Before one last race, hanging on the shot of a pistol
Published on June 14, 2012 in Sports
by Ian Knapp (Staff Writer)
It was a scorching hot day at Choate and the NEPSTA track and field championships were coming to a close: the 300m intermediate hurdles, the 14th of 17 events. No hurdler I’ve met likes running the 300m IH. Demarco, AJ,and Jeff need serious prodding before stepping up, and Josh usually flat-out refuses. It’s a tiresome race. Yet as I prepared my starting blocks, I wasn’t sure how I felt. I suppose I was eager to finish the final 300m IH of my running career but also reluctant to cross that concluding finish line since this would be the end; I had and have no intentions of running in college.
I took position in lane 2, an inside lane, and the starting stagger meant that all the other runners were in front of me and to my right. In that beautiful, silent, rigid moment between the calls of “On your marks” and “Set,” when all the runners catch their bearings and settle into a ready stance, I glanced up at my competition.
Isaac Normensinu of Hotchkiss, a junior, was nearest. When I first started hurdling during my sophomore year, Isaac seemed untouchable; as a freshman he beat Pat Moriarty in the 300m IH, and Pat was damn fast. Yet it never hurts to dream big, as I realized when I crossed the finish line a fraction of a second before him during this season’s home meet against Hotchkiss and Deerfield. Or maybe it does. Thirty minutes after that race I pulled my hamstring while anchoring the 4x400m relay. I didn’t realize how serious the injury was until I tried sprinting out of blocks the Wednesday before Founders and nearly pulled it again. Then I had to watch from the sidelines as my team won the Founders League championship.
Jack Shumway of Deerfield occupied lane 4. Remember that race I was talking about where I beat Isaac? Jack came in first, in both that and the 110m high hurdles. I remember lying face down on a bed in the athletic trainer’s that Wednesday before Founders, icing my leg, devastated with the thought that I had finished my track and field career with double losses to him.
Grayson Warrick of Choate, an amiable adversary, owned lane 5. He looked deep in concentration for the imminent race (or as focused as you can look from the back). He had botched a first-place finish in the 110m HH by tripping over the final hurdle. Before the meet started, Grayson told me that he couldn’t lose, not here at Choate. I can understand the sentiment. Every moment seems to have more lasting consequences for me as graduation approaches, as if my legacy is being determined by my actions during the final month I spend on the Island, and I know that his screwed-up race hit him hard. But athletes can’t afford to sulk over past mistakes. He tripped, and I injured myself, but that didn’t matter here and now.
Peter Parker of Avon occupied the lane next to Grayson. Yes, that’s seriously his name. Then there’s Corey Hucker of Hotchkiss, the runner I always joked with about how much we both hated running the 300m IH. Demarco Palmer rounded out the field in lane 8. He was not seeded to score and I wonder how determined he really was. I don’t mean to suggest that he wasn’t going to try, but I was in his shoes last year; a bad race isn’t as significant when you have the chance to redeem yourself at the next meet. As a senior, I wouldn’t be afforded that luxury of second chances. I didn’t need a win, just a resolute race that I could look back on with pride after graduation, the last race of a four-year running career at Loomis Chaffee. I dropped my gaze from my fellow athletes to the rugged red track. Silence. I felt the starter raising his arms to the sky, the only motion in a frozen world. “Set!” I plateaued my back and leaned forward. My mind cleared of thoughts of legacy and memory. I was coiled, teetering on the shot of a pistol, ready to spring forward and race into the future.
Bang.
I took position in lane 2, an inside lane, and the starting stagger meant that all the other runners were in front of me and to my right. In that beautiful, silent, rigid moment between the calls of “On your marks” and “Set,” when all the runners catch their bearings and settle into a ready stance, I glanced up at my competition.
Isaac Normensinu of Hotchkiss, a junior, was nearest. When I first started hurdling during my sophomore year, Isaac seemed untouchable; as a freshman he beat Pat Moriarty in the 300m IH, and Pat was damn fast. Yet it never hurts to dream big, as I realized when I crossed the finish line a fraction of a second before him during this season’s home meet against Hotchkiss and Deerfield. Or maybe it does. Thirty minutes after that race I pulled my hamstring while anchoring the 4x400m relay. I didn’t realize how serious the injury was until I tried sprinting out of blocks the Wednesday before Founders and nearly pulled it again. Then I had to watch from the sidelines as my team won the Founders League championship.
Jack Shumway of Deerfield occupied lane 4. Remember that race I was talking about where I beat Isaac? Jack came in first, in both that and the 110m high hurdles. I remember lying face down on a bed in the athletic trainer’s that Wednesday before Founders, icing my leg, devastated with the thought that I had finished my track and field career with double losses to him.
Grayson Warrick of Choate, an amiable adversary, owned lane 5. He looked deep in concentration for the imminent race (or as focused as you can look from the back). He had botched a first-place finish in the 110m HH by tripping over the final hurdle. Before the meet started, Grayson told me that he couldn’t lose, not here at Choate. I can understand the sentiment. Every moment seems to have more lasting consequences for me as graduation approaches, as if my legacy is being determined by my actions during the final month I spend on the Island, and I know that his screwed-up race hit him hard. But athletes can’t afford to sulk over past mistakes. He tripped, and I injured myself, but that didn’t matter here and now.
Peter Parker of Avon occupied the lane next to Grayson. Yes, that’s seriously his name. Then there’s Corey Hucker of Hotchkiss, the runner I always joked with about how much we both hated running the 300m IH. Demarco Palmer rounded out the field in lane 8. He was not seeded to score and I wonder how determined he really was. I don’t mean to suggest that he wasn’t going to try, but I was in his shoes last year; a bad race isn’t as significant when you have the chance to redeem yourself at the next meet. As a senior, I wouldn’t be afforded that luxury of second chances. I didn’t need a win, just a resolute race that I could look back on with pride after graduation, the last race of a four-year running career at Loomis Chaffee. I dropped my gaze from my fellow athletes to the rugged red track. Silence. I felt the starter raising his arms to the sky, the only motion in a frozen world. “Set!” I plateaued my back and leaned forward. My mind cleared of thoughts of legacy and memory. I was coiled, teetering on the shot of a pistol, ready to spring forward and race into the future.
Bang.
