As it turned out, football was to be my path to distance running after all. The next time I tried to do it came after a fractured wrist in my first intra-squad scrimmage at Randolph-Macon College. Let it be known that it's never a good idea to try to stiffarm a guy nicknamed Brickhead.
With a cast on my right arm, I needed something else to do during contact drills in practice that August. The first few milers along the railroad tracks still left me with a lot of down time just watching the team go through the week's plays. So the next time out I turned off the tracks through Dogtown and headed west out James Avenue into the Virginia countryside.
Sprinting away from a big-bellied beagle bitch who gave chase from a rundown white frame house at the edge of town, I broke into the late afternoon sunshine under a big blue sky. Soon I found myself bobbing alongside cornfields and up-and-down the rolling hills of the Blue Ridge piedmont. A sweet breeze hinting of the coming Fall cooled my forehead and dried my drenched white practice jersey along with the week's worries: Exams in my death-defyingly boring Economics major; Learning new plays as a freshman tailback behind two amazing African-American upperclass runners; The contradiction of being drawn to friends and parties in a southern fraternity with Confederate sentiments; And, most importantly for my life to come, the gasping breaths that had put a stop to previous runs. I was cruising along acutely aware of only the world around me until a trio of crows swooped past, turning me back toward town.
Before I knew it, I was back across the tracks and jogging into practice to the sidelong glares of my wrung-out teammates, rejoining them just in time for the last water break before wind sprints. Little did they or I know that I had just found my path to enduring the hard road ahead.
The worst runs are when you desperately need it but just can't do it.
Such was the case on my first attempt to become a runner. It was the late summer of 1973 in Bound Brook, New Jersey, a factory town where tough guys played football. My brother Alan had been a star quarterback and leading tackler. My brother Bob had been an all-state fullback, doubling as outside linebacker. So I had gone out for the freshmen team the previous Fall only to break my elbow in the opening game against Bernardsville, a victim of my own teammate's spearing, the term for tackling by hitting with the helmet. Reasoning that I was too small to play football, I decided to go out for cross country during my sophomore year to stop my brothers from nagging me about not playing a "real" sport.
Donning Bob's old red and white track shorts and a black t-shirt, I set out toward the cross country course at Calco Field after lunch on a humid August afternoon. My skinny 14-year-old legs felt pretty light going away from home down Tea Street so I picked up the pace under the midday sun. By the other end of the Hanken Road loop I was dripping with sweat and huffing hard but determined to keep going. The summer was nearly over and I needed to start training for cross country tryouts at the end of the month.
After another hundred yards a stabbing pain gripped my right lower ribs, doubling me over in pain. If I couldn't do this I'd disappoint my brothers, not to mention my Dad who only knew I existed at sporting events or when he needed a tool fetched. So I fought through the stitch, hobbling another few football field lengths before throwing up into the goldenrod beside the blacktop, marking the wretched end to my cross country career.
That Fall found me smoking cigarettes and riding Louie Dellacave's old Kawasaki 75 up at the abandoned road in the Bridgewater woods across the Middlebrook. The BBHS Crusader football team stretched their two season winning streak to three more games before losing the rest. It wasn't long before I heard one of Alan's friends exclaim "our best quarterback isn't even on the team" as they glanced over at me tightening the minibike's governor to speed it up.
What I needed to hear: "Keep running, it gets easier every time!"
As it turned out, football was to be my path to distance running after all. The next time I tried to do it came after a fractured wrist in my first intra-squad scrimmage at Randolph-Macon College. Let it be known that it's never a good idea to try to stiffarm a guy nicknamed Brickhead. 
