Little things
In high school, I ran track and cross-country. I excelled at track, but cross-country was not really my thing. I would try so hard to run up and front to keep up with the state girls, but I would find myself falling back by mile two, where Coach Bob would be yelling at me to stride out it’s only a sprint from here. A sprint? I did not know those lasted for a mile and a half. Anyways, I could feel myself glaring at his tall, thin, overly tanned statue on the side of the course. He pissed me off. When I would finish the race, he would come up to me and would make comments like, “Well, you could of got first.” Ya okay. I would get frustrated and walk over to my bag to take off my spikes. Every race I felt like I wanted to cry. Like I just was not good enough, but my dad would always tell me differently. He would tell me not to listen to Coach Bob what does he know. I knew that he was just trying to make me feel better, but sometimes I just did not want to hear it. I loved and hated my dad for these comments. He always knew how to make me feel good and bad without trying at all.
My dad has never missed a track or cross race. Its tradition for me to give him a hug and a kiss on his cheek before every race while handing him my class ring, which I suspected he would pray over while I was running. Not that I run good, just that I had fun, that is all he cared about. He is about 6’4” and I am his clone except for the fact that I am a girl. His eyes and hands are tired from working so hard on cars all the time. He is the best at repairs in the Midwest. It’s a fact. There are black grease stains running up and down his arms and a burn mark on his hand from when he set himself on fire at work. I always see him smiling, even when he is not happy. Anyways back to him being at all my meets. I remember senior year of high school most vividly. I got my first major injury at New Prairie when I twisted my ankle in a hole running on the last 800 stretch. I fell about two feet from my dad. Before my fall he was telling me that I was about to P.R. if I could just keep my pace, and right at that point I crashed to the ground. I felt my ankle swell, and I wanted to scream. My dad came rushing over, but before I he could touch me I screamed at him to stop and don’t touch me. (If a runner is touched during a race they are automatically disqualified.) He didn’t and I got up and finished. 17:24- a.k.a not a P.R. by any stretch of the imagination, and I could not stand. It was my senior year and I was in the running for N.I.C first team, which is a big deal up here. After that I was still determined to run, even though my dad told me I should just wait and come back in track. I did not care, I was finally one of the best at cross. N.I.C was two weeks away and I was limping and refused crutches. I went to practice every day and rode a bike or did the elliptical. I still was in good shape. Two weeks came to an end, and I could feel my ankle again, but this would be the first time that I would be running for two weeks. My dad tried to talk me out of it. He said that I am for sure going to go to state in track if I just relax. I was at the line. It was too late. Plus Coach said I would be fine. When the gun exploded so did the front pack. I went with them. I just had to get top five. That’s all. When I got to mile two, I was in tears, but still holding my fifth place. My dad jumped out in front of me to have my throbbing ankle saved. I just wanted to finish, so I ducted and kept going. My dad ran to the other side of the course and tackled my tired body on the ground and a group of girls who would of passed me at the straight away zoomed by. I screamed. I could not feel my body, and I hated my dad. He knew I was mad, and he picked me up and bridle carried me through the rest of the course while telling me, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” I cried and cried. I would not talk to him, when we got to the finish line he said, “You finished, I am so proud of you.” We went to Medpoint. I was still upset, but he made one of his infamous hangman games on his so called, “gizmo” and he made his message say, “Show them how it’s done in track Swoog.” I Love my papa for stopping me that day. If I would have kept going I would have broken my ankle and still not got first team. I didn’t break my ankle and I rested and trained for track, where I went to the state meet in both indoor and outdoor. Papa was there for both of them, holding my class ring and cheering me on.