Success in Failure (or One Runner's Story)

Last week I found out from friends on Facebook that Clemson University was discontinuing its men’s cross country and track programs at the end of this academic year. This has brought out such commentary as “Travesty!”. This is neither inappropriate nor over-stated. These programs are the definition of storied. Their history includes many conference titles, multiple Olympians, and even a few Olympic golds. But these are the least important of the teams’ accomplishments and contributions. The intrinsic meaning that has brought substance to so many beyond the programs shines much brighter than titles and medals. In the stories posted about this, I am struck not by the differences among them, but that many of the stories mirror my own. Like the posted experiences on Facebook of friends like Joe Hammond and Tim Stewart that are so familiar and similar to mine. Stories that center around not measuring up to these Clemson teams and yet gaining so much from that, gaining things that have lasted a life time. I started running to follow my father around, who was running before it was a trend, before it was a fever upon the nation’s landscape. I then started running for me. A consistent last place finisher in the 2-mile of every track meet I ran in for three years, I still loved each foot plant, each race. During my last two years of track, I blossomed and became competitive. More than that, I went from enjoying running to loving running. And even though my school had no cross country program, I wanted to run college cross country because there was nothing like training and competing on the roads and trails to me. As a high school senior, I contacted Clemson’s then head coach Sam Colson. Coach Colson was a former Olympian in the javelin and in my mind a bit of a dick (I believe time bore me out on this assessment). Still, I sent him my times and accomplishments and stated my desire to be a member of the Clemson Cross County program starting in the ’80-’81 academic year. He responded with an indiference which kept my hopes afloat. When I got to Clemson for my freshman year, I went to meet with Coach Colson. He said that I would not be able to practice with the team, but that I should run 80 miles a week in preparation for my tryout at Clemson’s first meet of the season. He then introduced me to Ian Davidson, former Clemson Athlete in Cross Country and Track and who was then an employee of the Clemson Athletic Department. This turned out to be one of my life’s most seminal moments (seminal likely doesn’t mean what you think, Count. You should google it 😊). I had heard of Ian from being a past winner of the Orangeburg Rose Festival 10K in my hometown. Heck he was a legend to me. But I did not know Ian until that point. Ian took me under his wing by running with me and introducing me to two other former teammates of his, Eddie Pennebaker and Dave “Geerman” Geer. It was to be the beginning of forming lifelong friendships and relationships. When I finally tried out for the team, I finished last behind Clemson and Georgia Tech while my mother watched, and my two youngest siblings Ginny and Greg waited bored in my dorm room. If there was another team involved, I have blocked that out to limit the number of people I lost to. My disappointment over such a resounding failure lasted the rest of that day and evening. But I had to get up the next morning and run with Eddie. This was no consolation prize; this was my routine and my joy. Eddie and his girlfriend (soon to be wife) the superlative Julie Pennebaker ne Brown lead me to a larger community outside the University. My circle expanded from Eddie, Julie, Ian, and Dave to include the likes of Tim Stewart, the famous Tommy “Pooh Bear” Williams, Steve (the Fig) Figueroa, Joe Hammond, Dr. Don LeTorre, Rolf Craven, Steve Hlis, Dr. Keith “Banjo Man” Allen. We formed the Outta Control Track Club or as “Pooh Bear” would say, “OTTC, OCCT, OTCC, daggumit, the Outta Control Track Club!” I also was blessed by having friends from the Cross Country team I was not good enough to be part of – Jim Haughy, Laurie Montgomery (the future and current Laurie Haughy), Hans Koeleman, Stijn Jaspers, Kerry Robinson, Tina Krebbs, Terry Goodenough, Bob (the grumpiest man in the world) Sams, the fearless Kenyan Julius Ogaro, Iain Campbell. Each of those people have affected their communities in deep and positive ways. Some did so with prematurely shortened life spans. Dr. Don Latorre who was one of my favorite people to run with, to hang with at Clemson very sadly passed a few years back. He was a professor of Mathematics at the University. Dr. Don brought the passion of mathematics to so many. I was never lucky enough to have him as a professor, but he once asked me if I had taken Linear Algebra. I told him I had and that it was a great subject that I really liked. He replied by saying if I had taken it under him that I would have LOVED the subject. I believe him. Stijn Jaspers, cross country great, Olympian with a ready smile and always a friendly word, passed in his sleep from an undiagnosed heart defect in his bed at Clemson. A stunning loss to all who knew him. Terry Goodenough died suddenly at the age of 52 in 2010. I will never forget the lanky image of him with short curly hair and wire framed glasses. I was trying to find him since social media had matured to the point that the remaking of lost connections was possible. He had made a great impression on me with his friendship and geniality when I was at Clemson in the early ‘80’s, and I felt this need to locate him. It was probably back in late 2010 the year he died that I found he had passed. I discovered from that internet search that he had lived up to and far beyond his potential. Google him, you will find him as amazing as all the others whose life he touched. The point being is that I can pick apart my memories to the smallest atoms on any of these people and state what a positive difference they made on a young man from Orangeburg. I can go on about the difference some of them still make. But my memories though special to me are unimportant to the larger scheme of things. What is important is that Clemson is bringing about the end of an era of touching people’s lives with a sport consisting of a relatively small number of athletes. What is important is that in a sport that promotes individual abilities, there is an inherent connection among them as a team, an inherent force that keeps them forming deep friendships over shared passions. What is important is in turning its back on the men’s Cross Country and Track programs there is a loss to much more than the athletes, there is a loss much more than the connections those athletes form outside the sport, there is a loss to the future. And I cry over that along with the ties that bind me to those that are part of my past and present and future.

