exceptional performance.
So the state meet was a blessing in that I would get to run the Mile fully rested and fully prepared, but it also had an ugly flip side. It also meant I had no excuse for failure. I’d decided I would be a failure if I ran a poor time, or had a poor finishing place. Either one would be construed as a failure. There would be no excuse handy for a failure in either time or place. I wasn’t tired from the previous week’s workouts. I wasn’t sick. I wasn’t injured. I had no excuses available to me. The pressure I felt was enormous and it made basic functioning difficult.
How so? Let’s digress into the basic facts of racing life. It’s an ugly truth, but no matter how many times I visited the bathroom prior to a race, I always needed to go one more time. Even in the most low-key races I was so nervous that I continually needed to hit the bathroom. My gastrointestinal system was doing all kinds of unpleasant gymnastics.
I wasn’t the only one afflicted. I never found a bathroom that didn’t have a line out the door. Upon arrival at track meets everyone raced to locate and use whatever bathrooms we could find. We never told opposing teams where bathrooms could be found. Distance runners did longer warm-ups, and so were able to find locations that sprinters weren’t “able” to locate.
Standing in line for the bathroom just tired my legs out and increased my anxiety level. I was always worrying that I might be missing my event while standing in line for the bathroom. Track meets are notoriously unpredictable, usually running hours behind schedule, but occasionally would whip through several events in a few minutes. So standing in line made me nervous, and the more nervous I was the more I needed to go, and, well, I think you can see the dilemma.
Anything I foolishly put into my mouth the day of a race was processed in the most casual and cursory manner by my digestive tract. Sometimes I was so nervous I couldn’t digest a thing, and simply vomited up whatever I had just prior to the race, or after the race, or both. Items that could be eaten in the morning of a race were professional secrets amongst distance runners and shared only with the closest of friends.
Given the stakes that I’d imposed on myself, I was surprised I wasn’t more nervous than I was. Sure, there was some anxiety, but not like normal. Sleeping well the night before and sleeping during the drive that morning had kept me from obsessing about the race. I wasn’t conscious, so I couldn’t obsess. It was great. Claiming to have thought this all out in advance wouldn’t be fair. It was just a fortuitous side effect, but I was glad of it.
The Mile was the first event of the afternoon. My district time put me in lane 4, David Krantz in 3, and Dennis Schultz in 2. I think we all had a second guy in our lanes as I remember the race being extremely crowded. It was a common practice in those days.
Next week, The Race.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Car Keys, Part 1
It was the first and only time I can recall intentionally disobeying my parents. It was May of 1970 and I had just graduated from high school. Mom was so gentle and kind that I hated to disappoint her, but Dad was such an authoritarian that it seemed right to be willfully disobedient at least once before heading off to college. And that’s how it came to pass that I stayed out past curfew on the night before the high school state track meet.
When I got back to the house that night I just expected to slip in the back door like I always did and head up to bed. Mom and Dad would never know because the door was never locked and they never stayed up for me anyhow. There was no reason to do so because I never stayed out late, I never disobeyed, and was absolutely trustworthy. Well, except for this one night. When I got home the door was locked.
At first I thought that Mom and Dad had just forgotten I was out and did not intentionally lock the door. When I checked for the spare key in the garage and it was missing, I knew it was locked on purpose and they were upset. I thought about sleeping in the car, but decided that that was just delaying the inevitable. I rang the doorbell and awaited my fate.
It seemed to take forever, but eventually Mom and Dad both showed up at the back door in their bathrobes. Dad took forever unlocking the door and it seemed calculated to let me stew a little longer and speculate on my impending doom. As soon as the door opened Dad started in on me. I don’t remember specifically what he said, but no doubt it included my being irresponsible and risking a poor performance at the track meet the next afternoon. I was accustomed to my dad’s tirades, but this one was particularly stinging because he might have been right this time. Even more painful however was my mom’s look of disappointment.
The bottom line of it all was I was grounded until further notice and they took away my keys to the car. This was a first for me or for anyone in my family.
In my own defense it wasn’t just an evening of willful disobedience. I was pretty anxious about the state meet and knew I wouldn’t sleep well, if at all. I’d been training for this one track meet for an entire year. The previous year I’d finished fourth in the Mile at state in a 4:25. One of the guys in front of me was a graduating senior and the other three of us were juniors, so if I was going to move up a place, or just maintain my place in the pecking order, it was up to me to do the workouts. The problem was this; I was positive the two guys in front of me knew this too. They didn’t get in front of me by sitting on the couch. No doubt the guys behind me had placed a bull’s-eye on my back too.
I’d run throughout the previous summer in preparation, even after a full workday or graveyard shift at the factory. I’d run two-a-day workouts frequently during the fall cross country season. I gave up my one true love, wrestling, in the winter when I separated my shoulder during a JV match, and it became clear I wasn’t going to make the varsity. So I focused on running through the ice and snow of winter with my separated shoulder, again, often twice a day. Every reasonable and unreasonable sacrifice had been made over the period of a year in anticipation of this one race. In fact, my girlfriend had dumped me just prior to the track season both years. Gee, I wonder what caused that.
So getting back to losing the car keys and getting grounded, I went up to bed and slept like a baby. Whodathunkit?
I had to get up early the next morning and catch a ride with an assistant coach who was driving me and a couple other guys over to Ames, Iowa, the site of the track meet. I was still a bit sleepy from my “late” night, so slept during the two hour drive over to Ames. By the time we got there I was well rested and felt ready to run.
I just reached the bottom of a page. You’ll have to wait for the rest of the story next week. I won’t actually get to the end of the car keys story for five weeks. I have to tell the story of the State Mile race first to put everything in perspective. Hang with me. It’s a good story.
When I got back to the house that night I just expected to slip in the back door like I always did and head up to bed. Mom and Dad would never know because the door was never locked and they never stayed up for me anyhow. There was no reason to do so because I never stayed out late, I never disobeyed, and was absolutely trustworthy. Well, except for this one night. When I got home the door was locked.
