Run to Win

By Xlibris US

Windrew Hayes is an All American runner, and a graduate of an elite liberal arts college. Despite his stellar achievements and wealthy upbringing, Windrew is feels unfulfilled and disrespected, a man in search of an identity and redemption. HIs quest takes him to a tough inner city school where he learns surprising things about himself, and his students. He also finds himself at odds with a sinister group of men willing to violently protect their investment in the young athletes they treat like manufactured goods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499021806

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Copyright © 2014 by Eric Johnson.

Library of Congress Control Number:                  2014909082

               ISBN:               Hardcover             978-1-4990-2182-0

                                        Softcover               978-1-4990-2183-7

                            eBook                    978-1-4990-2180-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/14/2014

Xlibris LLC

0-800-056-3182

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

618585

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Gwendolyn Holland Johnson,

Eric II, and Galen.

DISCLAIMER

While some of the schools, and places in this novel actually exist, many of the colleges and high schools exist only in the imagination of the author.

A little learning, indeed, may be a dangerous thing, but the want of learning is a calamity to any people.

Frederick Douglass

PROLOGUE

Of all the runners who are in the race, only one can win. So we run not just to be in the race, but we run to win.

Vince Lombardi

I    once dated a girl who spent her free time sitting in a darkened room staring into space. I would visit her and she’d just sit there, in her darkened dormitory room looking at nothing. She was a poet, and claimed that she was channeling her muse. She had long raven colored hair, and almond shaped eyes that pierced my soul, so I overlooked the whole darkened room thing. I shouldn’t have. It turned out that she was abusing anti depressant drugs and was bipolar. I remembered my Dad saying, I told you that girl was crazy. She’s gorgeous, but nutty as a fruit cake. As he said it he had this look on his face like How come couldn’t see that. Maybe you’re crazy too.

I was thinking about this girl as I sat staring down into the Letchworth Gorge. Maybe she wasn’t really crazy. Maybe she just had a lot on her mind. She once suffered from a bout of hysterical blindness that resulted in me leading her around campus like a Seeing Eye dog. I wasn’t really acting like a Seeing Eye dog. Not really. Well I guess I was, but what was I supposed to do. What does it really mean to be crazy. God she was so beautiful with her long dark hair and smooth skin the color of autumn sunshine, the jeans that rode low on her hips exposing her flat stomach. A girl that pretty couldn’t be insane, she was just another victim of life’s circumstances. One of those circumstances caused her to go blind—temporarily—and I had to lead her around, but circumstances can really mess you up, they can make you loose your footing, say stupid things, do stupid things, Circumstances can rob you of your vision. They can make you blindly stare into the valley, not seeing the sharp rocks and thick brush that line its sides, or the dark green river that flows at its base.

I was sitting there thinking about this girl, and what made her try to take her own life. What would it feel like to calmly end a life which was going badly? What would happen if I threw myself over the edge and bounced my body off of the sharp rocks and piercing branches that jutted out of the sides of the valley? Instead of being an athlete who choked in the face of pressure, I would be a tragic yet noble.

The problem is that I am not really that crazy. Except for heroes who throw themselves on top of live grenades to save their comrades, people who commit suicide are not generally thought of as noble or courageous.

The trouble with suicide is that you can’t come back from death. Suicide as a form of communication is horribly inefficient, which explains why people leave suicide notes. Unfortunately the note only makes sense to the person who wrote it, and that person is quite dead. Suicide does nothing to eliminate the ultimate source of your personal agony. Whatever happened, happened and there is no changing it. You can write a long suicide note to explain yourself, but your ultimate legacy will be that you screwed up, and then in a fit of tortured logic, killed yourself as if that would somehow resolve your failure. Suicide gets you out of your mess, but the mess lives on. So what really is the point? The only way to resolve the past is to do better with your next opportunity. My problem was that this was my next, and last opportunity.

So I sat there hugging my knees, staring down into the Great Letchworth Gorge, too sane for suicide and too depressed to head back to the team van and accept the pity of my teammates and family. Eventually I would move, but I had to prepare myself to answer, with humility, vague questions like Are you all right? and What Happened?

