Kids made fun of me because I was a slow learner, because I was hyperactive, because of a lot of things.
Running gave me confidence. – Steve Prefontaine
No running? What the hell kind of cross-country training is that? I’m going for a run.
Brooks headed out the door, the feeling of freedom and rebellion greater than ever.
All they have to do is tell him not to do something to ensure he’ll do exactly that.
Tell me to stop when I’ve just learned to go, when I’ve only just begun. No way, Jose.
Brooks took a left at the end of the driveway and headed away from the waterfront. He rarely ran this direction. To tell the truth, he didn’t like to run hills. Down wasn’t so bad, but up was a bitch.
Coach had said not to run and Brooks was far less likely to be spotted if he headed inland.
The higher up he ran, the bigger the houses, the longer the driveways, the greener the lawns. The greenest place in town was the Oysterville Country Club, eight-thousand yards from the pro tees, of the finest landscaping in the Pacific Northwest. Made the rest of the town look like a paved parking lot.
Brooks had never been to the OCC before. The only way a kid like him got onto the grounds was as a caddy or a busboy. You could make a lot of money, but you also had to kiss a lot of ass.
The golf course was cut into the side of the hills, so really it was the only flat area in that part of town. The grass was precisely manicured like an old lady’s face. It looked soft, spongy even. The perfect place to run, made all the more appealing by the high fence and the warning signs.
NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
He found himself on the 9th tee, headed away from the clubhouse. Felt like he was running barefoot on the bosoms of maidens. Of course, he didn’t have any idea what that might feel like. He was all too inexperienced about maiden bosoms. Sounded soft. Plush.
Prosecutors will be violated. Prostitutes will be violent.
Brooks was rolling along, thinking nonsense. This was heaven. High above the downtown, away from all the traffic, nothing but a bunch of boring trees and lawns cut close like thin shag carpeting. Too nice to be wasted on fat old men with nothing better to do than flog a little white ball until it was time to start drinking.
Floating. Fantasizing.
A golf cart came out of nowhere, appeared suddenly in front of him and he swerved without breaking stride.
“Get off the course,” a man hollered. “Get off the course!”
Yeah right. Heck, there wasn’t anybody else on the course. Probably all up at the 19th hole.
Brooks kept running. He heard a noise, a strange sound he couldn’t really place. Getting closer. Behind him. He turned and saw the man in the golf cart bearing down on him.
“Get off the course!”, the red-faced man hollered.
Whatever. Let’s see what you got.
Brooks picked up his pace, the cart dropped back.
Near the 16th hole, Brooks turned the dogleg and there in the middle of the fairway was the golf cart. Brooks now recognized the driver from the sports pages, Gene Sanders, the head greenskeeper. Sanders had been an aspiring pro, but developed an alarming allergy to certain grasses, like Bermuda and fescue which predominated on the PGA tour. Ended Sanders career right there. He tried to become a club pro, but he just didn’t have the social skills. They hadn’t said that in the paper, of course. Wouldn’t be civil.
“I’m not telling you again,” Sanders hollered. “No running on the golf course.” Then he lunged for Brooks.
Reminded Brooks of football, which might’ve been more fun if the opponents were all this slow and chubby. He juked a little, like a halfback he thought, then surged away.
Sanders climbed back into the cart and the chase was on.
Here I want you to close your eyes and imagine you are me, Brooks Rockit, chased by a murderous golf cart. There’s little time to enjoy the scenery but you are having the time of your life.
Done? Finished imagining??
The ending of episode two – don’t ask – goes like this. Brooks has disobeyed Coach Pro’s instructions. He has gone for a run on the first day of cross-country training and he injured himself eluding the greenskeeper at the Oysterville Country Club. The day after the golf cart chase, Brooks awakens with a sharp pain in his knee. He tries to go for an early morning three-mile jog, but the pain is too great.
Maybe it’s not too great, maybe Brooks ignores the pain and goes for a run anyway.
In the previous day’s lecture Coach Pro had told the kids to run with a pain that goes away after you are warmed up, but to stop running, if the pain increases in intensity as you run. That’s the pain that has real meaning, and more running will lead to further injury.
Brooks has to walk the last mile home. His leg hurts and he’s worried. The first big race is just a few days away.
Brooks spends the day in class worrying. What should he tell Coach? He decides not to mention the problem to anyone. Sissy Strasser, the star female runner, notices something is wrong, but Brooks denies it.
