Tiny Little Running Shorts

By Bill Kenley

The cast of High School Runner is back! K1, K2, Coach V, Popeye and Slade, along with some new goofballs and doofus-faces, continue their running journeys in this collection of short stories based on Bill Kenley's hilarious and poignant coming-of-age novel.  Following Sherman Kindle through all four years

• Language: English
• Publisher: runnerd press
• Release date: Aug 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987937167

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TLRS_Green_and_Orange_ebook_cover.pngImage preview

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Tiny Little Running Shorts

By Bill Kenley

Copyright @ Bill Kenley 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

www.runnerdlibrary.com/runnerdpress

Published by runnerd press, a subsidiary of Runnerd LLC

Don Hahn, Publisher

Elizabeth Hahn, Publisher

Jennifer Crum, Abridged Development Service

Regina Rexrode, Point n’ Click Publishing, Layout

Gary Robinson, Logoglo, Cover Design

Manufactured in the United States of America.

EPUB ISBN 979-8-9879371-6-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher, excepting brief quotations used in connection with reviews.

The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.

Albert Camus

When we win it’s with small things,

and the triumph itself makes us small.

What is extraordinary and eternal

does not want to be bent by us.

This is how we grow: by being defeated, decisively, by constantly greater beings.

Ranier Maria Rilke

Man that sucked.

Every Runner Ever

Woz’s Last Race

Jay Swift was the fastest high school miler in the state with a 4:09 mile to his name. It was a matter of public record. Every week the big city newspaper would print the best efforts of the season in each of the sixteen standard track and field events including relays. Reggie Wozkowski, while it wasn’t a matter of public record, was quite possibly the slowest. He was exactly half a dozen minutes behind Swift with a PR of 10:09.

Swift was a lithe six-footer who must’ve weighed in at a hundred and fifty perfectly proportioned pounds. His talent was so profound that some said he might one day be the greatest high school runner ever. He looked like a Greek sculpture and had thick, dark hair that swooped down, Superman-like, in front of his blue eyes. Once, when he brushed it back with his perfect fingers just before a race, I heard a female teacher recruited as a timer whisper to another lady-timer, "That is perfection…"

Wozkowski was maybe a five-footer. He weighed about seventy-five pounds less than Swift and was bald except for some colorless strands that stuck to the top of his head when he sweated. He sweated a lot. He claimed it was a side effect of all the medication. He looked like an old-school vampire, one from the Nosferatu camp – ancient and brittle, the whites of his eyes a spooky, disconcerting yellow. The cause of his jaundiced eyes was liver problems, also a result of all the medicine. Once, when Reggie Wozkowski waddled past a girl after finishing a race, I heard her whisper loudly to another girl, "That is so sad…"

Swift ran for the illustrious Ridgeline Salukis. Woz was a lowly Pennsgap Snapper. You wouldn’t think a race involving the two of them, a late-season, dual-meet, after-school-special, would produce much in the way of memorable results. You’d be wrong.

Woz had a condition called achondroplasia. However, he wouldn’t tell you that when you asked him what his physical deal was, which was a question he welcomed. He avoided the scientific jargon and bluntly claimed he was a dwarf. Like Gimli, he would say in his high, nasally voice. Thorin Oakenshield. If you stared at him blankly, he’d then say, "Lord of the Rings. Don’t you read? What’s your problem, man?" He’d read all three books in the nearly half-million-word trilogy (plus The Hobbit) multiple times. Lots of bed time, he would explain with a shrug.

Although Woz’s most obvious issue was his achondroplasia, it was just one of his many syndromes and conditions. That was why he carried an aluminum briefcase everywhere he went.

I’m like the president, he said. He’s got a briefcase he takes everywhere too. His is to blow up Russia, if necessary. Mine’s for keeping myself from blowing up, when necessary. Woz’s briefcase and the implications of it were the reasons Coach wouldn’t let him run. Well, at least at first. Until he met Woz’s mother.

He could die at any second! shouted Coach. Woz’s briefcase was open wide before him. It was full of syringes and pill bottles with prescription labels wrapped around them.

So could you, said Woz’s mom calmly. So could any of us. He’s a senior. He’s always wanted to be in a sport but he’s never been well enough. This is his last chance.

You know what I mean… said Coach. He was pleading. Come on. Look at all this stuff. If he fell over and stopped breathing I wouldn’t know which of those needles to stick him with!

Yes, Coach, I know what you mean. But do you know what Brown versus Board of Education means?

No, said Coach. Not really.

Do you know what lawsuit means?

Coach knew what that meant. Woz was officially on the team.

For a while, Coach resented Woz because of his mother. However, by being the toughest, most disciplined athlete you ever met, Woz soon became an obvious favorite of his.

If you other guys would be more like Woz we’d be a heck of a lot better, he’d bark out as we did our drills on the football field. "Look at Woz. Do it that way!"

