by Chris Fabry
So many questions. But the woman seemed interested. “I don’t know. I guess I mean I’m not good at anything that counts.”
“Want to know something that counts?” Mrs. Brooks said. “You. And I can’t wait to see you in that new uniform tomorrow running your heart out.”
“You’ll be there?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
The next day, Hannah was up before the sun and had dressed in her uniform. She stood in front of the mirror and turned, studying the bright-blue and white colors. She put her hands over her head as if breaking the tape at the finish line. Would she finish? When she walked into the kitchen, her grandmother’s mouth dropped.
“Look at you, Hannah—such a pretty blue! You’re going to be the best-dressed at the game.”
“It’s a meet, not a game. And they don’t give medals for best-dressed, Grandma.”
Her grandmother chuckled and the twinkle in her eyes made it look like she was seeing something more than just Hannah standing there.
“Well, I don’t know a whole lot about races and such, but they ought to give a medal for best-dressed. Might make it more exciting. And you would win first place, no doubt. You look pretty as a picture.”
When the Harrisons pulled up outside, Hannah was out the door and down the steps. Her grandmother thanked them for giving Hannah a ride and they drove away.
Hannah checked about a hundred times for her inhaler and it was there, right where she had put it.
Coach Harrison looked in the rearview. “Nice day for a long run, eh, Hannah?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mrs. Harrison turned. “You feeling okay?”
Hannah nodded. Her asthma wasn’t a problem now, but Mrs. Harrison seemed to be asking something more.
“I think you’re going to win,” Will said. “First place.”
“I just don’t want to be last,” she said.
Will smiled and put his headphones on, his head bopping to his music.
Hannah watched the traffic, cars speeding up and slowing down at stoplights, and she remembered her bus rides when she ran for Franklin High. The memory made her wince.
She was a freshman and felt she didn’t belong. The coach and the other girls weren’t mean. They just didn’t notice her. Hannah was usually last to finish in practice, and when the coach gave tips and pointers for improvement, he never said anything to her. She felt invisible.
The best runner at Franklin High had been a senior, Jessica Simons. All the talk of Gina Mimms by Coach Harrison paled in comparison with the attention given Jessica at Franklin High. She was fit, pretty, popular, always smiled, always dressed nicely, and was headed to some school out west that had given her a scholarship. The team was afflicted with what Hannah termed Jessica envy, a malady with symptoms that included dressing like Jessica, parting their hair like hers, and edging closer to her. Hannah felt it too, but she was forced to observe from a distance.
At the last race of the season, Hannah decided to get noticed. When the gun sounded, she sprinted to the front and ran stride-for-stride with the leaders. It felt good to have runners behind her for a change. Four minutes into the race she actually thought she had a chance at a top-ten finish.
Her vision of staying in front was cut short when she reached the first hill. Runners passed her like she was standing still and she felt an ache in her lungs and legs. She topped the hill and as she entered a narrow stretch of path on the other side, she slipped on loose gravel and reached out to gain her balance. At that very moment, Jessica Simons was passing on Hannah’s left. Hannah fell hard, one leg tangling with Jessica’s. Both girls tumbled.
Hannah rolled to the right side of the path, gathered herself, and knelt. Runners passed between her and Jessica. Then a Franklin High runner stopped. Jessica wasn’t getting up. Her right leg was turned at an odd angle. She was clearly in a lot of pain.
Hannah dodged the next wave of runners and rushed to help.
“Get away from me!” Jessica shouted.
Hannah fell back, startled. She retreated to the top of the ridge to alert others to avoid a fallen runner. It seemed like a kind thing to do. When the stragglers passed and Jessica still lay in a heap, Hannah ran to find her coach.
The result of Jessica’s fall was a torn ligament. Surgery was scheduled for the following week. Doctors said she would regain full range of motion, but the rehab stretched for months. Every time Hannah saw Jessica on crutches in the hallway, she hid.
Hannah wondered if Franklin High would be in today’s race. And she wondered if Jessica had recovered or if her dreams had died. If so, that was Hannah’s fault.
They pulled into the parking lot and Coach Harrison and Will set up the canopy tent while Hannah stretched. Girls with backpacks talked, laughing nervously. Teams warmed up together, lunging, stretching, and some even prayed with arms draped around each other. Hannah noticed Coach Harrison talking with another coach but she couldn’t hear the conversation.
When it was almost time for the race, Coach Harrison approached her. “So, Hannah, what was the best advice your coach gave you last year?”
Hannah thought a moment. Her coach hadn’t given her advice individually, of course, but she picked something she’d heard him say to others.
“To pace myself and save some energy at the end?”
Coach Harrison looked relieved. “That’s exactly right. We’re going to keep that in mind when you run today. You’re going to do great.” He patted her shoulder. “Why don’t you head to the starting line?”
Hannah walked away and heard Mrs. Harrison say, “That’s all you got?”
She reached the starting line knowing Coach Harrison wasn’t any more confident in her than she was. Once there, she jumped and stretched. Parents and siblings on the sideline clapped and cheered. Hannah scanned the crowd for any sign of her grandmother, but she knew better. Her grandmother had to work, and with her schedule, she probably wouldn’t see Hannah run all year.