At practice, Brooks grits his teeth and tries to run through the pain. He thinks he is doing a good job of disguising the problem, but, hey, Coach is an expert. He calls the kid over.
“You’re favoring that right leg of yours,” Coach says. Brooks denies it.
Coach gets the team together for a slow tour of the school grounds. Just to watch the team run. He studies Brooks.
“Rockit, get over here!”
“Yes, Coach.”
“You’re hurt.”
“Nothing serious, Coach. I’ll be fine by Friday.”
“Let me look at that leg. Hmmm, there’s swelling around the patella. You been playing basketball?”
Brooks sees the question as an easy way out. He admits to a game of playground hoops.
“If you are going to be a runner, you have to focus. Basketball is not going to help you make the traveling squad. Go see Skinny and have him ice that knee down. And stay off your feet.”
“Aww, Coach.”
“Don’t ‘aww, Coach’ me. It’s too early in the season to be taking any chances. Now get outa here.”
Thursday, Coach announced the team he’d be taking to Sweethome for the first meet. All the usual suspects. Buck. Sissy. Never mentioned Brooks. Finally. “Brooks, I want you to come with us in a non-competitive capacity. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
The bus ride to Sweethome was fun, but Brooks couldn’t really enjoy himself. His leg was better, but Coach would not listen to his plea. The roster was set. Brooks was nothing more than a mascot. Might as well wear a costume.
Sweethome had a strong team, including a new kid from California, the Sacramento area, Doug Harper was his name, he’d finished in the top five at the state championships down there, so you know he was plenty good. Good enough to win it all in a little state like this.
Buck, the team leader, wasn’t worried but Coach Pro thought he might oughta be. Sweethome had been tough last year and with the new kid, anything could happen.
The weather was miserable. Rain pelted down driving the fall leaves from the trees. Puddles began to fill the paths, the ground became slick in spots. Good weather for ducks.
The starter stood under an umbrella and Brooks thought he might shoot a hole in it.
Sissy won the girls race by a mile. Not really, maybe two-hundred yards, but it might as well been a mile, so far ahead was she.
The boys’ race was tight from the word go. The Sweethome course was flat but twisty, hills weren’t a problem, but you couldn’t get much momentum built up, about the time you were really rolling, you’d have to wind your way through the trees, turn after turn after turn. Until it felt like you were doubling back on yourself.
The lead pack was full of big boys, miler types, so there was plenty of jostling, elbows flying, mud flying, water splashing. If the weather wasn’t so shitty, it would’ve been a great race to watch.
The California kid went right to the front and stayed there with Buck on his shoulder. The course wound through the trees two and a half times before finishing with a fifty-meter straightaway. Coach Pro jogged back and forth, calling encouragement to the runners, the Sweethome coach did the same.
The race was tight not two strides separating the first four runners. Then just two, the California Kid and Buck. A couple chase packs followed, evenly distributed between Oysterville and Sweethome.
Rain pelt down. Brooks was soaked to his skin and a little cold. He should’ve been out there, he should’ve been running.
“Go, Buck!,” he hollered. “Go, Oysterville.”
A tight race, so tight, when the California kid came around that final tree, he veered and brushed Buck up against it, by the time Buck could regain his stride, the C. K. was charging toward the finish line. The California Kid first, Buck second.
The only thing to do now was pray the rest of the team was staying together. The first five runners across the finish score for each school. Sweethome was ahead by one point.
Brooks looked up. The third finisher was from Oysterville, the fourth from Oysterville, but that was it. A big space separated these runners from the rest of the field. Brooks waited anxiously. Coach looked apprehensive.
Out of the woods, running together in a group came the rest of the Sweethome team. 5th place, 6th, 7th, then Oysterville, Oysterville, Oysterville. Team running too. Everything depended on the final scorer. Who would it be?
It should’ve been me.
It should’ve been Brooks. Brooks should’ve been out there. He’d have finished by now. They watched the trees, they watched the trees and waited, and then three runners came into sight, The green and gold of Oysterville flanked on both sides, by the red and black of Sweethome.
Brooks started screaming in excitement, then his screams began to fade in his throat as his teammate fell with a big splash. Sweethome, Sweethome, a Sweethome sweep.
Oysterville lost.
That never happened again.
Not for the next few years anyway.