This was because Woz listened hard, did exactly what Coach said, and pushed it on every workout. His seriousness of purpose as he counted out his pushups in his high voice was infectious. His focus when doing coach’s prescribed cool-down to a T was contagious. His disease wasn’t, he sometimes had to assure his opponents as they stared at him, a mixture of fear and sadness on their faces. It’s a disorder not a virus. You can’t catch it, he’d say. It’s genetic bad luck.

One afternoon, Woz asked Coach if they could talk after practice. I watched, curious, from a distance. As Woz spoke, Coach stared down at him. His face was at first confused then slightly annoyed. Then he shrugged and nodded. Woz stuck out his very small hand and Coach stared down at it for a few beats before he reluctantly shook it.

I waited until Woz was gone then asked Coach what he’d said, if it was okay for me to know, of course.

Coach was thoughtful. He considered things. I don’t think he’d mind, he said quietly, his eyes off in the distance. He then shook his head. He’s something else…

So what did he say? I pressed.

Coach looked at me. He asked me not to use him as an example anymore. He smiled a sort of sad sort of admiring smile. He said he just wants to be one of the guys.

That entire season, Woz lugged his briefcase around without a word of complaint. About halfway through, a big thrower, an overbearing senior named Hank Warner, picked it up from where it sat in the aisle as he made his way off the bus. This thing must be forty pounds, he said. He began to carry it down the aisle.

What are you doing? asked Woz as he rose from his seat.

There was a hint of confusion and a tiny tightening of the mouth on Warner’s round, dark-bearded face that suggested anger. I’m gonna carry it for you. That okay?

It’s mine, Woz said firmly. I carry it.

Hank Warner shrugged his big thrower’s shoulders. Okay, he said. He put it back down with a clunk. You carry it then. The bus was silent. All eyes were on Woz.

Woz picked up his briefcase. Thanks anyway, he said. He tilted his head back and looked up into Hank’s eyes. Look, I’m not trying to be a dick. I just can’t let people treat me like I’m special.

You got it, buddy, Warner said in a tone that was more than a little patronizing. He was still mad at having his good deed rejected. He then patted Woz roughly on top of his nearly bald head. It was as if his hand momentarily had a volition of its own. Somebody on the bus said Damn… and the rest of us got silent. Warner quickly pulled his hand back as if he’d touched a hot stovetop. His eyes widened in surprise at what he’d just done.

I think we all expected Woz to go bonkers right then, for him to lash out with all that pent-up rage we felt must be in him, but he didn’t. It’s okay, he said in a quiet, tight voice. His yellow eyes twitched. You can touch me. I won’t break.

That was kind of a big moment for Woz as far as the way the rest of the team saw him, the sprinters and jumpers and throwers, those that didn’t see him busting it as hard as he could like us distance guys did every day. He’d faced Hank Warner, a big guy who had a reputation for being difficult, and made it through looking good. After that, he was just another guy on the team. Kind of.

At the start of the 1600 meter run that late spring day, Jay Swift was the third man out from the inside of the track. It’s the best starting position there is when you’re on an arc. Woz was in the worst starting position – the last man out on the arc, nearly off the track. He looked like an old, old man, possibly a demented escapee from a nursing home who’d nabbed a uniform and some spikes and slipped into the race in an attempt to relive a youthful moment.

At the gun, the varsity pack tucked in behind Swift, the jayvee guys fell back quickly, and Woz fell way, way, way back to last place.

Swift lapped Woz before he’d finished his first quarter (it was the earliest lapping I’d ever witnessed) and went on to run a seemingly effortless 4:16. It was impressive for sure, but it was when there was only a single, lonely runner left on the track that I realized something truly special might be underway.

Is Woz running under two thirty for his quarters? I asked Coach.

Coach checked his clipboard. I’ll be, he said quietly. Would you look at that… 2:28 and 2:29. He looked at the watch on his wrist. Right on for his third lap… 2:30 on the nose… I’ll be, he said again. He’s three seconds under. He glanced around the track. Where’s Hank?

At the shot-put, I replied. Duh. He’s a shot-putter.

Coach glanced towards the shot-put. Watch your smart mouth and go get him.

Why?

Just do it, he said. Tell him to meet me at the two-hundred mark.

Hank! I said just after the twelve-pound metal ball he’d just putted thumped down in the dirt, Woz might break ten! Coach wants you there with two-hundred left!

Warner picked up a dirty towel and rubbed his hands. He glared out across the track. Let’s do this Woz, he growled. Go tell the vaulters and the long jumpers, he told me. I’ll get the high jumpers.

You’ve got one more throw, said the official in his red jacket.

I scratch, said Hank. He glared at me. Run! Now!