At first I thought that Mom and Dad had just forgotten I was out and did not intentionally lock the door. When I checked for the spare key in the garage and it was missing, I knew it was locked on purpose and they were upset. I thought about sleeping in the car, but decided that that was just delaying the inevitable. I rang the doorbell and awaited my fate.
It seemed to take forever, but eventually Mom and Dad both showed up at the back door in their bathrobes. Dad took forever unlocking the door and it seemed calculated to let me stew a little longer and speculate on my impending doom. As soon as the door opened Dad started in on me. I don’t remember specifically what he said, but no doubt it included my being irresponsible and risking a poor performance at the track meet the next afternoon. I was accustomed to my dad’s tirades, but this one was particularly stinging because he might have been right this time. Even more painful however was my mom’s look of disappointment.
The bottom line of it all was I was grounded until further notice and they took away my keys to the car. This was a first for me or for anyone in my family.
In my own defense it wasn’t just an evening of willful disobedience. I was pretty anxious about the state meet and knew I wouldn’t sleep well, if at all. I’d been training for this one track meet for an entire year. The previous year I’d finished fourth in the Mile at state in a 4:25. One of the guys in front of me was a graduating senior and the other three of us were juniors, so if I was going to move up a place, or just maintain my place in the pecking order, it was up to me to do the workouts. The problem was this; I was positive the two guys in front of me knew this too. They didn’t get in front of me by sitting on the couch. No doubt the guys behind me had placed a bull’s-eye on my back too.
I’d run throughout the previous summer in preparation, even after a full workday or graveyard shift at the factory. I’d run two-a-day workouts frequently during the fall cross country season. I gave up my one true love, wrestling, in the winter when I separated my shoulder during a JV match, and it became clear I wasn’t going to make the varsity. So I focused on running through the ice and snow of winter with my separated shoulder, again, often twice a day. Every reasonable and unreasonable sacrifice had been made over the period of a year in anticipation of this one race. In fact, my girlfriend had dumped me just prior to the track season both years. Gee, I wonder what caused that.
So getting back to losing the car keys and getting grounded, I went up to bed and slept like a baby. Whodathunkit?
I had to get up early the next morning and catch a ride with an assistant coach who was driving me and a couple other guys over to Ames, Iowa, the site of the track meet. I was still a bit sleepy from my “late” night, so slept during the two hour drive over to Ames. By the time we got there I was well rested and felt ready to run.
I just reached the bottom of a page. You’ll have to wait for the rest of the story next week. I won’t actually get to the end of the car keys story for five weeks. I have to tell the story of the State Mile race first to put everything in perspective. Hang with me. It’s a good story.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Teaser
The next six weekly posts will be about running the Mile and 880 (half-mile) at the 1970 Iowa High School State Track Meet. You are right to wonder why I would spend so much time, and so many words, on a single event. I continue to wonder the same thing. Once I started writing the story I could hardly stop, so it is apparently important to me. Though the topic might sound odd, if you stay with it until the end you will find it’s a pretty good story, in particular how I lost the car keys, and how I got them back.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Looking Back
The unexamined life is not worth living – Socrates (470 BC – 399 BC)
It only took a moment back in May of 2009 to pick the title for this blog. It didn’t take a lot of deep thinking. I’d originally intended to write-up some stories about the kids while they were growing up, and a few more about my days on the planet. Obviously the blog would be reflective in nature with a lot of “Looking Back”. As a lifetime runner this title had an amusing subtext that non-runners might not catch.
Back in 1967 the first thing my high school running buddies taught me is that you never, ever, look backwards during a race. Looking back is a sign of weakness. It tells everyone behind you that you are tired and concerned about maintaining your current position. It says you are slowing down and want to gauge how much slower you can run without getting caught by the next guy behind you. Looking back immediately makes you a target for everyone behind you. You suddenly become the weakest zebra in the herd that the lions target for their dinner. That’s what looking back means to a runner.
But back to the topic - I’ve always enjoyed the Socrates quote, “The unexamined life is not worth living”. It focuses on the individual, whereas the George Santayana quote, “Those who cannot learn from History are doomed to repeat it”, has an implied focus on the world. The two quotes are, by their nature, reflective and say the same thing to me, that there are things to be learned by looking back. There are things to be learned not only from your own personal history, but from the history of others and countries as well. Thus I justify recording a little family history here in this blog for my descendants.
So Looking Back is the right title for my blog; Looking Back on the life of my family, Looking Back on my life so far, and Looking Back on my running career. Its a few moments spent reviewing the experiences we all have in common, and perhaps one or two that are just a tad bit different.
But I don’t intend to live my remaining days just Looking Back. There is much to live for.
I want to:
See what my kids do next
See what my grandkids do next
Ride a train across Canada during the fall leaf season
Ride the Bernina Express train from Chur, Switzerland to Tirano, Italy
Eat at Nikolai’s Roof one more time
See the Northern Lights – aurora borealis
See a NASA launch first-hand
Drive across the Golden Gate Bridge
Drive across Royal Gorge Bridge in Canon City, Colorado
Drive through the Florida Keys
See a glacier
Spend a week at Caribbean beach cottage
Spend a night at the Yellowstone lodge
Attend church service at a cathedral
See the Sistine Chapel
Experience the Fourth of July in Washington, DC
See the US NE
See the US NW
See the US SW
Tour the Louisiana Bayou country
Visit Harry Truman’s birthplace and presidential library
Visit Dwight Eisenhower’s birthplace, and presidential library
Spend a week at Topsail Island during the winter
Learn to do a flip turn in the pool
Swim a mile
Take an aerobics class
Get in incredible shape
Run a marathon
Clean the garage
Clean the attic
Build an enclosed back porch in place of the deck
Take a Windjammer Cruise in the Caribbean
See the Rockies
See the Badlands
See Montana
See Rome, tour the Vatican
Learn to fly
See the Grand Canyon
Tour several of the Smithsonian Museums in DC, Air and Space in particular
See Basilica of St. Paul Outside the Walls in Rome
Catch a sunset from Waterrock Knob in the Great Smoky Mountains
Visit Gilman, Iowa
See Disney World’s Epcot Center, if it still exists
Create a great yard without extensive hired help
Write the world’s greatest blog
Win my age group in an Atlanta Track Club race (Oops, just did that Sept 11, 2010. Never thought I’d do that again!)
