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A thread titled “The Biggest Crowd You Ever Competed in Front Of” appeared a couple of months ago. Sydney, Moscow, Penn, Hayward Field, and LA Coliseum were bandied about like so many badges of honor with descriptions of jitters and stage fright. Those venues are certainly impressive, but with all due respect, for nerves and raw fear, they’re nothing compared to.....Junior High Field Day!
Spring 1976. A presidential campaign was underway. The Olympics were headed to Montreal. In Louisville, the dogwoods would soon be in bloom. Bold Forbes was moving steadily toward a win in the Kentucky Derby, an event that defines spring in the River City. I turned 14 and was in my second season on the varsity track team (we had 7th through 12 th grades under one roof.) For my birthday, I received my first subscription to Track and Field News (“Gee, thanks Mom and Dad.....but I had asked for Runner’s World. Look, this newspaper thing doesn’t even have a shoe review or training tips.”) Junior High Field Day (7th and 8th grades) would be coming up soon. The year before, I had finished fifth in the 440, losing only to four 8th graders who also ran track. Surely I would win any real running event held this year. Then, three things happened in parallel. I began whittling my PRs down to 5:32 and 2:35. A 7th grade pixie named Jenny Martin began bludgeoning hers down to 5:16 and 2:25, times that in mid-May would garner her second place honors in both events at the Kentucky High School Girls State Track Meet. And the Field Day Committee decided the day’s events would conclude with an 880 yard run. It became apparent that whittling and bludgeoning and the 880 would soon collide, with very unpleasant consequences for young DrJay.
There I was, a skinny, pimply-faced 8th grader faced with running 880 yards against Jenny in front of the entire junior high school. My friends, my teachers, Karen, Paulette, Valerie and other girls I had had crushes on... they would all be watching. Karen and company had probably long suspected I was a loser. Now their suspicions were about to be confirmed in a very public way. That Jenny would destroy me was a forgone conclusion. There was no way I could take 10 seconds off my PR. I imagined the race...Jenny would go out fast, in 34.5 and 70, with me hanging on for dear life and the crushees watching intently. It would feel fast, but I would have no choice. The pain would really hit between 550 and 660 and I would begin to lose contact. Things would get desperate in the final turn and I could see myself falling in the last 50 yards...falling...falling like Ike Low in Brian Glanville’s “The Olympian.” Defeated. Loser. Life as I knew it would be over. I might have to change schools. Or my family might have to move to another city under an assumed name.
I began to scheme...how could I get out of it? I could feign a knee injury. Or I could claim indifference:”The 880 has never really been my best event. The three-legged race is the race for me.” I could skip school, pretending illness. I could pay Jenny to throw the race. No, all of these would be so obvious. Bert Nelson would send one of his henchmen, probably Garry Hill, to sniff things out and report back. It would be in US Scene (predecessor to today’s Track Shorts):”Well, we was all alookin’ forward to the big race and then DrJay got skeert and...well...just plain chickened out!” Or in Status Quo:”Marty Liquori, hamstring. Houston McTear, hamstring. DrJay, chicken!” Suddenly I realized, like Quenton Cassidy, that I was going to have to go through with it! For weeks, whenever I thought of it, I’d get weak in my stomach. Not the total-body-adrenaline-induced-weakness one gets the last half-hour before a race, but that sick feeling one gets when he knows that an inevitable event in his life is going to be really bad. I despaired.
And then.....a miracle occurred. My guardian angel descended–in his pajamas, like Jimmy Stewart’s–and attended a meeting of the Field Day Committee. And in the Waggener Junior High School Field Day Mission Control Headquarters, a decision was made, and a decree was issued:”No members of the boys or girls track team may compete in the 880 yard run. It would not be fair to the other boys and girls.” Saved! I was saved! My knee suddenly felt fine. My interest in the three-legged race evaporated. That stomach bug never developed. My money remained safe in the bank. Karen, Paulette, and Valerie’s suspicions about would me would remain only suspicions. My father could keep his job and my family would not have to move. Jenny, the odd teacher, and my friends chided me occasionally about my escape, but I didn’t notice. Springtime never seemed so fine.
And the race? Craig Whittenberg, a good athlete on the junior high basketball team, went out in 65. The second lap was painful to watch. He came back in 90, but hung on for the win in 2:35. I watched from the stands, confident I could have squeezed out another couple of seconds against Craig, glad I didn’t have to face Jenny.
