I gripped the frisbee in my hand and threw it as hard as I could towards the cage. Across the green grass field it flew and landed far off the mark. In the background on this warm, dry, and sunny late spring day was the West Fargo High School track. Around the track lazily bounced some distance runners, teammates of mine from cross country; they were running backwards in what I later learned to be a team tradition for the last practice before leaving for state. I looked curiously, for track was such a foreign concept to someone that had sworn away their springs and summers to baseball for so many years.
They were on the track team, and I wasn't one of them. Turns out that within a year, I would be.
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Dear Journal:
Coach Boehm apparently saw my run at the conference meet, or saw the time from it or something. It's my junior year, and the conditions were pretty tough- mid 30s and breezy, with some snow flurries in the air. I tried to hang on to the second pack and got outkicked at the end for 4th place. I ran a new personal best of under 17 minutes for 5k! The guys have been talking to me about joining track. I know I'm all-conference for two years now in cross country, but man I love baseball. I don't want to give it up. But maybe I'm better at track?
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It's funny, looking back on it now, I don't remember the exact day I decided I wanted to do track, but it happened. The baseball team drove many of us out with their favoritism and incessant use of the 'chosen' ones in their teams. It's even more frustrating because those kids actually did win state baseball when they were seniors. Oh well, I'll give track a try. I guess I'll be running this winter instead of being on the swim team. Besides, being in track means I won't have any more morning practices like I had in swimming. I can't keep up with all my courses.
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"We have weightlifting in the morning tomorrow. The doors will be open at 5:30, and you can come as late as 5:45. If you're late, you have 100 pushups after school before practice."
"I understand how bad the flooding is, so I will allow you to go sandbagging and count that as weightlifting."
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Workout day. We were doing 600s. Track was officially going strong, but the track was still officially covered in snow. So, we ran about 2 miles for warm-up, and we found ourselves in this housing development in the middle of West Fargo. Come to think of it, I probably couldn't retrace my steps to that place anymore- it will remain just a memory.
But I remember that it was 600s. Coach had a loop that we would run. We would take off, round a corner, run a long straightaway, round a tight corner, and come back to where we started. For more than a minute, we wouldn't be able to see our coaches, but their watches were going, and when we got back, they would still be reading off our times. It was probably in the 40s, so decently warm, but the snow melt was now going strong. I remember on this one turn there was a big puddle of water that was totally unavoidable, as it took up the whole road. When we stepped in it, the water came above our ankles. God, that was cold. And yet, to this day I have vivid memories of it; I was stronger, faster, and for once- I was ALIVE.
Now, my students complain about getting dirty running outside.
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I bent over on my knees, sucking for air. The warm spring sunshine shone down on the track, a place where my sweat had hopped off my forehead, seeking shelter on the ground not more than 2 minutes previous. As always, I was drenched by my own perspiration, a trait my college coach would later call 'having a good AC system in my body'. I call it 'I'm a disgusting mess of water and salt, literally unable to take off my jersey now'. Coach came up to talk to me; in his hand was a stopwatch. Almost the entire race I had been following a guy named Francis Mendee.
Mendee, I remember him now. I raced him many times in high school. He went to Grand Forks Red River, and I went to West Fargo. He was a Rough Rider, and I was a Packer. His jersey was red; mine was white. His skin was dark black; mine was pasty white. He came from east of the Atlantic Ocean; I came from the west. He was shorter and skinnier; I was taller and had a fat a**. I don't recall ever beating him more than a few times, but I always enjoyed a good talk with him. I remember at state track our senior years he said he'd find work in the Bakken oil fields and join me on the track team at UND. He never did. I later saw him at UND, but he wasn't ever on the team. The house he lived in burned down during my senior year. Our track team, 70 miles away, took a clothing drive for him. I'll never forget that team meeting where our coaches broached the idea. Such heart for that kid.
I remember him. I followed that red jersey so many times. So many times those cornrows were a few seconds in front of me, but I could never close the gap. So many times that short-step, compact form was tantalizingly close, yet so unreachable. This whole 3200 meter race he was but 5 meters ahead of me, and I couldn't catch him. Coach repeatedly yelled at me to bridge the gap, but my bridge was burned- I was in the fabled 'no man's land'.
No man's land is a hell for some runners, and a heaven for others. You are too far away from the runner in front of you to feel pushed by them, but too far ahead of the next runner to feel pressure to stay ahead of them. Everything you do comes from within; all of your strength, motivation, and willpower are internal. I ran in no man's land most of that race, and just couldn't catch Francis Mendee. I was upset about it. I took 2nd place.
Coach showed me the watch. I didn't even see the 10 minutes. All I saw was 2 seconds. 10:02.
State qualifying was 10:05. I smiled.
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"Hey, Nate, all of us on the 4x8 shave our heads before the state meet. It's our team thing."