So while Socrates has a point –
The unexamined life is not worth living
I also like the knockoff –
The unlived life is not worth examining.
It only took a moment back in May of 2009 to pick the title for this blog. It didn’t take a lot of deep thinking. I’d originally intended to write-up some stories about the kids while they were growing up, and a few more about my days on the planet. Obviously the blog would be reflective in nature with a lot of “Looking Back”. As a lifetime runner this title had an amusing subtext that non-runners might not catch.
Back in 1967 the first thing my high school running buddies taught me is that you never, ever, look backwards during a race. Looking back is a sign of weakness. It tells everyone behind you that you are tired and concerned about maintaining your current position. It says you are slowing down and want to gauge how much slower you can run without getting caught by the next guy behind you. Looking back immediately makes you a target for everyone behind you. You suddenly become the weakest zebra in the herd that the lions target for their dinner. That’s what looking back means to a runner.
But back to the topic - I’ve always enjoyed the Socrates quote, “The unexamined life is not worth living”. It focuses on the individual, whereas the George Santayana quote, “Those who cannot learn from History are doomed to repeat it”, has an implied focus on the world. The two quotes are, by their nature, reflective and say the same thing to me, that there are things to be learned by looking back. There are things to be learned not only from your own personal history, but from the history of others and countries as well. Thus I justify recording a little family history here in this blog for my descendants.
So Looking Back is the right title for my blog; Looking Back on the life of my family, Looking Back on my life so far, and Looking Back on my running career. Its a few moments spent reviewing the experiences we all have in common, and perhaps one or two that are just a tad bit different.
But I don’t intend to live my remaining days just Looking Back. There is much to live for.
I want to:
See what my kids do next
See what my grandkids do next
Ride a train across Canada during the fall leaf season
Ride the Bernina Express train from Chur, Switzerland to Tirano, Italy
Eat at Nikolai’s Roof one more time
See the Northern Lights – aurora borealis
See a NASA launch first-hand
Drive across the Golden Gate Bridge
Drive across Royal Gorge Bridge in Canon City, Colorado
Drive through the Florida Keys
See a glacier
Spend a week at Caribbean beach cottage
Spend a night at the Yellowstone lodge
Attend church service at a cathedral
See the Sistine Chapel
Experience the Fourth of July in Washington, DC
See the US NE
See the US NW
See the US SW
Tour the Louisiana Bayou country
Visit Harry Truman’s birthplace and presidential library
Visit Dwight Eisenhower’s birthplace, and presidential library
Spend a week at Topsail Island during the winter
Learn to do a flip turn in the pool
Swim a mile
Take an aerobics class
Get in incredible shape
Run a marathon
Clean the garage
Clean the attic
Build an enclosed back porch in place of the deck
Take a Windjammer Cruise in the Caribbean
See the Rockies
See the Badlands
See Montana
See Rome, tour the Vatican
Learn to fly
See the Grand Canyon
Tour several of the Smithsonian Museums in DC, Air and Space in particular
See Basilica of St. Paul Outside the Walls in Rome
Catch a sunset from Waterrock Knob in the Great Smoky Mountains
Visit Gilman, Iowa
See Disney World’s Epcot Center, if it still exists
Create a great yard without extensive hired help
Write the world’s greatest blog
Win my age group in an Atlanta Track Club race (Oops, just did that Sept 11, 2010. Never thought I’d do that again!)
So while Socrates has a point –
The unexamined life is not worth living
I also like the knockoff –
The unlived life is not worth examining.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Friend
Over a year ago I stumbled across this description of what it means, and does not mean, to be a friend. I cannot imagine what could be added, or taken away, that would improve the statement. The only thing needed is updating the language to the 21st century.
Friend
"-one who will not censure or mock his friend when absent; who will defend him whenever he hears him being slighted or ridiculed; who will consider friendship more important than his own reputation for being acute, witty, and able to raise a laugh; who will not divulge a secret that has been confided to him either to have a subject for gossip or to show himself off; who will not abuse the familiarity and confidence of his friend in order to supplant and surpass him; who will not envy his good fortune; who will be solicitous of his welfare, obviate and repair his misfortunes; and who will be ready to assist him in his desires and needs-"
-- Giacomo Leopardi 1798-1837
You’d have to be God to be this perfect, but wouldn’t it be a comfort to have a friend as dependable as this, and wouldn’t it be personally fulfilling to BE a friend as dependable as this. It’s worthwhile just to define the role of friend so clearly, but it seems to be an impossible achievement to be this selfless. I can’t imagine ever being this good, but I can imagine trying to be this good.
The only way to have a friend is to be a friend.
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882
Friend
"-one who will not censure or mock his friend when absent; who will defend him whenever he hears him being slighted or ridiculed; who will consider friendship more important than his own reputation for being acute, witty, and able to raise a laugh; who will not divulge a secret that has been confided to him either to have a subject for gossip or to show himself off; who will not abuse the familiarity and confidence of his friend in order to supplant and surpass him; who will not envy his good fortune; who will be solicitous of his welfare, obviate and repair his misfortunes; and who will be ready to assist him in his desires and needs-"
-- Giacomo Leopardi 1798-1837
You’d have to be God to be this perfect, but wouldn’t it be a comfort to have a friend as dependable as this, and wouldn’t it be personally fulfilling to BE a friend as dependable as this. It’s worthwhile just to define the role of friend so clearly, but it seems to be an impossible achievement to be this selfless. I can’t imagine ever being this good, but I can imagine trying to be this good.
The only way to have a friend is to be a friend.