As I sprinted toward the pits, I kept glancing over at Woz as he made his way down the backstretch. His legs looked like egg-beaters. He was so bow-legged there was a wobbly, spinning motion to his gait. The torquing in his mid-section due to the awkward tightness of his shoulders and hips was obvious, even a little painful to watch. Woz’s body, as it had his whole life, was fighting him. But he was fighting back.

There was a crowd waiting when I arrived at the 200 meter mark with six or seven other guys, all of us breathless from our sprint across the field. And it wasn’t just green and orange gathering there. There was some maroon and silver as well.

That kid’s gonna die, said Jay Swift. He dabbed his perfect forehead with a towel that hung around his perfect neck. He’d ambled over from the finish line and wasn’t even breathing hard from his effort anymore.

Coach glanced at Swift. His eyes narrowed and his voice went low. We’re all gonna die, Swift. Even you. It’s how you run the race that matters.

Swift’s eyes went wide. He thought he was a special boy. He wasn’t used to being talked to that way.

You gotta go now! yelled Hank as Woz wobbled past like a spinning top about to run out of spin. You gotta kick!

As Woz made his way into the last turn, his face a rictus of pain and determination, runners and coaches from both teams charged across the football field and gathered on the home stretch. Some fans hopped the chain-link fence to get closer to the action. Without any direction from anyone, a sort of floating, skipping, gauntlet formed – two long lines of screaming people leaning in, funneling Woz toward the finish line, urging him on. It felt like something out of The Lord of the Rings – a life-or-death trial.

Woz came out of the turn and started down the final straight. He’s at 9:15! blared the announcer’s voice above the track.

Come on, come on… said Jay Swift quietly from beside me as Woz waddled past. Then he started jogging and swinging his towel, first slowly then faster. Go man! Go!

He’s not going to make it, I said as I jogged along beside Swift. He’s going to fall over.

Swift swung his towel onto his shoulder and funneled his hands in front of his face. Don’t fall over! he shouted.

But as we moved down the track beside him, it was clear Woz’s equilibrium had gone a little haywire. He couldn’t stay in a lane. Each of his legs seemed to want to cross over the other and send him crashing down in a heap. It didn’t help that his eyes were squinted shut, his head tilted up towards the sky as he lurched from lane one to four and back to two, blindly stumbling onward.

Don’t help him! Nobody touches him! Hank yelled, his arms stretched out as he jogged beside Woz, forming a barrier. He does this himself.

9:50, 9:51, 9:52! the announcer’s metallic echoey voice resounded over the field.

Over the last ten meters, Woz’s head thrashed. His lips pulled back revealing purple gums. There was a streak of white foam on his cheek. His jaw muscle spasmed, and I feared his teeth might crack, his heart might explode. He’s gonna die, I said quietly.

When he fell across the finish line, his eyes blasted open wide. It seemed as if he was peering up into the eyes of God. His hands clawed at the air like he was either grabbing for the bottom of some cosmic rope ladder to Heaven or grasping for an immortal throat to strangle. He found neither and crashed down onto the track, skidded to a stop, then curled up like a dry, dead inchworm.

All was eerily still then. Silently, we stood staring down at his motionless body. An ecstatic booming from the speakers far overhead broke the silence. 9:58! 9:58! the announcer shouted. He did it! He did it!

The roar from all of us gathered around Woz at the finish line that day… It was more than a good-natured cheer. It was more than the polite, pitiful claps usually reserved for the last runner in any race. It was a triumphant howl. There was outrage in it. Joyful defiance. We had just witnessed Woz give genetic bad luck the middle finger. It was a glorious vision to behold.

Whenever I’m feeling like a victim, when I’m whining and thinking the world owes me something, I play it back and I remember… I remember a Ridgeline runner jumping up and down, looking at nobody in particular, his hands balled up into fists. He was quietly saying the word yes over and over. I remember a woman in the stands wiping her eyes and laughing. I remember the announcer going crazy like Woz had just set a world record. He did it! He did it! he kept shouting, his voice echoing out over the parked buses, over the roof of the high school, floating up into the empty sky.

I remember Hank Warner leaning down and picking up the small, crumpled body of Reggie Wozkowski from off the track. And I remember the sight of Reggie, so small in those big arms of Hank’s, and how my breathing stopped, my heart shuddered, at the realization that Woz was dead.

But then, why was Hank grinning?

Woz opened his yellow eyes as Hank lifted his seventy-some pounds up and onto his shoulders. He blinked and glanced around as if confused. Then, when he realized what was happening, a not-entirely-pleased look spread across his face. He glared down at Warner. It was the same glare he gave him that day on the bus, the same look he gave all of us at one time or another, the one that said just because I’m small, ugly and sick doesn’t mean you’re allowed to pity me.

Relax Reggie! shouted Coach, a huge grin on his face. He pointed at his stopwatch and gave him a thumbs up. Sub-ten! Enjoy it!

At that, a sheepish smile crept across Reggie Wozkowski’s pasty-white face.