This morning I read the extra sports section of the Detroit Free Press and reminisced about my cross-country coach, who, in an effort to foster team spirit and unity during practice, calculated staggered starting times for his runners. If you were the slowest on the team, you got a head start based on some crazy formula he had worked on the night before. If you were the best runner on the team, you had to wait … and wait … and wait for your turn to go.
Coach said, “In theory, the whole team should finish this six-mile run simultaneously.” Then he encouraged us to encourage one another as our turn came to run. The varsity squad grew tired of cheering, “See you at the finish.” It was evident we had our work cut out for us.
A teammate by the name of Keith Bombard became my victim that day. I set my sights on him instead of Matt Dorflinger, a tall lanky geek who thought running meant shuffling your size twelve’s in the dirt, because—how do I explain it?—if Keith were playing poker, everyone at the table would know his hand. His form was all wrong, he lacked fluidity, with each uneven stride, with each pump of his arms, he’d wobble his head as if water seeped inside and needed draining … and then he’d do the unimaginable … he’d look back to see if anyone was catching him.
When it was his turn to start, I shouted, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” Those of us standing around couldn’t help but laugh. Coach wasn’t too pleased, but it gave me something to do on my journey. By the time he called my name, Keith Bombard was a speck on the horizon.
It wasn’t until the third mile that he finally heard me again. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” From that point forward, as I controlled my breathing and lengthened my stride, he’d glance back and I’d yell, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!”
By the fourth and fifth mile, I maintained a distance of one hundred feet behind him and started breaking his spirit. At increased intervals I’d say, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” He waited for me to pass him, but I wouldn’t. If he slowed down, I slowed down. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” If he went faster, I went faster. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!”
It wasn’t until that last mile, when I blew by him going up a hill, that he finally caved in and started walking. We didn’t say anything to each other in passing. Our roles had reversed. I became the speck on the horizon.
As I sat there having breakfast, I wondered whether he was doing the same, eating a bowl of cereal and reading the fine print of all those runners who participated in the Detroit Marathon. It doesn’t seem fair to run twenty-six miles and have your name reduced to such tiny font. I misplaced my reading glasses, so I had to squint real hard, and if somehow by chance I stumbled across the name “Keith Bombard,” I’d turn my head … and smile.
14 comments:
One thing first, only a lunatic would play any sport of any kind and only the most moon struck of any athlete would run for fun.
6 miles, 26.6 miles; madness, sheer madness, is the only reason I can think of anyone wanting to do that or any other type of endeavor that tortures the body to such immediate pain.
I think I'll have another cigarette and thank God again I never did any of THAT particular kind of drug.
Honestly though Jim if Bombard had been me I might have been behind you at the end but only by a legs length because you'd have been wearing my ankle and size 12 in your trailer hitch by mile three or so.
Peace
mark
If I had been Keith, I think my goal would have been reduced to trying to trip you as you sailed passed me.
It would be interesting to contact him and find out what he thinks of you now, or if he does at all. He didn't later go all Columbine on anyone did he?
you ran the race brillantly..Good job
I've read this before. I think it was here.
You doing an Ivan and recycling your stuff? :)
I didn't run cross country but my good friend did. It's a great, ancient event, sport at its simplist (not easy just uncomplicated). We're you on your highschool yearbook staff? You have so many great pictures from high school.
Ivan,
Nope. Not this one. And I didn't steal it either.
Patterns of Ink,
I was never on the yearbook staff; however, you are correct -- this is another yearbook photo (1979).
That's just funny.
Me? I'm going to copy Allen Sillitoe,but I'm going to call my running story "The Loneliness of the Long Distance Loafer."
...Be joining Mark (The Walking Man) I guess.
Woo-hoo
I'll leave running to you athletic types. The only running I did this week was to get a good seat at the theater--I saw The Kingdom. Nothing Like a good terrorist inspired movie to make me forget about the cowboy-puppet in office waving around WWIII like his it's his favorite six-shooter.
Writing is hard enough on me! Especially when drunk... Am I drunk Now? No I'd be passed out if so.
Peace out, JR.
I really hope Mr. Bombard has made a big success in life now. What would you do if he (that is if he's real) googled his name and tracked you down? Be good to have a few pints?
One day I will write about my high school memories, but I truly see it as the worst time of my life and that is saying something.
Hey Jim,
I love the picture! As for running, I do it but I hate it and will never beat anyone, I'm afraid unless they are being forcibly held down with heavy weights.
Having not been gifted in that department, I've always wished I could run like the wind. Good for you for being able to do it, but shame shame shame for taunting that poor guy. (*tee hee*)
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