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Conduct
Back when I was in elementary school we had to take our grade reports home for our parents to sign. I dreaded grade reports. My grade reports weren’t all that bad. My grades in English, history, and math were okay, but I always got a D in Conduct. That confused me. I remembered the teacher covering all of the other subjects in class, but I couldn’t recall a single session of instruction on Conduct. I didn’t know what Conduct was, or meant, and it seemed unfair to be graded on something that was never covered in class.
When I got home my grades were never good enough. The C’s should be B’s, and the B’s should be A’s, and the A’s, well, I never saw one of those till middle school or later. But it was the D in Conduct that I knew would hurt me. Mom chided me gently about the Conduct grade. “Tom, you HAVE to do better with your conduct!” I’d nod my head, knowing that it was important to remain silent while being disciplined. When Dad got home from work that night I’d get verbally punished for my mediocre grades all over again, and spanked for the D in Conduct. I REALLY didn’t like grade reports.
Still, I didn’t know how I was going to get better at Conduct if I didn’t know what it was. It never occurred to me to ask. Adults were, to me, all-knowing authority figures. I figured they’d tell me what Conduct was when it was time for me to know; kind of like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the over-sized hotdog at the baseball field the other kids snickered about. I could tell there were secrets out there somewhere, but I was confident that all would be revealed to me at the proper time by the proper authorities.
My D’s in Conduct became a regular occurrence over the period of several years. I was pretty excited when the school announced that rather than issuing grade reports 4 times a year, they would only be issued twice a year. I thought, “Awesome; only two spankings this school year instead of 4.”
Concurrent with the D’s in Conduct was a problem I had with talking in class. I had no idea that the two phenomena might be related. From time to time I was given a special homework assignment. I had to write “I will not talk in class” 25 times. The next occurrence was 50, then a hundred, and it went up by hundreds from there. I am certain that I reached 500 before the end of the year, but remain foggy about reaching 1,000. I do know I went through reams of notebook paper every year.
If the teacher was covering something important, like football, maybe I’d have paid attention. The really important subjects to me were tag, baseball, football, basketball, wrestling, and swimming; that’s six subjects right there, and the school was only devoting one hour a day during PE class to those six subjects. The school was wasting my time with reading, writing, and arithmetic, which were completely useless to me during daily recess time and summer vacations. “Yo, teachr mon, give me sumthin I kin use!”
I remember one night I was writing out my punishment of a gazillion sentences in a corner of our family room. Mom was watching me struggle laboriously through the handwriting, and commented, “Wouldn’t it just be easier NOT to talk in class?” I nodded my head in agreement, but inside I was thinking, “Can I stop a cough, a sneeze, or a fart? Can a bed wetter will himself not to wet the bed? Oh Mom, I wish it were so. I so wish I could stop myself, but the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Mother, forgive me, for I know not what I do.” I had no control over my talking in class.
Here’s an example. One day the teacher was droning on about Abraham Lincoln, who happened to be my favorite president. In fact, I already knew that Abe was the sixteenth president, so I‘d made 16 my favorite number to honor him. I was sure old Abe was pleased with this honor even as he lay a-moldering in the grave. Anyway, the teacher wasn’t telling me anything new as I’d recently read a short biography on Abraham Lincoln and knew everything worth knowing, or so I thought.
This permitted me a free moment to ponder the Transparent Man model that my older brothers had assembled from a kit. The model had transparent skin so you could see all the organs inside the man. It also had a door into the abdomen so you could take out all the organs, and then put them back in like a 3-d jigsaw puzzle. As I recalled the placement of the organs it occurred to me that the stomach wasn’t in the location where everyone patted their tummies when they were full. The fools were actually patting their intestines. In a moment of clarity I realized that the stomach is actually much higher in the abdomen than we generally give it credit for. Now here was a fact worth knowing. I bet the teacher and the class didn’t know that! It was much more interesting than what the teacher was saying about Abraham Lincoln.
My attention returned to the teacher who was still droning on about my close and personal hero, Abraham Lincoln. I was sure the teacher and the class would want to know my newly discovered fact. I was so excited. I had incredible news that they were missing out on. I raised my hand knowing that I must not talk in class without permission. The teacher called on me and I said, “Did you know that your stomach isn’t down here (pointing to my belly region) but really is more up here (pointing to the sternum)?”
At that point she put me and my chair in the back of the room facing the back wall, but that was okay by me. She hadn’t said anything important all day, and I had important things to ponder, like where does the white go when the snow melts? Now there is something worth knowing.
When I got home my grades were never good enough. The C’s should be B’s, and the B’s should be A’s, and the A’s, well, I never saw one of those till middle school or later. But it was the D in Conduct that I knew would hurt me. Mom chided me gently about the Conduct grade. “Tom, you HAVE to do better with your conduct!” I’d nod my head, knowing that it was important to remain silent while being disciplined. When Dad got home from work that night I’d get verbally punished for my mediocre grades all over again, and spanked for the D in Conduct. I REALLY didn’t like grade reports.
Still, I didn’t know how I was going to get better at Conduct if I didn’t know what it was. It never occurred to me to ask. Adults were, to me, all-knowing authority figures. I figured they’d tell me what Conduct was when it was time for me to know; kind of like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the over-sized hotdog at the baseball field the other kids snickered about. I could tell there were secrets out there somewhere, but I was confident that all would be revealed to me at the proper time by the proper authorities.
My D’s in Conduct became a regular occurrence over the period of several years. I was pretty excited when the school announced that rather than issuing grade reports 4 times a year, they would only be issued twice a year. I thought, “Awesome; only two spankings this school year instead of 4.”
Concurrent with the D’s in Conduct was a problem I had with talking in class. I had no idea that the two phenomena might be related. From time to time I was given a special homework assignment. I had to write “I will not talk in class” 25 times. The next occurrence was 50, then a hundred, and it went up by hundreds from there. I am certain that I reached 500 before the end of the year, but remain foggy about reaching 1,000. I do know I went through reams of notebook paper every year.