The answers are, No, I’m not all right. I have not been all right in years. In fact I cannot remember a time when I was all right. The answer to the second question, What happened? is: I got beat…" But that’s not enough for most people. People want the gory details, they want a story. So, here is the story, the sad, awful truth of how I lost and how I sought redemption.

CHAPTER 1

T he views at Letchworth are magnificent, especially in the fall when the gorge is coated in hues of orange, red and golden brown. According to the visitor’s guide that I swiped from the hotel, people come to ski the trails while enjoying the vistas of the Genesee River. In the spring and summer there were all sorts of festivals and the place is filled with hikers. But this day was different. On this mid-November morning no one had come to view the cascading falls of the Genesee or enjoy a romantic lunch on a scenic overlook. Today the parking lot was jammed with tour busses and vans emblazoned with the logos of every small college in the United States. On this day I was among the 200 athletes and 1,000 spectators gathered for the National Collegiate Athletic Association Cross Country Championships, or Nationals as we like to call the event.

All sports fans know about the NCAA Final Four which crowns the national basketball champion. Few realize that the NCAA hosts championships for every sport from fencing to water polo, and athletes in each of the NCAA’s three divisions covet the chance to compete for a national title.

Making it to Nationals is a career-long quest for most college athletes. That’s why fans storm the court when their team wins the Big Empty State Athletic Conference tournament and secures an automatic bid to the NCAA tournament. They are celebrating having made it to the Big Dance. Making it to Nationals validates your belief that your team is among the best.

There are, of course, people for whom simply making it is not enough. Making it to Nationals is good, but there are a few guys who really believe that they have a chance to win. My problem was that I was one of those guys. I didn’t start out wanting to win a National Championship. Circumstances just arranged themselves in such a way that winning this race became an obsession. I call it a quest because quest sounds less bizare than obsession, but I had based my entire life on winning this particular race so what would you call it? Whether it is a quest or an obsession, the hard truth is that in a field of 200 runners only one guy can win. Only one athlete can redeem the cost of having run hundreds of miles in practice and spent countless hours in the weight room. The costs are injury, pain, failed relationships, and the nagging realization that you are totally self-absorbed. The reality is that only one man can redeem the cost. This is a huge emotional risk but I had every intention of being that man.

Getting Ready to Run

I along with the other six St. James College Mules were scattered around our starting box tending to our pre-race rituals. We stretched, jogged in place, stared at the drab hills rising beyond the woods that framed the course. A short, slightly stooped man walked slowly to a spot not more than 15 meters in front of us. He clapped his meaty hands, each step showing the aftereffects of a long delayed hip operation.

He said nothing, but the rhythmic clapping of his hands propelled us toward him—clapping in unison as we came. Our colt-like muscularity contrasted our mentor’s stooped posture and penguin-like gait. We gathered around him, impatiently waiting for his last bit of instruction.

So, this guy is sitting in a saloon, the old man began, and a horse walks in and takes a stool. The bartender looks at the horse and says, so, why the long face?

Only Solomon Smyth laughed. The rest of us were too nervous and preoccupied to do anything other than smirk at Smyth before returning our attention to the old man.

He shook his balding head and said, You guys got no sense of humor. You need to loosen up. It’s only Nationals. What did you expect—a pep talk? I’m no Zen Master. I can’t give you a bunch of bull crap to guide you to the path of true enlightenment.

Zen would be cool coach. Maybe you could lead us in a meditation, interrupted Smyth. Smyth was tall and thin, not uncommon among distance runners. His curly black hair sprouted out in all directions surrounding his sparsely bearded face. He wore a beaded necklace around his neck and a small silver ring looped around one nostril. Smyth was nervous, which was why he was talking.

The old coach eyed Smyth as he would an insect, and said, I thought we talked about that damned nose ring.

"No, coach. We talked about earrings. You said that gay guys wear them in their right earlobe, and since I was obviously some kind of…"

Shut the hell up Smitty, came a voice from the huddle.

This startled the coach back to his pre race instructions, I do have a word of advice for all of you boys: Run smart. No need to rush, you got 5 miles to get it done. Gradually increase your pace as you go. At three miles people will start to fade. Then it will be your time. Roll them up. Pick them off one by one. And boys, try not to get lost.

