Chapter One. The Tryouts
***
Man does not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
– Chief Seattle, 1852
***
There were signs everywhere. Signs on the front door, the back door, signs in the lunchroom, in the gym and on lockers, in the halls, posted to trees in the parking lots, homeroom, the library, the main office. Lavatories, too. Boys and girls both.
Signs all different.
IMPRESS THE OPPOSITE SEX
RUN LIKE A DEER.
STOP SMOKING.
MAKE NEW FRIENDS.
WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO LOSE?
LOSE WEIGHT.
WIN A VARSITY LETTER.
PLEASE YOUR PARENTS.
LOOK YEARS YOUNGER.
GO FAST.
Every sign pointed in one direction.
CROSS-COUNTRY TRYOUTS 5K.
JAMES PHIXX PARK. FRIDAY.
I know a couple of things about this sport, if I do say so myself. In terms of an athlete’s performance, I usually have a pretty good grip on where things are headed and what will happen. Something about the way they move, something in their eyes.
From the first time I saw him, no doubt about it, he has thrown things a little out whack. Because he always seems to be running at a level I didn’t anticipate.
Nobody did.
The name is Gnossos Probonopublicos, which is probably Greek to you. It’s a mouthful, sure. Most of the younger folks in Oysterville know me as Coach Pro. Adults I know around town and local sports fans just say “Pro.”
I guess the story starts first day of school here at Rayfield High. That’s traditionally when I announce tryouts for our cross-country team. Of course, to be competitive these days, you have to train all summer, but I like to throw the net out first thing every semester and see if I can catch any fresh fish. You never know what you can get done until you start trying.
This new kid came to my office. I heard a polite knock, maybe a quick rap, on the door, which began to open the slightest instant before I said, “Come in.” Couldn’t help noticing he’d jumped the gun a little, so I was probably expecting a sprinter.
He looked like a sprinter, sorta short and sorta stocky. His straight pale bangs hung long over his forehead, he had his hands plunged deep into his jeans’ pockets. Had his head down, like a scared puppy with his tail tucked tightly between his legs. I couldn’t see his eyes.
“Yes,” was the first word I ever said to the kid.
***
Most of all I wanted to play football. Wanted particularly to play middle linebacker, because that’s what the toughest guys always seem to play. Mom and I would watch the big games on television every weekend when the weather was too bad to do much outdoors. Mom loved defense the best. “Anybody can score points in this world,” she said. “But stopping the other guy from scoring, now that’s fun.” I figured marriage must have taught her that.
Everybody said I was too small, which really pissed me off. Worst part was, it was true. I weighed a hundred pounds after a big drink of water and stretched barely five feet high.
I am bigger now and more than a little quick on my feet. But I’ve lost the urge to merge with some 225-pound muscle-bound maniac with a five-yard headstart.
And by the time I grew tall enough to play basketball seriously, seemed I was years behind all my friends. Never saw my role in life as warming the bench.
Golf was out of the question.
In Oysterville, jocks are hot. Athletes, if they’re any good, can get away with murder in this town.. In fact, Johnny Cucchinelli did exactly that one year, the year The Cooch was All-State in two sports. If you are not rich, or a big brain who doesn’t care anyway, or a total thug who lies around stoned day, you better be an athlete. If you want to be anybody special at all. That’s just the way it is here. I’m not saying it’s right. A letterman’s jacket and a car, your life is about perfect.
So, one year, call me crazy, I decided to try running. To get into shape, I told anybody who asked, for soccer, which I couldn’t really work up much interest for. Least – so I thought – I wouldn’t have get a job after school.
***
“What does 5K mean?”
Honest to God, those were first words he said to me, which is real funny when you think about it, after all that’s happened since. I knew he was the rebellious type right off, ’cause he was wearing a t-shirt, TOBACCO CHEWERS AIN’T WORTH SPIT. In these parts, they hand out blue and pink tins of Copenhagen at the maternity ward.
Still couldn’t see his eyes.
“That’s five kilometers. Three-point-one miles.”
His head came up. Saw his eyes. His eyes widened.
“Sounds a long way.”
He didn’t have the look I was looking for.
“You can take all the time you need,” I told him. Wanted to let him know distance isn’t a boogeyman. That the game of cross-country isn’t about length but about brevity, how quickly you can complete the course. “This isn’t a race, these are tryouts. Just so you can see how you like the sport.”
“Thinkin’ maybe how I might like a shorter sport better.”
“The simple answer,” I suggested, “get it over with as soon as possible, right?”