If the teacher was covering something important, like football, maybe I’d have paid attention. The really important subjects to me were tag, baseball, football, basketball, wrestling, and swimming; that’s six subjects right there, and the school was only devoting one hour a day during PE class to those six subjects. The school was wasting my time with reading, writing, and arithmetic, which were completely useless to me during daily recess time and summer vacations. “Yo, teachr mon, give me sumthin I kin use!”
I remember one night I was writing out my punishment of a gazillion sentences in a corner of our family room. Mom was watching me struggle laboriously through the handwriting, and commented, “Wouldn’t it just be easier NOT to talk in class?” I nodded my head in agreement, but inside I was thinking, “Can I stop a cough, a sneeze, or a fart? Can a bed wetter will himself not to wet the bed? Oh Mom, I wish it were so. I so wish I could stop myself, but the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Mother, forgive me, for I know not what I do.” I had no control over my talking in class.
Here’s an example. One day the teacher was droning on about Abraham Lincoln, who happened to be my favorite president. In fact, I already knew that Abe was the sixteenth president, so I‘d made 16 my favorite number to honor him. I was sure old Abe was pleased with this honor even as he lay a-moldering in the grave. Anyway, the teacher wasn’t telling me anything new as I’d recently read a short biography on Abraham Lincoln and knew everything worth knowing, or so I thought.
This permitted me a free moment to ponder the Transparent Man model that my older brothers had assembled from a kit. The model had transparent skin so you could see all the organs inside the man. It also had a door into the abdomen so you could take out all the organs, and then put them back in like a 3-d jigsaw puzzle. As I recalled the placement of the organs it occurred to me that the stomach wasn’t in the location where everyone patted their tummies when they were full. The fools were actually patting their intestines. In a moment of clarity I realized that the stomach is actually much higher in the abdomen than we generally give it credit for. Now here was a fact worth knowing. I bet the teacher and the class didn’t know that! It was much more interesting than what the teacher was saying about Abraham Lincoln.
My attention returned to the teacher who was still droning on about my close and personal hero, Abraham Lincoln. I was sure the teacher and the class would want to know my newly discovered fact. I was so excited. I had incredible news that they were missing out on. I raised my hand knowing that I must not talk in class without permission. The teacher called on me and I said, “Did you know that your stomach isn’t down here (pointing to my belly region) but really is more up here (pointing to the sternum)?”
At that point she put me and my chair in the back of the room facing the back wall, but that was okay by me. She hadn’t said anything important all day, and I had important things to ponder, like where does the white go when the snow melts? Now there is something worth knowing.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Jockstraps
When I was in the third grade my folks signed me up for little league baseball. What is that, 8 years old? I was a big fan of Ron Santo with the White Sox and Ernie Banks with the Cubs, so I was looking forward to it.
I showed up for the first game with the full uniform on and came prepared with my bat and glove. The coach had the team line-up on the third base line and asked “Who has a jockstrap”? I looked down at the ground and thought through my inventory of gear: hat, shoes, socks, shirt, pants, underwear, belt, bat and glove, but no jockstrap. By the time I looked up every kid’s hand was up but mine, and the coach was looking at me. I shook my head “no” sorrowfully, as I was pretty sure I didn’t have one, even though I didn’t know what a jockstrap was.
I was surprised that all the other kids knew what this arcane piece of gear was, and to top that, they all had one. When I went to the local park for pick-up baseball games we all brought our bat, ball, and glove. One time a kid brought a catcher’s mitt, and that was new and different. I didn’t know these specialty gloves existed. Another time a kid brought a first baseman’s mitt. I’d never seen one of those before. But I couldn’t recall a single instance of someone bringing a jockstrap to a pickup baseball game. Nobody ever said, “Hey guys. Wanna see my new jockstrap? With this jockstrap I can play right field like nobody’s ever played right field before!”
But getting back to my first organized baseball game, when I looked at all the other kids I noticed they all had a belt on, as did I, and perhaps I’d made a mistake in answering “no” to the jockstrap question. Sometimes sports had strange names for normal pieces of equipment. Maybe jockstrap was baseball’s code word for belt. Anyway, I didn’t dwell on the word jockstrap for more than a moment or two and quickly forgot about this strange and apparently useless piece of equipment.
I didn’t play a single inning of that first game. It didn’t bother me in the least. At the end of the game they gave each of us a ticket that was good for a hot dog and a beverage at the concession stand. I couldn’t have been happier in my life. “A free hot dog and a grape Nehi? There’s nuthin better in the world than that!” Little did I know; I still thought girls had cooties.
At the second game it was pretty much the same routine all over again. This time when the coach lined us up on the third base line he looked directly at me. “Is anyone here NOT wearing a jockstrap?” This time I knew the answer immediately even though he’d changed the form of the question. I’d been through my entire room, looked on all the shelves, pawed through all the drawers, and even looked under the bed. I knew the name of everything in my room and everything I was wearing. There wasn’t a single thing on me I couldn’t name, so I couldn’t possibly be wearing a jockstrap, whatever that was. My hand shot up confidently as I knew the answer this time, but it did not generate a positive response from the coach. The coach scowled. Once again I did not play a single inning, but I did get a free hot dog and a grape Nehi. Baseball was great!
At the concession stand after the game the other kids were making comments about how long and fat the wieners were, and everyone seemed to snicker but me. I had no clue what the joke was. I was just trying to wolf mine down before some mean kid could steal mine or knock it out of my hands. While I was at the concession stand my dad was having an agitated conversation with the coach. I wondered why.
When we were walking toward the car to go home Dad was clearly angry. I figured he was either mad at the coach, or was mad at me, but I had no idea why that might be. I couldn’t think of a single thing I’d done wrong.
“Tom! Why didn’t you tell me you needed a jockstrap?”
“I need a jockstrap?”
“Yes. League rules say you can’t play unless you’re wearing a jockstrap.”
“Coach asked me if I was wearing one, but he didn’t tell me I couldn’t play without one. What’s a jockstrap, Dad?”
Dad’s head snapped around to look and me, and he paused before answering.