With that the St. James Mules put their hands on top of their elf-like coach’s head and yelled in unison, Mules Kick!

It was mid-November and the leaves were past their peak. The park had the mildewed smell of impending death. The woods were cloaked in an ominous shroud of gray with pockets of mist rising through the branches. It was the setting for a gothic horror, nature’s blunt reminder that the season was changing from Fall to winter and was taking every living thing with it. Distance runners, being reclusive and morose, tend to like this kind of day and this kind of environment. Sunny days worry runners. Dark, damp, Fall days excite them.

Collegiate cross country races, especially championship races, are not at all like the 5K and 10K runs familiar to recreational runners. The first difference is very few recreational runners are out there racing. Most runners are content to jog along at a nice comfortable 8 or 9 minute a mile pace. The guys I run with average 5 minutes per mile or faster. The elite guys are down around 4 minutes and thirty seconds a mile. Throw in competitive tactics and strategy, and you have a race. College meets are all about racing.

The other big difference is that they keep score in college meets. There is always something at stake. No one is content with just finishing. No one is out there to have fun, and at the end of the day you do not get a T-shirt.

Cross country is also not to be confused with track, which—as one might expect—is run on a track. Nor is this a road race run on a road. Cross country courses are hilly, curvy, peppered with small creeks, large logs strewn in the middle of the trail, dips, pits, and all kinds of ground clutter that will twist your ankles and test your agility. That’s why they call it cross country. Cross country is a lot more physical than track. You enter the woods with your heart racing and your arms swinging to fend off men fighting for position. Guys behind you will pull at your shoulders while running up hill. Guys in front of you will spike your shins if you follow too close. If you fall in track, they might recall the race and start over. If you fall in cross country you just get stampeded.

About half way through the course is when the fear gets you. Fear invades your body with each breath, and makes your think about how your muscles burn and your chest feels like you are trying to breathe while submerged in a vat of syrup. Runners fear that they will not be able to deal with the pain. Pain leaves you with two options. You either fight through it or you give up. Giving up is easy. You panic as people start to pass you, and then you simply let them go. The fear is not that you will lose a race, but that you will lose heart.

Nothing protects a distance runner from pain, and the fear of it. No matter how many miles you run, no matter what kind of positive thoughts you use as brain candy, pain is an inevitable part of distance running. You train to deal with pain, but nothing eliminates it. There are no surprises in cross country. There are no trick plays to confuse your opponent, and no brilliant game plan will guarantee success. Every runner expects to hurt, but hopes—usually in vain—to feel good. Coach said—and I believe this is true—that in every athlete’s life there are only two maybe three races where they will be at the physiological best and feel good. But in every race, every single race, pain will be part of the deal.

Pre-Race Spectacle

Thirty teams of seven men each, and a dozen or so individual qualifiers, were lined up facing the starter. The spectators standing on each side of the start were dressed to ward off the cold. But this is Nationals and dozens of kids were shirtless and many were painted up like warriors. A herd of kids from Carnegie-Mellon rampaged across the field, roaring an unintelligible chant. A rival troupe from The College of New Jersey romped onto the field led by a flag wielding guy wearing a lion’s mane.

Many runners wore gloves and knit hats to retain heat, but not the Mules. Coach William Charles McGill was a purist. He believed in simplicity, and he thought that personal convenience was a sin. Coach Mac wanted to do everything naturally which to me meant doing it the hard way. McGill didn’t own a microwave oven claiming that it soured his food. He didn’t watch television and insisted on paying his few bills in person. McGill had a particular dislike for the shoe companies that fueled college athletics. Although St. James had a shoe sponsor, it took years of pressure from the college administration to convince him to actually order the gear. The sponsor provided the team with running gloves, knit hats, and long sleeve t-shirts, but none of the Mules would wear them during the race.

It’s cold. said McGill as we gathered in our hotel on the morning of the race, So what. Warm the Hell up. I won’t have you guys fiddling around with your hats, coats, and gloves during the race. It’s bad enough I have to look at Smyth futzing with that hair of his and his gal darned earrings looking like some kind of emaciated, albino Rastafarian.

