Here’s Bill. Bill is an incessantly polite, upbeat, innocent, happy sophomore…an incessantly polite, upbeat, innocent, happy sophomore who just happens to be one hell of a fierce runner. Fierce, as in, damn the torpedoes, damn the pecking order, and damn you, too, because I’m taking your spot on the line. The kind of guy who you can’t help but root for. A pure athlete in love with school and in love with life.
Moments after the state meet ended, it didn’t appear to me that our previously undefeated team would wear that banner into the night. Our runners didn’t stack up quite as highly as we had expected, leaving the door open for a small handful of teams to rip away the title we had worked so hard for.
In this shot, taken minutes after he had finished, I had found Bill, in the midst of the chaos and confusion of the moment, and embraced him, congratulating him on a courageous race and a great season. A varsity runner all year, he had completed the odyssey of a cross country season without once questioning or subverting his coaches. Even though he and I both knew it probably wasn’t his best race, he was overwhelmingly happy. And, so was I. Happy not only for his success all season, but for how proud I was of him — and all the other guys — giving all they had in that one final race.
You can’t totally tell by the picture, but there was a lot going on at that moment. The runners were regrouping, teammates were coming over to congratulate them, parents were embracing their sons and shooting photos, coaches were scrambling to recreate the finish to calculate who might have won, our “blue army” was simultaneously spreading hugs and body paint. The season hung in the balance, yet I was able to find Bill and his moment of pure happiness in the midst of the chaos. Much of this year has been just that — chaos — and it’s only in these memorable moments, set slightly apart, yet still surrounded by the action, that things can really sink in. Miss the moment and the next one will be on you before you know it.
When I found Bill, I didn’t want someone to run over to our camp and say we were second, third, or even fourth. I didn’t want Bill to in any way think that his best, on that day, was anything less than what he deserved: a team victory. As unrealistic as this was, I suppose I didn’t want Bill to realize that sometimes your best efforts will still leave you short. I wanted that youthful innocence to remain. The notion that if you work hard enough for something, nothing can stop you. But, I sensed his genuine happiness while we talked, and suddenly, I guess I knew he’d be okay, win or lose.
For as much as I’m teaching this year, I’m learning an awful lot.