“A jockstrap is a piece of underwear designed to protect your penis and balls.”
“Really? Never heard of it. Can’t see why you’d need one. Do you know where I can get one?”
“Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”
Dad cooled off as he realized the true nature of the problem.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I was impressed. My dad knew how to obtain this strange piece of baseball equipment I’d never seen or heard of. I just knew he had to be the smartest man on the planet.
I still like baseball.
I showed up for the first game with the full uniform on and came prepared with my bat and glove. The coach had the team line-up on the third base line and asked “Who has a jockstrap”? I looked down at the ground and thought through my inventory of gear: hat, shoes, socks, shirt, pants, underwear, belt, bat and glove, but no jockstrap. By the time I looked up every kid’s hand was up but mine, and the coach was looking at me. I shook my head “no” sorrowfully, as I was pretty sure I didn’t have one, even though I didn’t know what a jockstrap was.
I was surprised that all the other kids knew what this arcane piece of gear was, and to top that, they all had one. When I went to the local park for pick-up baseball games we all brought our bat, ball, and glove. One time a kid brought a catcher’s mitt, and that was new and different. I didn’t know these specialty gloves existed. Another time a kid brought a first baseman’s mitt. I’d never seen one of those before. But I couldn’t recall a single instance of someone bringing a jockstrap to a pickup baseball game. Nobody ever said, “Hey guys. Wanna see my new jockstrap? With this jockstrap I can play right field like nobody’s ever played right field before!”
But getting back to my first organized baseball game, when I looked at all the other kids I noticed they all had a belt on, as did I, and perhaps I’d made a mistake in answering “no” to the jockstrap question. Sometimes sports had strange names for normal pieces of equipment. Maybe jockstrap was baseball’s code word for belt. Anyway, I didn’t dwell on the word jockstrap for more than a moment or two and quickly forgot about this strange and apparently useless piece of equipment.
I didn’t play a single inning of that first game. It didn’t bother me in the least. At the end of the game they gave each of us a ticket that was good for a hot dog and a beverage at the concession stand. I couldn’t have been happier in my life. “A free hot dog and a grape Nehi? There’s nuthin better in the world than that!” Little did I know; I still thought girls had cooties.
At the second game it was pretty much the same routine all over again. This time when the coach lined us up on the third base line he looked directly at me. “Is anyone here NOT wearing a jockstrap?” This time I knew the answer immediately even though he’d changed the form of the question. I’d been through my entire room, looked on all the shelves, pawed through all the drawers, and even looked under the bed. I knew the name of everything in my room and everything I was wearing. There wasn’t a single thing on me I couldn’t name, so I couldn’t possibly be wearing a jockstrap, whatever that was. My hand shot up confidently as I knew the answer this time, but it did not generate a positive response from the coach. The coach scowled. Once again I did not play a single inning, but I did get a free hot dog and a grape Nehi. Baseball was great!
At the concession stand after the game the other kids were making comments about how long and fat the wieners were, and everyone seemed to snicker but me. I had no clue what the joke was. I was just trying to wolf mine down before some mean kid could steal mine or knock it out of my hands. While I was at the concession stand my dad was having an agitated conversation with the coach. I wondered why.
When we were walking toward the car to go home Dad was clearly angry. I figured he was either mad at the coach, or was mad at me, but I had no idea why that might be. I couldn’t think of a single thing I’d done wrong.
“Tom! Why didn’t you tell me you needed a jockstrap?”
“I need a jockstrap?”
“Yes. League rules say you can’t play unless you’re wearing a jockstrap.”
“Coach asked me if I was wearing one, but he didn’t tell me I couldn’t play without one. What’s a jockstrap, Dad?”
Dad’s head snapped around to look and me, and he paused before answering.
“A jockstrap is a piece of underwear designed to protect your penis and balls.”
“Really? Never heard of it. Can’t see why you’d need one. Do you know where I can get one?”
“Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”
Dad cooled off as he realized the true nature of the problem.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I was impressed. My dad knew how to obtain this strange piece of baseball equipment I’d never seen or heard of. I just knew he had to be the smartest man on the planet.
I still like baseball.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Art
September 02, 2010
Why do I remember this stuff so clearly?
This one comes from my kindergarten days. (1958?) Okay, it might have been first grade, but definitely no later than that. This is creative nonfiction going on here. Give me some space.
One day the teacher set up several painting easels back in the cloak room. It was about the size of a small kitchen. She’d cleared out all the coats and anything else that might get destroyed by errant paint. At the bottom of each easel were a series of large holes in a flat board that held bottles of paint – probably four or five colors. My class took turns painting throughout the day. Each kid got a chance with his own easel, all to himself, a blank sheet of paper, to paint anything he wanted.
She said that she would give extra points for originality, and that art was all about originality. I had a really great idea of what I was going to paint. It was unique and personal. It was special to me and I was confident that the teacher was going to be impressed with my painting. I was pretty sure that no one in the class knew how to do what I knew how to do. I really looked forward to my turn.
No doubt I worked really hard at it. I was fairly sure I had every line down perfectly. There were a couple foggy spots, but mostly it was an accurate depiction. I was really proud of the accuracy of the picture and knew it would impress the teacher.
When our time was up the teacher went around the perimeter of the cloak room to inspect each of our paintings. I was last in line. The teacher had glowing remarks about each painting she looked at, and my anticipation grew. I knew this was going to be great.
When she finally got to my easel she paused, and finally said,
“Tom, what is that?”
I was confused that she had to ask.
“It’s a map to Grandma and Grandpa Lindberg’s house. See, this box here is my house, and this line is the street. You take this street to the stop sign and turn right on Wolf road. This line here is Wolf road. You take Wolf road until . . .”
She cut me off.
“You drew a map?”
“Yeah! See this green box is the park beside the road, and the blue box inside the green box is the swimming pool inside the park. When you see that you know you are not lost.”
“But Tom, you were supposed to paint a picture!”