The Wages of Sin - A Lenten Tale

This morning, I went out to sample the new breakfast served by Wendy's. En route I was breaking for the light at Wasatch and Platte when I saw what looked to be a young girl on the corner waiting to cross. When I pulled to a stop, I noticed that it was a man with long hair and he was sitting not standing. And he was sitting on the curb in shabby attire clutching a thin crocheted afghan about his shoulders. He appeared to be nodding, or shifting from time to time. And then before the light changed he stopped moving, perhaps settled in.

As I turned into the Wendy's parking lot, I saw paramedics leaving Wendy's to climb into their ambulance which faced the sad figure. They got in, belted up, and drove away. Not seeing him at all, or perhaps simply not caring. From my seat in Wendy's where I ate in relative comfort I could see him across Platte from me. Still, sitting, feet in the gutter, head hunched forward hiding his face and his beard. I worried that he could fall forward and into traffic. I worried because he was likely not asleep but either on drugs or alcohol or both. I worried if I should do anything. Should I go to the 7-eleven which was behind him and get him coffee and something to eat. Should I talk to him? Should I take him somewhere? If so, then where?

My worry was eased by a pair of twenty-somethings that stopped and sat by him, trying to talk to him, but then they just went their way, continuing to walk down Platte. The world passing by in the form of dogs being walked, people on bikes, the ever present traffic, and my eyes that kept going back to him and my thoughts along with my stares. This worry and growing concern did not hasten my meal or make it impossible to continue reading The Name of the Rose by Umberto Echo. No, I finished at my normal pace and even refilled my drink before leaving.

Still, the man was locked in my thoughts. I drove my car not home but over to the Marian House - the Catholic Charities building that fed and helped the all too many homeless in our city. Though the parking lot held several homeless men standing or sitting about, their possessions in hand/cart/backpack, the place was not open. I turned myself and my thoughts then to the police, the guardians of the peace.

The police station downtown was not far so I went there instead of calling. The officer working as attendant behind the thick bulletproof glass gave me a non-emergency number to call and ask for a wellness check. Which I did, in the process of which I gave a description of personage and condition. They promised to dispatch an ambulance and firetruck to check on the man. Which they did. I verified this on the way home as I pulled up to the same stop light but driving in the opposite direction. I witnessed uniformed men question and probe the homeless man. When the light turned green, I held back my tears and took it as tacit permission that I could go home.

I am an observer in both my work and my passion to writing and thought. Being an observer carries wages much as the sinner does. The wages of the observer for my part are often in the coinage of guilt. I may also be accumulating more than my share of sin because isn't doing the bear minimum or often nothing at all a sin of omission? What I did today was something at least, but it amounted to turning a problem over to someone else. So here I sit in confession to those who may read this. It is a confession without expectations of absolution. It is not made in a church. It is not made before a priest. I am not allowed to pass go, there is no $200 for me. This entry amounts to no more than public self-flagellation. And now I worry, isn't public self-flagellation a sin of pride?