Contrary to what Aesop taught, slow and steady doesn’t necessarily result in victory. This is especially true in track and field, where sprinters are rarely caught napping in the midst of a race. I also know from personal experience, because I was a teen-aged tortoise. Nonetheless, I once “competed” on my high school track team as a half-miler.
“Don’t run in one place too long!” I could hear Coach Jameson yelling in my ear—sans Doppler effect since I was barely moving. Not that I wasn’t trying, but it so happens I have short legs. Same deal with everyone else on our squad, all of us descended from coal miners bred for working beneath low ceilings. Did you ever wonder why Big John never came out of that mine? Well, because he was too damn big.
That said, Ron Lindsey was fairly tall, with a lengthy stride, which made him an ideal fit for the high hurdles. Sadly, he had taken a nasty fall just prior to the State Invitational and was unable to compete. So Coach Jameson turned to low hurdler Robert Downard.
“Downard!” he shouted. “You’re gonna run the high hurdles today!”
“I don’t think I can do it,” Robert replied.
“What kind of attitude is that?” demanded the coach. “Let’s hear a positive attitude!”
“Okay. I’m POSITIVE I can’t run the high hurdles.”
I was equally positive I couldn’t compete in the half-mile, but what could I do? On day one of spring training I’d been issued an ill-fitting pair of spiked shoes and ordered to run sixty yards as fast as I could. After checking his stopwatch, Coach Jameson decided I must be a distance runner; i.e., a tortoise.
It happens that 880 yards isn’t that far—not in the mind of a competent runner. But to me it was a very long distance, and after it became evident that I was sorely lacking in stamina, Coach Jameson designated me “the rabbit.” What a rabbit does, he runs as fast as he can off the line in order to throw the competition off their pace. Sadly, by the first turn I had already been lapped and was pretty much out of breath.
I will give Coach Jameson this much: After it became clear no runner on our team was ever likely to win a race, he determined the least we could do was ALWAYS finish. And that is how we distinguished ourselves one sunny afternoon before a stunned crowd of four thousand spectators at the State Invitational.
The event was the mile relay, in which teams of four complete one lap each. Mercifully, I wasn’t one of those four that day, it having been determined that even 440 yards was a distance too far for my wee turtle legs. I’ve forgotten exactly who was on our relay team that day; all I remember is that Carbon High School finished last, and in a big way.
We started off slowly, gradually losing momentum with each hand-off, so much momentum that by the time our third runner came into the home stretch he saw something none of us had ever seen before—a yellow tape! His eyes grew wide, his chest swelled as he neared what he assumed to be the finish line, which in fact was only the end of our team’s third lap. Not far behind him and closing fast was the leading runner, about to complete his team’s fourth lap.
As our guy stretched to break the tape, officials lifted it up so that he could run underneath, whereupon he realized to his dismay that the race wasn’t yet over. Slowing to a walk, he handed the baton to his teammate with a disconsolate shrug.
What now? Coach Jameson had drilled it into us that win or lose, we ALWAYS finished the race, and so it happened that our last man embarked on a lonely solo anchor leg, at first to jeers—which gradually changed to cheers. Bravo! Bravissimo!
Nary a dry eye as our last runner loped across the finish line, proudly holding aloft his baton like an Olympic torch. His teammates rushed to congratulate and carry him from the field. It was our track team’s finest moment, although it hasn’t gone down in history, nor was it ever spoken of afterward until just now because, well, we really lost bigly that day.