I heard a tone of exasperation in her voice and had been in trouble enough times before to know it was time to clam up. Arguing with authority figures usually resulted in more trouble. Even so, I was thinking to myself, “You said we could paint anything we wanted!”
She didn’t hear what I was thinking and pulled me over to look at the other kid’s pictures. One was a sunflower that was beautifully done, and I knew I didn’t know how to do that. The next was a colorful fish that was way beyond my stick figure ability. The third was a landscape with all kinds of details beyond my imagination. The teacher went on and on about how wonderful these other pictures were.
By the time we got back around to my easel again I’d decided to leave my personal mute button on. I’d already learned that it didn’t do any good to argue with adults. Adults were bigger than I was, and smarter than I was. I was six and she was ancient. She had power. I had nothing. There was no way to win. I could only make matters worse.
I loved my map. It hurt that she didn’t see how brilliant and beautiful it was. With my map anyone could start at my house and find their way to Grandma and Grandpa Lindberg’s house, or vice versa. No one else in the class had thought to paint a map. There were multiple flower paintings and multiple landscape paintings, but only one map. I wondered why she no longer valued originality, but there was no way I was going to say that out loud. I had thought the teacher was smart, but this was the first chink in her armor. I decided, “If only one kid in the entire class paints a map, and you can’t appreciate it, who is stupid?” I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t see that.
“Why didn’t you use more colors?”
I didn’t answer the inquisition. I thought to myself, “Because I only needed two colors. Why would I waste time cleaning the brush in water between colors I didn’t need?
“Why didn’t you paint a picture?
I thought to myself, “Because you said we could paint anything we wanted, and I wanted to paint a map. I wanted to impress you.”
I stonewalled through the remainder of the verbal beating. I refused to cry. I didn’t want her to know she’d hurt me, or could hurt me.
I took my map home and showed it to my mom.
Mom liked it, and gave me a big hug.
Love you Mom.
Why do I remember this stuff so clearly?
This one comes from my kindergarten days. (1958?) Okay, it might have been first grade, but definitely no later than that. This is creative nonfiction going on here. Give me some space.
One day the teacher set up several painting easels back in the cloak room. It was about the size of a small kitchen. She’d cleared out all the coats and anything else that might get destroyed by errant paint. At the bottom of each easel were a series of large holes in a flat board that held bottles of paint – probably four or five colors. My class took turns painting throughout the day. Each kid got a chance with his own easel, all to himself, a blank sheet of paper, to paint anything he wanted.
She said that she would give extra points for originality, and that art was all about originality. I had a really great idea of what I was going to paint. It was unique and personal. It was special to me and I was confident that the teacher was going to be impressed with my painting. I was pretty sure that no one in the class knew how to do what I knew how to do. I really looked forward to my turn.
No doubt I worked really hard at it. I was fairly sure I had every line down perfectly. There were a couple foggy spots, but mostly it was an accurate depiction. I was really proud of the accuracy of the picture and knew it would impress the teacher.
When our time was up the teacher went around the perimeter of the cloak room to inspect each of our paintings. I was last in line. The teacher had glowing remarks about each painting she looked at, and my anticipation grew. I knew this was going to be great.
When she finally got to my easel she paused, and finally said,
“Tom, what is that?”
I was confused that she had to ask.
“It’s a map to Grandma and Grandpa Lindberg’s house. See, this box here is my house, and this line is the street. You take this street to the stop sign and turn right on Wolf road. This line here is Wolf road. You take Wolf road until . . .”
She cut me off.
“You drew a map?”
“Yeah! See this green box is the park beside the road, and the blue box inside the green box is the swimming pool inside the park. When you see that you know you are not lost.”
“But Tom, you were supposed to paint a picture!”
I heard a tone of exasperation in her voice and had been in trouble enough times before to know it was time to clam up. Arguing with authority figures usually resulted in more trouble. Even so, I was thinking to myself, “You said we could paint anything we wanted!”
She didn’t hear what I was thinking and pulled me over to look at the other kid’s pictures. One was a sunflower that was beautifully done, and I knew I didn’t know how to do that. The next was a colorful fish that was way beyond my stick figure ability. The third was a landscape with all kinds of details beyond my imagination. The teacher went on and on about how wonderful these other pictures were.
By the time we got back around to my easel again I’d decided to leave my personal mute button on. I’d already learned that it didn’t do any good to argue with adults. Adults were bigger than I was, and smarter than I was. I was six and she was ancient. She had power. I had nothing. There was no way to win. I could only make matters worse.
I loved my map. It hurt that she didn’t see how brilliant and beautiful it was. With my map anyone could start at my house and find their way to Grandma and Grandpa Lindberg’s house, or vice versa. No one else in the class had thought to paint a map. There were multiple flower paintings and multiple landscape paintings, but only one map. I wondered why she no longer valued originality, but there was no way I was going to say that out loud. I had thought the teacher was smart, but this was the first chink in her armor. I decided, “If only one kid in the entire class paints a map, and you can’t appreciate it, who is stupid?” I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t see that.
“Why didn’t you use more colors?”
I didn’t answer the inquisition. I thought to myself, “Because I only needed two colors. Why would I waste time cleaning the brush in water between colors I didn’t need?
“Why didn’t you paint a picture?
I thought to myself, “Because you said we could paint anything we wanted, and I wanted to paint a map. I wanted to impress you.”
I stonewalled through the remainder of the verbal beating. I refused to cry. I didn’t want her to know she’d hurt me, or could hurt me.
I took my map home and showed it to my mom.
Mom liked it, and gave me a big hug.
Love you Mom.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Grammar
I got a flier the other day from one of those places that offer leisure learning courses. You know the type. You get them all the time from the county’s parks and recreation department – knitting, chess, computers, aerobics, etc. The course that caught my eye was Introduction to Writing Creative Nonfiction. The titled sounded exactly like what I’ve been doing in the last 100-something blog posts. I read the synopsis carefully and noticed they included the name of the course text: “Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer”.
