Captain Traction

Fall 1987

It’s hard to get traction on gravel. The rocks are tiny and roll under your sneakers. When your legs go out

from under you, you realize that you’re not in control of gravity anymore--that in fact you never were--

and that is a humbling experience.

It was the third race of the season. I was in the corner of the block, my fingers tight on my wrist watch,

waiting for the gun. I shot out as normal, merging to the center. The merge typically happens on grass,

not gravel. This course was a bad idea on someone’s part.

Heading up the drive out of the parking lot, I started to shift and wobble. I wasn’t alone--the runners

closest to me bumped against my shoulders and hips. I was the one who hit the asphalt, though. I

landed on the pavement with my arms out in front of me, palms down, ready to push myself up. I

remember seeing a collage of different colored shoes flying and stomping in all directions and then one

large, yellow sneaker coming down on my arm, and my wrist cracking under the weight. The sound of

the crack reached my ears but not my brain, which was set on Run, run! I lifted myself and began to

pump my knees. A few seconds later those same knees buckled, and I rolled to the ground with sharp

pains shooting up my arm into my shoulder.

I don’t remember much about what happened next, only sitting on the concrete steps by the back door

of the locker rooms, with my arm wrapped in ice packs, waiting to be picked up and taken to the

emergency room. I was staring at a long crack in the cement slab thinking how my season was over. This

was supposed to be my year. I had practiced all summer--early mornings, the hottest parts of the day, in

the rain--knowing that the two top runners from last year’s team had graduated. I knew I could catch

the two seniors ahead of me and lead the team this year. I could be captain. After the first two races of

the season, I was well on my way.

Cross country is a lonely sport. If you’re pushing yourself, you usually break out alone after the first mile

and focus on runners ahead of you or try to distance yourself from those behind you. This usually

happens in the woods, so there are no bleachers full of parents and classmates screaming when you

surge ahead of your best pace at the mile splits. No one is calling out encouragement when you stop to

throw up the pizza rolls you ate for lunch, either.

After I broke my arm, I found that the sport is even lonelier when you’re watching the team run off

toward the trails, sitting in the baseball dugout with a stopwatch in your hand while Coach Washevski

grades papers. It always seemed to take forever for the team to come back from the distance run.

I couldn’t wait to run them through drills on the track when they returned. I would sit in the dugout and

organize the runners into squads based on their speed and experience. I would stop the freshman

squads between laps and hand out pointers on form and stride. I developed code words for the team to

use to communicate during races. After a week, Coach seemed to forget he even had a team to run. He

sat on the bench writing his lesson plans.

It was hard to watch Mitch Smith running in the top spot. He was arrogant anyway--especially once he

broke my best time and continued to shave off more seconds each race. I wasn’t supposed to run again

until the week before the district championships. I would have to accept that Mitch would be named

team captain, and of course I would never hear the end of it.

It was mainly this thought that made me come back early and run two races in my cast before districts. I

was a full minute behind the leaders and knew that was where I would end the season. Mitch placed

second in the district race. I started the race slow, still a bit wary of large packs of tangled feet. Once the

field stretched out, though, I started picking off runners quickly. As I moved up I brought along two of

our standout freshmen. We worked together the way we had running pack drills at practice; we took

turns slowing down in front of other runners and doing the slingshot past one another before picking up

the pace again. I ran third for our team and was eleventh overall with the two freshmen finishing right

behind me. We won the championship by over 20 points. Mitch held the trophy high on the traditional

victory around the track.

Sitting at the fall sports banquet a month later, we were the only team with a district championship. It

wasn’t normal for us to be in the same room with football players and not have our heads down

avoiding eye contact. That night we were all smiling and proud. I wasn’t thinking about broken arms,

barfed up pizza rolls, stopwatches, or victory laps. Coach Washevski congratulated the team and

presented our trophy to the principal. When he announced the team captain, I was stunned to hear him

say my name. As I walked across the shining cafeteria floor, my sneakers grabbed and squeaked with

every step. Coach said, “Don’t break your arm getting up here, now.” Everyone laughed a little, but I

was thinking, No . . . I’ve got traction now.

Jeffrey Williams