You don’t want anybody walking into your house
and taking a Gatorade out of your refrigerator,
you’ve got to get in there and protect it. – Tyson Chandler
by Paul C. Maurer
Gatorade. Lemon-lime. That was my flavor. The color was pea-green. The container was a thirty-two ounce glass jar with a twist-off lid. Forty-five years ago, no matter the day, no matter the race, it was there at the end. There was no concern there were nine other children’s mouths to feed, clothes to clean or dishes to wash, it would be there at the finish. As I slumped in pain only steps beyond the end of the race, I heard her voice: “Good job, Paul! Way to go!” I ignored that her enthusiasm might have been a white lie, what was important was she was there. My biggest fan come thick or thin: in the middle of the pack or a brief glimpse of glory winning a JV race or medaling in a Varsity setting.
She was my mom.
I smiled a pained smile with hands on my knees. Exhausted, I raised my head and acknowledged her if I could, or if still in the throes of oxygen debt, I waited until I regained my bearings. Tentatively stepping forward, a sense of normalcy returned as air filled my starving lungs. I had done my best and even if no one else knew it, she did. I was driven, although undersized and borderline puny, I did what I could. I believe she knew that, accepted it, and encouraged me to push beyond what I thought possible. In that respect I did; never a world-beater but never beaten, I was simply her son.
She came from humble beginnings. The daughter of a proud Polish couple who spent the bulk of their life in the small burg of Manitowoc, Wisconsin. The eldest child of the owners of a small pub that serviced the inhabitants of a town that right then was the submarine building capital of the United States. Her parents ran the tavern that for decades quenched the needs of the hard-working folk working round the clock to provide the subterfuge needed in World War II. She was then a child, taking in the grit and grain of a community drawn to a cause greater than themselves.
And it formed a resolve and tenacity that never wavered.
A generation later, Cecilia Sophia Peaschek-Maurer was the mother of ten children. Never mind the daily strife, it was the highlight of a life well lived. Supporting, cajoling, and there to heed any call, it was more than remarkable. At any and all of her children’s events, an infant usually in tow, she was present. In the distance, in the forefront, her presence was omniscient. One simply knew she was there.
Years later, she began to run and compete on her own. A two-mile loop became more. Three. Then four. Local races were entered. Age group wins accumulated. The neighbors and townsfolk barely knew what to make of her. An elder woman running in colorful knee-high stockings when others her age simply viewed life from the porch. She had no interest in that type of living, in fact, that wasn’t living at all. She was there to wring all she could from life’s marrow.
And she was successful, even until her last breath, trying to teach the same to her children.
And that she did.
After regaining my post-race breath, sips of cold Gatorade provided a welcomed flush of rejuvenation. I accepted a race well run, the best on that particular day, perhaps better the next. The nourishment of the fluid diminished the pain and rewarded the effort of miles left behind. I never knew it at the time, but those moments of grace would become embedded in my soul; the seconds of life that burn into one’s memory like an eternal sear.
But I remember. The Gatorade. A glass jug. A yellow liquid. A coolness that salved a young man’s uneasiness of youth. The memory of the drink remains a parchment of time that although faded, has never been forgotten. Nor will the beautiful hand that provided it.
Mom, when I see you again, the Gatorade is on me.