Actually enrolling for the class would have taken effort. I haven’t got much effort left in me by the end of the day. Also, a class like that would have jeopardized my long-term commitment to sloth. I would have to go there and participate, and then come back. There might even be homework involved, which is both horror and inhumanity at the same time. It would also have taken money. It was less than $100, but I reminded myself that ten bucks is ten bucks, and a hundred is ten times that. It was much too much for me.
So, given that I am both cheap and lazy, I did make my way to the county library where I might be able to check out the book for free. The library had the book “Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer”, by Roy Peter Clark and another book titled “Keep it real: everything you need to know about researching and writing creative nonfiction” by Lee Gutkind. I was overcome with enthusiasm.
I checked the books out and proudly brought them home. I thought I was going to learn a few things about writing. The delusional moment lasted exactly that long; a mere moment. When I showed the books to Jean she said, “Why would you want to read that? I thought you were writing the blog for fun”. I blinked hard several times as I realized she was right/write/rite. (Grammatical humor intended, especially given the subject of this post) I didn’t have the will to subject myself to the kind of abuse these books contained.
I tested that concept by cracking one of the books open and reading a page. By the time I reached the bottom of the page I realized I had no idea what they were talking about. If they had covered thermodynamics I might have had a clue. Instead there were rules about participles that were dangling, and if you did such a thing you would be convicted as an idiot. I stand before you guilty as charged.
It took me back to my school days in English class where I studiously avoided studying English. They forced us to learn the parts of speech and how to diagram sentences. I did the bare minimum; less if I could get away with it. Begrudgingly, I’d learn what I had to, just enough to pass their tests, and hoped that I would never have to take another English class. For me it was torture. I got passed to the next grade, and then they tortured me with the same English grammar all over again the next year.
When my own kids reached the first grade I remember the teacher explaining that our kids knew hundreds of words, but could only spell a few. She said that when the kids were writing stories the teachers didn’t focus on spelling, and neither should we, because the kids could only spell a small fraction of their vocabulary, and that would limit their writing. And therein lies/lays (oh hell) my excuse.
I am invoking the first grade right/write/rite of bad spelling and I am extending that right as a privilege of old age and ignorance to include grammar, sentence structure, punctuation, and the proper construction of a paragraph or theme. If I only wrote what I knew how to write, it would be too limiting. I refuse to be constrained or held back by my own ignorance.
And so I am not going to worry about never starting a sentence with the word “And” or “But” or whatever the rule really is. Half of the grammar rules seem to have exceptions anyway. Writers are supposed to write about their pains and shames. Well, I am not in pain, and I am not going to let the grammar give me pain, and I am not going to be a-shamed if I screw it up regularly.
So the books I was so enthused about have been sitting on the kitchen counter now for two weeks gathering dust. They are headed back to the library tomorrow. Their/there/they’re secrets will remain secrets, and I’ve been pretty successful so far at pretending not to care. Instead I am pretending that I am an undiscovered writer, pretending I have an audience sometime in the distant future, but not pretending at all when I write for my own amusement, albeit badly at times.
Actually enrolling for the class would have taken effort. I haven’t got much effort left in me by the end of the day. Also, a class like that would have jeopardized my long-term commitment to sloth. I would have to go there and participate, and then come back. There might even be homework involved, which is both horror and inhumanity at the same time. It would also have taken money. It was less than $100, but I reminded myself that ten bucks is ten bucks, and a hundred is ten times that. It was much too much for me.
So, given that I am both cheap and lazy, I did make my way to the county library where I might be able to check out the book for free. The library had the book “Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer”, by Roy Peter Clark and another book titled “Keep it real: everything you need to know about researching and writing creative nonfiction” by Lee Gutkind. I was overcome with enthusiasm.
I checked the books out and proudly brought them home. I thought I was going to learn a few things about writing. The delusional moment lasted exactly that long; a mere moment. When I showed the books to Jean she said, “Why would you want to read that? I thought you were writing the blog for fun”. I blinked hard several times as I realized she was right/write/rite. (Grammatical humor intended, especially given the subject of this post) I didn’t have the will to subject myself to the kind of abuse these books contained.
I tested that concept by cracking one of the books open and reading a page. By the time I reached the bottom of the page I realized I had no idea what they were talking about. If they had covered thermodynamics I might have had a clue. Instead there were rules about participles that were dangling, and if you did such a thing you would be convicted as an idiot. I stand before you guilty as charged.
It took me back to my school days in English class where I studiously avoided studying English. They forced us to learn the parts of speech and how to diagram sentences. I did the bare minimum; less if I could get away with it. Begrudgingly, I’d learn what I had to, just enough to pass their tests, and hoped that I would never have to take another English class. For me it was torture. I got passed to the next grade, and then they tortured me with the same English grammar all over again the next year.
When my own kids reached the first grade I remember the teacher explaining that our kids knew hundreds of words, but could only spell a few. She said that when the kids were writing stories the teachers didn’t focus on spelling, and neither should we, because the kids could only spell a small fraction of their vocabulary, and that would limit their writing. And therein lies/lays (oh hell) my excuse.
I am invoking the first grade right/write/rite of bad spelling and I am extending that right as a privilege of old age and ignorance to include grammar, sentence structure, punctuation, and the proper construction of a paragraph or theme. If I only wrote what I knew how to write, it would be too limiting. I refuse to be constrained or held back by my own ignorance.
And so I am not going to worry about never starting a sentence with the word “And” or “But” or whatever the rule really is. Half of the grammar rules seem to have exceptions anyway. Writers are supposed to write about their pains and shames. Well, I am not in pain, and I am not going to let the grammar give me pain, and I am not going to be a-shamed if I screw it up regularly.
So the books I was so enthused about have been sitting on the kitchen counter now for two weeks gathering dust. They are headed back to the library tomorrow. Their/there/they’re secrets will remain secrets, and I’ve been pretty successful so far at pretending not to care. Instead I am pretending that I am an undiscovered writer, pretending I have an audience sometime in the distant future, but not pretending at all when I write for my own amusement, albeit badly at times.
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