"I'm not really sure I want to shave my head"
"If you're running the 4x8, that's what you're gonna do"
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Coach handed me an extra hat, which I immediately threw on my head. I stared out the window of the Packer travel bus, embarrassed, lonely, afraid, and hurting. All of the other student-athletes went into the grocery store for snacks, and we were then going to the Bismarck Community Bowl to set up our team tent area and walk around the track, in preparation for the state meet starting tomorrow. I wasn't getting up, however. I couldn't. It just hurt too much.
See, not 5 hours before, I was sitting in the locker room....
"Alright Nate, you're up!"
I stepped forward, as J held the electric razor in his hands. It was plugged into the wall of the Packer Boy's Locker room #2, where all the track kids kept their stuff. The locker room was fitted with group showers and a bathroom stall that had a removed door, much in part due to years of vandalism and misuse. The air was always stagnant, smelling of wrestling clothes and axe body spray. It was a place of peace normally. I sat down on the scratched, worn, old brown bench.
"Yeah! Here we go!"
"Hey, you should shave down the middle of his head first, like an inverse mohawk!"
"Yeah, just do that so we can see it since he has long enough hair!"
This was high school, and I had hair past my ears. I mean, if all my hair is getting shaved off, yeah we can mess around a little.
"You guys sure about this?"
"Yeah! We'll get it done so we can get to the bus"
The bus for state left in like 20 minutes and we were frantically shaving heads in the locker room. West Fargo was big on tradition.
"Yrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"
*break*
"Yrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"
"Aw this is going to be sick!"
"Yrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"
"Hey look at this shit!"
"Yrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"
*break*
"Hey, it's McGruff!
We look in the mirror. I have a few rows of 1/4in hair right up the middle, to go with my shaggy side hair. Everybody laughs because it looks ridiculous; even I get a little chuckle out of it. They comment that I look like McGruff the crime dog.
*clink*
*zip*
"Let's go let's go!"
*running*
Before I knew what was happening, my teammates packed up all the stuff and sprinted out of the locker room to the bus.
I was shocked and stunned. I had a long, straight empty space of hair in the middle of my head, and it looked terrible. I was powerless. I got my senses straight and slowly picked up my bag with all of my joy, and trudged out into the hallway towards the door. I looked at the bus; everybody was on it. We had a strong track team that year, and our girls and boys state qualifiers took up most of the seats, with many people having to sit two-to-a-seat. I opened up the door and walked to the bus. A couple of the boys pushed down the window and yelled out "Hey McGruff" and laughed hysterically. I boarded the bus.
I had no hat. I had no hood. I had nothing to protect my head from the piercing glares of others. The boys in the back of the bus laughed, while the girls in the front looked at me with shock, pity, and some with apathy. Well, maybe nobody looked. I don't know, I felt like everybody was judging me somehow. I plowed slowly to the middle of the bus and took up a perch next to the window, where I then sat for the next three hours.
I had male teammates come and harass me during the bus ride, but I tried to ignore them. I had a female teammate try to stand up for me, but the joke (the MEME) was just too good. I was a perfect target because I had neither the strength nor the want to fight back. I just let it pour over me like a rock at the bottom of a waterfall. Well, except I was more of a soft sponge than a rock.
We got to Bismarck. The kids left the bus. Coach asked me what's wrong. I told him. He gave me a hat.
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"You WILL finish shaving his head TONIGHT or else you're not racing tomorrow. Do you understand?"
"Yes, coach"
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Track and Field is a sport seeped in hallowed tradition. It's one of the oldest sports known to mankind, and running is a natural human feature. Our track team had its traditions. Most years, whichever relay had the best opportunity to win state would get the suite in the hotel, as opposed to the normal 2 queen-bed rooms (4 people per room of course). This year, the men's 4x8 had a good shot at winning, and so they were in the suite. Being the new guy on the team, I had taken the relay spot of someone who had been on the 4x8 before. But for whatever reason, he was put in the suite, and I was in the regular rooms.
I bedded with a guy named Ransi Thomas. If memory serves right, he was a refugee. West Fargo had (has) a large refugee population. For me in high school, and most kids in my school, our understanding of refugees was that they were 1.) different colored, 2.) had their own area of the school because they didn't speak the best English, 3.) got into a lot of fights, and 4.) smelled bad. Looking back, I had bias and prejudice problems like 99% of the kids at the school. Many of us just didn't know how to be around groups of people vastly different from us. So, the intermingling was next-to-none.
I wish I could talk about the great conversations I had with Ransi, but I don't really remember much about him. I just remember that when our roommate list came out, my distance teammates made fun of me because I had to sleep with the kid that smelled bad. God, we were such idiots. I hate those memories.
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I saw J a few years later when we were both running in college. He said "Hey McGruff!" and laughed. I could've punched him in the face right there. But I didn't. Instead, every single day I try to show others that I care about them. Because nobody, nobody should have to deal with people like him. I loved my first year of track, and I've loved track ever since. And yet, I still can't even write this story without emotions coming back.
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This was my first year of track. A passion of mine that grew from the flat prairie of eastern North Dakota. A passion that won't die. I won't let it.
