“You think you escape the force of the
universe? You do not.
Life is a circle; you will return from whence
you came…”
– Anonymous
The little boy was
six-years-old and lived on the corner of North Street and Chardon Road. North
Street ended at Chardon forming a ‘T.’ Across from the youngster’s faded yellow
two-story house was the school. It was a long, oblong brown brick structure
that housed grade levels from elementary through junior high.
Behind that school
was a playground with swings, Jungle Jim, wooden teeter-totters, open free-play
area and a quarter-mile circular track. One morning during recess, the boy
asked his teacher if he could run around that track. To him, it seemed huge – exotic,
really. Many times before he dared to ask Ms. Johnson for permission to take
this (to him) adventure, he wondered whether he could even get around it. She
agreed, saying she would keep watch. She watched; he ran. He didn’t know why,
but when done it felt kind of mystical. He never told anyone. To him, it was a
secret between him and his teacher.
Unbeknownst to
him, as the cinders crunched beneath his tiny feet and the fresh spring air
brushed against his cheeks, ovals like this would occupy significant parts of
his life. When those days came, each time he stepped onto a track, the little
boy whispered…remember the magic.
A different day…
The skies were
clear and crystalline blue. It was mid-morning when I arrived at the track.
There was a slight nip in the air, and higher than usual humidity due to recent
heavy rains in Tucson. It could not have been a better day for a track meet. It would be exciting for the participants
because it was a day when both high school and colleges were competing.
Had it not been
for Richard, I would not have shown up.
The high school
events began a little before ten. The college teams competed in the afternoon. It
was great fun to watch young girls and boys run, throw and jump. Proud parents
and friends sat in the stands shouting encouragement to the youngsters. What made this meet more
exciting for the high schoolers were the collegiate teams at this sanctioned
PAC 12 Conference meet. It would be the most significant event of their season,
maybe of their lives. These kids would go home telling stories of having been at
the same event with high caliber athletes from UCLA, BYU, Arizona other well-known
schools. For them? Nirvana – trust me.
It began in a classroom…
I taught
physiology in the fall last year after many years in the private sector. It was
a trying experience. In the early going, it was all I could do to show up and
get through the two back to back classes twice a week. Tuesday and Thursday
evenings, my seventy-one-year-old feet felt like they were one-hundred — and
yes, I will take a little cheese with that whine!
Connecting with
students has always been a priority for me. I suppose it’s the influence of my
mother, the friendliest and most curious person I ever knew. She could practically engage a telephone pole
in conversation. Before she was through, she would know the forest from which
it came, how long it had lived before being harvested, and whether it enjoyed supporting
electric wires. "Show an interest in someone, call them by their
name" she would say. "And God will bless you both. Names are powerful
symbols of recognition and respect.”
Richard shared a
four-table in the center of my classroom. A tall, gangly and quiet kid, he was
almost bashful. But there was a crisp
clarity to his eye, and he was an excellent student. His official name was
Andrew, but he wanted to be called Richard, and so it was.
During the
semester, I learned he was on the Pima Community College track team – a triple
jumper. I had also been a collegiate sprinter, a long and triple jumper. I
wouldn’t have to work very hard to find talking points with him.
Time, gravity, work, distractions…
This was the first
track meet I had attended since competing and hanging up my track shoes decades
earlier. In a millisecond, though, walking through the gate, my breathing unconsciously
increased and my heart beat a little faster. It’s funny how that works. I was
instantly transported to a world so familiar, so intimate, there are not
sufficient words to express the sensations.
Track meets are unlike
any other athletic event. There are distance runners, sprinters and hurdlers;
Javelin/discus throwers and shot putters; long, triple and high jumpers with
many events taking place simultaneously.
This day, there were probably a couple of hundred competitors needing to
be in the right place at the right time to participate in the event for which
they had trained. Running a successful track meet with so many moving parts, is
like an orchestral conductor or air traffic controller. When things work right,
it is a marvel to see. When they don’t? Everybody knows it!
What makes big outdoor
track meets special, is the carnival atmosphere that permeates everyone. Parents and friends filled with excitement
wait for their son or daughter to compete. Unlike basketball or football games
where crowds roar at special plays, track meets, due to simultaneous activities,
are filled with non-stop undercurrents of cheering.
I found Richard
and chatted briefly – just enough for him to see I had come and to wish him
good luck. This meet was a big deal because as a junior college athlete, he
didn't get the opportunity to compete against the kind of talent showcased on
this day. He didn’t need to be distracted by me. In the end, it was a hard day.
Maybe it was the
level of competition, maybe his nerves but he had three unsuccessful triple
jumps and didn’t qualify to move on. Catching up with him after the event, I commiserated
and thanked him for inviting me to come. I told him the day had brought
back many memories. I knew he was hurting, but he was stoic and returned the
thanks.
Getting in the
car, I closed my eyes for a few moments to reflect on the day and the memories
it had brought. In those quiet moments, I could almost feel the cinders crunching
under my feet for the first time. I remembered the years that I ran and jumped
and laughed and cried. Richard had given me the invitation for this day, but as
I started the engine, I whispered, “Thanks, Ms. Johnson.”
– ted
