RUNNER'S LOW

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!"