So if someday soon you’re toeing the starting line in Helsinki or Zurich or the smog of Beijing and you’ve had diarrhea five times in three hours and your heart’s about to jump out of your chest and your head’s exploding, just think to yourself.....”It could be worse.....I could be in DrJay’s Junior High Field Day nightmare.”
Happy New Year
Spring 1976. A presidential campaign was underway. The Olympics were headed to Montreal. In Louisville, the dogwoods would soon be in bloom. Bold Forbes was moving steadily toward a win in the Kentucky Derby, an event that defines spring in the River City. I turned 14 and was in my second season on the varsity track team (we had 7th through 12 th grades under one roof.) For my birthday, I received my first subscription to Track and Field News (“Gee, thanks Mom and Dad.....but I had asked for Runner’s World. Look, this newspaper thing doesn’t even have a shoe review or training tips.”) Junior High Field Day (7th and 8th grades) would be coming up soon. The year before, I had finished fifth in the 440, losing only to four 8th graders who also ran track. Surely I would win any real running event held this year. Then, three things happened in parallel. I began whittling my PRs down to 5:32 and 2:35. A 7th grade pixie named Jenny Martin began bludgeoning hers down to 5:16 and 2:25, times that in mid-May would garner her second place honors in both events at the Kentucky High School Girls State Track Meet. And the Field Day Committee decided the day’s events would conclude with an 880 yard run. It became apparent that whittling and bludgeoning and the 880 would soon collide, with very unpleasant consequences for young DrJay.
There I was, a skinny, pimply-faced 8th grader faced with running 880 yards against Jenny in front of the entire junior high school. My friends, my teachers, Karen, Paulette, Valerie and other girls I had had crushes on... they would all be watching. Karen and company had probably long suspected I was a loser. Now their suspicions were about to be confirmed in a very public way. That Jenny would destroy me was a forgone conclusion. There was no way I could take 10 seconds off my PR. I imagined the race...Jenny would go out fast, in 34.5 and 70, with me hanging on for dear life and the crushees watching intently. It would feel fast, but I would have no choice. The pain would really hit between 550 and 660 and I would begin to lose contact. Things would get desperate in the final turn and I could see myself falling in the last 50 yards...falling...falling like Ike Low in Brian Glanville’s “The Olympian.” Defeated. Loser. Life as I knew it would be over. I might have to change schools. Or my family might have to move to another city under an assumed name.
I began to scheme...how could I get out of it? I could feign a knee injury. Or I could claim indifference:”The 880 has never really been my best event. The three-legged race is the race for me.” I could skip school, pretending illness. I could pay Jenny to throw the race. No, all of these would be so obvious. Bert Nelson would send one of his henchmen, probably Garry Hill, to sniff things out and report back. It would be in US Scene (predecessor to today’s Track Shorts):”Well, we was all alookin’ forward to the big race and then DrJay got skeert and...well...just plain chickened out!” Or in Status Quo:”Marty Liquori, hamstring. Houston McTear, hamstring. DrJay, chicken!” Suddenly I realized, like Quenton Cassidy, that I was going to have to go through with it! For weeks, whenever I thought of it, I’d get weak in my stomach. Not the total-body-adrenaline-induced-weakness one gets the last half-hour before a race, but that sick feeling one gets when he knows that an inevitable event in his life is going to be really bad. I despaired.
And then.....a miracle occurred. My guardian angel descended–in his pajamas, like Jimmy Stewart’s–and attended a meeting of the Field Day Committee. And in the Waggener Junior High School Field Day Mission Control Headquarters, a decision was made, and a decree was issued:”No members of the boys or girls track team may compete in the 880 yard run. It would not be fair to the other boys and girls.” Saved! I was saved! My knee suddenly felt fine. My interest in the three-legged race evaporated. That stomach bug never developed. My money remained safe in the bank. Karen, Paulette, and Valerie’s suspicions about would me would remain only suspicions. My father could keep his job and my family would not have to move. Jenny, the odd teacher, and my friends chided me occasionally about my escape, but I didn’t notice. Springtime never seemed so fine.
And the race? Craig Whittenberg, a good athlete on the junior high basketball team, went out in 65. The second lap was painful to watch. He came back in 90, but hung on for the win in 2:35. I watched from the stands, confident I could have squeezed out another couple of seconds against Craig, glad I didn’t have to face Jenny.
So if someday soon you’re toeing the starting line in Helsinki or Zurich or the smog of Beijing and you’ve had diarrhea five times in three hours and your heart’s about to jump out of your chest and your head’s exploding, just think to yourself.....”It could be worse.....I could be in DrJay’s Junior High Field Day nightmare.”
Happy New Year
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