Words to Worry By

I stared off into the distance as about twenty guys wearing purple long johns—just the bottoms—ran past with a huge NYU flag. They were followed in hot pursuit by a pack of dudes in lumberjack shirts and cowboy hats. Some guy in a cheerleaders outfit was turning cartwheels. What a freak show. I thought… Just then I heard the annoyingly familiar sound of McGill’s voice yelling my name.

Windy boy, Windrew Haynes!

I raised my head and looked in the direction of the rumpled old man in the pathetically insufficient windbreaker and knit hat.

Run to win, son. Ya heard me?"

McGill was clearly proud of his use of hip-hop syntax.

He sounded lame and ridiculous but several athletes within earshot laughed. He meant to ease the pressure of the moment, but to me the words Run to Win were more challenge than encouragement. I had spent four years trying to win this particular race. I finished third as a freshman and everyone talked about how I would dominate the sport for the next three years. But I suffered a hairline fracture early in my sophomore season and spent most of the year running in the pool. Last year I felt I had run hard but I had gotten out-kicked at the end. Caught from behind and kicked down like a dog. For months after the race the forums and message boards that serve as mass media for college athletics were filled with lengthy rants about how I didn’t have heart, how I was basically gutless. Gutless. No one ever said anything to my face but I knew that unless I did something special to make people forget, they would always remember how I got out-kicked at Nationals, how I was a nice runner who didn’t have heart, how I was soft, and Gutless.

The label of being soft really ticked me off. My mother wanted to make sure that her children defied all of the stereotypes common to African Americans. She made certain that I, and my sister Stephanie, were members of prestigious organizations like Jack and Jill. Every summer I was packed off to rich kid camps in New England and attended Philadelphia’s most prestigious private schools.

She hadn’t done it on purpose, but my privileged upbringing made me an amusing oddity to many of my relatives—most of whom were members in good standing with the real black community. I was different. My dad is decidedly African American but my mother is a blond-haired, blue eyed white woman. I look different. What’s worse, I speak with the round vowels of a patrician New England squire, and, thanks to Mom, I have always dressed in expensive preppy clothing. Black folks said that I talked proper and made pointed remarks about how I wasn’t really black.

I have never really understood what it meant to be really black. I once asked my father about it. He sat me down and told me about growing up hard and having to hustle to survive. The stories sounded like the black version of Charles Dickens Hard Times. I was nagged by the truth that I would never know what it meant to be really Black. The sad irony is that given my physical appearance, which—despite having a blond haired blue eyed mommy—is decidedly African American, I would also never know what it meant to be really white. I wasn’t really anything in a world where everyone claimed to be something.

The loss during my junior year made me feel like I was going through life wearing a sign that said I am a soft, semi-black, wannabe white boy. A man without a true racial identity, unless being soft is a race. This was to be my last cross country race as a collegian, my last chance to prove that I was not soft, and weak. I didn’t need a reminder from coach that this was my shot at redemption.

The Race

A thin cloud of vapor, caused by the hyperventilation of 200 runners, hovered over the starting line. It was two minutes before the start so guys were getting in their final run outs to raise their heart rates and get their legs ready for the real thing. A horn blast would call us to the line, and then the starter would pull the trigger on his fake shot gun and we’d be off.

It grew quiet along the starting line. Only the occasional cheer from the spectators broke the mood. I touched hands with my teammates on either side. The horn sounded calling us to our marks, and we bent low in our starting crouches. The gun blast sounded and we pushed off hard in response.

The start of a cross country race is a medieval infantry charge, minus the spears and sabers. The ground shook with the pounding of 400 feet, and the spectators erupted as we swarmed for position. The Mules hung back as was our custom, but I used my 6'2" body to drive a wedge through the crowd of swinging arms and elbows.

My Grandmother often worried aloud that the 150 pounds strung taught on my long frame was an indication of an eating disorder. The boy eats, she would say, but he don’t gain weight. You look at the elite runners from Africa and you probably figure that they are a bunch of weak, skinny guys. You’d be wrong. It takes an above average amount of speed, strength, and stamina to run a mile under 5 minutes. The men and women you see running the Olympic marathons are running 26 sub five-minute miles in a row. Don’t even get me started on elite milers. If football players are the iron men of athletics, then distance runners are made of titanium.

At 150 pounds I was a heavy weight in the world of distance