The kid allowed himself a smile. More shy than sullen. I asked him why he wanted to run. He said he wanted to get in shape, maybe find something he could enjoy.
He wasn’t what you’d call talkative, not like he is today, and he seemed a little restless, like he was in a hurry to get somewhere else, anywhere else.
As he headed out the door, I called after him, “Boy, what’s your name?”
His head spun around in a blur. “My name is Brooks, Brooks Rocque.” He paused. You could see he was trying to hold back his temper. “And don’t ever call me boy again.” Leaving, the bright intensity in his eyes, pale blue and burning, that was it, the look.
Slammed the door behind him, too. Wouldn’t be the first time, not by a long shot. Tell you the truth, if you had asked me right then, I’d of told you I never expected to see him again.
***
I was at the park early. I could see the course lined out, a trail of white flour described a mile-long loop which disappeared and reappeared through the woods and across the fields. Never noticed how hilly the place was.
Coach Pro was already there with his cross-country team, a bunch of skinny guys in fancy warm-ups and special racing shoes looked like something left over from Star Wars. And big black wristwatches you could do your homework on. I was wearing the same red basketball jersey I habitually wore, Chicago Bulls number 23, baggy shorts and a pair of old cross-trainers, supposed to be good for a lot of sports but not really worth a damn at any. All my other shoes are hightops.
I read somewhere once, you can race a distance about three times your training, so I had put in a fast mile every day since the notice was posted. Three days. Figured I’d deal with the final “point-one” when I got there. If I got there.
Stood off to one side. Knew Coach Pro was watching me, that’s why I did the same loosening up exercises as all the studs, jogging, stretching, nothing too strenuous. So far I could keep up.
Then he called us all together. He made some lame joke about how all the kids who had come solely for the free plaid shirts should probably just spend their time skateboarding. Then he explained the course.
We were to start in the middle of the big pasture where old Jim Foxx had killed a couple dozen Native Americans while stealing their land. That’s how he came to be known as “Red.” Just kidding, getting nervous, thinking about those hills, I guess.
You run maybe fifty yards until you came to this stonewall, maybe three feet high, which funnels everybody through to a roadway about a single lane wide. Then you’re in among the trees, along the banks of a big creek, there’s this trail which ribbons its way up and down, up again, go through another stonewall, before the final dash to the finish.
Coach Pro kept the rules simple enough. Stay close to the white line and get back here as soon as you can.
Before I knew what was happening, I heard a gun go “BANG!” and everybody took off like a bat out of hell. For a moment there, thought I was going to get trampled.
Hey, wait for me.
Took off as fast as I could go. Dodging this way, zigging this way, zagging, just trying to get around the pack. Smashed my way through a couple kids running together, before I noticed they were girls.
Oops.
***
Never underestimate the power of a woman, I always say, especially a little girl with long legs, the oxygen uptake of Godzilla and a heart as big, bigger than most National parks. When I run the boys and girls together, everybody runs faster. Everybody.
In college we would always top off our long runs by passing the women’s dorms. I remember some ferocious sprints. Just the nature of a young healthy animal. We have a great tradition of distance running here in Oysterville and over the decades there’s been a few ladies on Rayfield’s varsity squad, I can tell you that. Other coaches look at me like I’m crazy, right up until one of my girls beats one of his boys in a dual. Of course, rather than have a girl on their teams, they drop us off the schedule.
Racing’s not who you are, but how fast you go. Every once in a while, almost accidental, I find myself being politically correct.
I start the kids off with a distance that is longer than anything else they’ll ever have to race the rest of the year. Everybody always tries to work up to something, so I got to wondering what would happen if you took a different approach, maybe lowered your standard. Achievement builds confidence, it’s simple. I ask something that will never be asked of them again and then make it impossible to fail. And it’s a new angle. Kids these days have heard it all by the time they get to me.
Always begin my little spiel with a really lame joke that invariably draws a great amount of laughter. I chalk it up to hysteria. Probably praying they don’t fart out loud.
This is not a race, I tell them. This is an adventure. Think of it as a very fast nature hike. You will have a good time. You can trust: I am a coach, I tell them. Puking is allowed.
Got to the park early, measured and marked the course myself. Basically flat. I like to keep it simple so nobody gets lost. I use a loop course because you can offer more support to the athletes, more advice, water, encouragement, porta-potties. And the fans, mostly mothers and fathers, get a better view. You don’t just coach the kids, you have to coach the parents. I put up speakers and blast inspirational music. Could be Chariots of Fire or Kurt Cobain, I don’t care. Just so long as it’s got a good beat and you can to it.
Insist the high school’s cheerleaders make an appearance at every meet, too.
We call ourselves The Hole In The Wall Gang because the key to success on this course is getting through that narrow opportunity between those rocks. A hard place. Starting out, you have to sprint to the head of the pack like it was the end of the race itself. there’s no other way. Kinda demonstrates the importance of a proper warmup. And then your best tactic is another burst of speed after getting through the wall. Get in front and stay there.
That’s asking a lot, I understand that. What we call good coaching, if you got the horses.
***
I jumped the wall.
There was nowhere else to go.
The hole in the stone wall was blocked solid and I could see the front runners starting to disappear into the distance, so I just went for it. Landed hard, fell to my knees, without even thinking I was up and chasing after them.
***
Jumping the wall?! Oh, yeah, there’s another way. Hadn’t really thought of that. The red number 23 bolted up out of a cloud of dust like Michael Jordan had decided to switch careers again and sprinted after the leaders. A natural born tactician, I chuckled to myself. Suspected the steeplechase might eventually be the Rocque kid’s best event.
My top guys came by about how I expected, the older, faster boys on front. Sissy Isaccson, our top girl, not far behind. Brooks showed up looking like a big pile of dog doodie, but he had managed to get ahead of the entire jayvee squad, which was running together as an expression of team solidarity.
Actually, I think they were all in equally bad shape after goofing off all summer. You are only fourteen years old once in this life. Thank God.
***
I picked up my pace when we came by the crowd at the starting line. Hope I didn’t look as bad as I felt. Pretty sure I fooled them.
Slowed down as soon as I got out of sight. About then I realized I hadn’t run this far for a long time. Maybe not forever. Decided I’d better take inventory. Dry throat, heaving chest, pounding heart. Check. Lungs sucking, stomach churning, sweat pouring. Right. Arms pumping, legs aching. Yeah, I’m running. Are we having fun yet? I started after the girl.
She almost broke my heart. She didn’t make catching her easy. Every time I came within striking distance, she would take off. I tried to focus on her back, pretend I had a lasso around her, pull it shorter. Every time she’d stretch the rope out longer and longer. Couldn’t let the rope break.
When we came around the loop the second time, all I could hear was everybody hollering. Yelling “Go, Sissy!! Run, Sissy, Run!!”
That made me mad.
***
Sissy is no slouch, but she wasn’t remotely running her best. Just a training run, after all, and she’s a veteran, smart enough not to make a race out of every practice. Sissy had steel ovaries, believe me. Brooks, red face screwed up with determination, cocked his head like he was listening to something. then he charged into the distance, all elbows and butt, getting smaller with every stride.
***
Couldn’t straight think. Kept running. Felt somebody poured concrete in shoes. Guys ahead of me. See four. Must try to catch them.
***
Buck Farris sailed into sight through the break in the wall, totally in control, powered the final fifty meters, breaking the tape unchallenged. He’s my top dog and I’m proud of him. Got the right stuff. Trained hard all summer long, road races and all-comers meet. This will be his year, he’s earned it.
Wasn’t prepared for what I saw next. Dirk and Benji, the best of the rest, were looking over their shoulders and there’s the Rocque kid. Geezus, what a piece of work. In the old days, before the popularity, before the big events, they used to say… and then there’s always one from the ranks.
Obviously startled, Dirk and Benji looked not unlike old Jim Foxx when the oysters ran out and his daughter married a member of the Clackamas tribe. Like deer in headlights.
Benji, God love him, found another gear somewhere. I suspect raw terror. But poor Dirk, he wasn’t the kind of guy who went looking for a fight. Certainly not with a 132-pound psycho coming hard with a full head of steam.
***
Went by one guy. Like he was road kill. Possum. Armadillo maybe. Finish line the starting line. Running. Running…out…of…time.
***
Out of his head, he was. Clearly. Must be the shoes.
Couldn’t catch Dirk, let’s give credit where due, a talented athlete in his own right. But the kid tried. I will always says that about Brooks Rocque. He tried. That he always did. He tried.
***
I puked.
Coach Pro, shit-eating grin, gave every member of the varsity a THE HOLE IN THE WALL GANG t-shirt. Every one got an extra-large; he said we had all run huge. On the back of the tee, WHO ARE THOSE GUYS, ANYWAY?
Still have that shirt.
Copyright 1996.