Then Hannah spotted Mrs. Brooks in the bleachers. She wore her Brookshire jersey and waved, giving Hannah a thumbs-up. It calmed Hannah’s heart to know the woman had kept her promise to be there.
Before the start, Hannah spotted Gina Mimms to her right. The girl looked strong, fierce, determined. She was focused, like a prizefighter ready to pounce on a weaker opponent.
When the gun sounded, Gina shot from the starting line. She sprinted ahead and Hannah lost her in the wave of runners between them.
Pace yourself, she told herself. But it was hard to hold back and not follow the crowd running at full tilt, especially with the level of cheering from the sideline. She glanced at Coach Harrison, who held up his stopwatch.
“It’s not how you start. It’s how you finish.”
She’d heard that from the coach at Franklin High. She tried to block it out and run.
The course was a winding, undulating path through pine trees. The air felt thick with the smell of freshly fallen needles. Hannah ran past a section of the course where people played Frisbee golf. She’d never played. Seemed like something rich kids would do.
Though she kept what she thought was a good pace, runners passed her easily. It was hard not to speed up and try to match their pace, but each time she did, she tired quickly. Teams ran together in a line and she heard them encouraging each other. Halfway through, her legs were on fire and breathing became more difficult. She wondered what running without asthma would feel like, and just that thought sent her in a downward spiral. Wanting something she couldn’t have always did that.
People cheered loudly at the finish line. Unfortunately, Hannah heard the sound through the trees because she still had half a mile to go.
Colorful flags showed the way and she tried to kick for the final push. By then, her tank was empty and several girls passed her in the last hundred yards.
Mrs. Harrison was the first to her, congratulating her on a great race. Will gave her a high five. “You were awesome.”
“You were
wrong,” Hannah said, gasping. “I didn’t finish first.”
“Yeah, but you weren’t last,” he said.
“That’s a great start to the year, Hannah,” Coach Harrison said. “You should be proud of that race.”
“What place did I get?”
“I wouldn’t focus on that as much as your time. From my notes, I think that was a personal record for you.”
“What place did I get?” she said again.
He lowered his voice. “I think you wound up thirty-fourth. Again, not bad for your first race of the year.”
How he said it, the catch in his voice and the way he glanced down at his clipboard, made her feel ashamed. His words said, “Great job,” but his face said something else.
Hannah watched teams gather and thought it was funny that such a solitary sport was done in a crowd.
As they loaded the car and drove away, Hannah spotted Gina Mimms with a medal around her neck, hugging her teammates and smiling for pictures.
Could she ever feel good about her performance if she didn’t make the top ten? Coach wanted her to compete against the clock, but clocks didn’t win medals. Only fast runners did.
CHAPTER 17
John Harrison had wrestled with what to say to Hannah before her first race. Amy had encouraged him to give Hannah a pep talk, something that came naturally before every basketball game he’d ever coached. The words flowed easily in those situations, but with Hannah, his well of encouragement was dry. When she crossed the finish line, Amy had asked what his plan was for her future, and her question haunted him.
Sundays were a day of rest for the Harrison family. They went to church and relaxed in the afternoon, sometimes watching sports or playing games. Will had gone to a friend’s house and Ethan said he and some friends were playing a pickup game in the Brookshire gym when John got an idea.
“Where you headed?” Amy said.
“Going to come up with a plan for my team like you suggested.” He hugged her and drove to Franklin General Hospital and took the elevator to the fourth floor. He found Thomas Hill lying in bed, staring into the distance at something he would never see, clutching the CD remote. John knocked on the open door.
“Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, it’s John Harrison.”
A look of recognition filled the man’s face. “Oh, it’s the maybe/maybe-not basketball coach,” he said with a smile. Even blind, there was such a light in the man’s eyes.
“Yeah, it’s looking more like maybe not,” John said. “You got time for a visit?”
“Let me check my calendar,” Thomas said. “Yeah, I guess I could squeeze you in.”
John sat and explained his coaching frustration. “I watched from the sidelines as every runner finished. And I thought, I need to do something different. I need a plan for my team but I don’t have one. I was wondering if you could coach me so I can be a better coach.”
Thomas thought a moment and John saw a smile on his face. It looked like he was reliving his running days. “First step in becoming a good coach is understanding what you don’t know. It’s humility, really. So I commend you for even asking the question.”
“Well, it’s taken me a while to get here, but I’m ready to learn.” He clicked his pen and Thomas turned his head at the sound.
“Best coach I ever had didn’t know a whole lot about the sport. He was kind of tubby, actually. He only had one thing he could give.”
“What was that?”
“He believed in me. Believed I could run. See, I can give you ideas for your team, ways to train, techniques to make your runners faster and help them progress. But first you have to believe. You have to see what’s possible and then give them your vision. Understand?”
“I’ll admit my vision for what we can accomplish is pretty low.”
“Having a coach who believes is simply gold. Think of it in basketball terms. You go up for a three-pointer toward the end of the game. Do you want a coach saying, ‘No, pass it,’ or do you want a coach saying, ‘I know you can make it’? For a runner, when you hit the wall—and in every race you will hit a wall and you’ll think you can’t run another step—you reach out and grab on to someone else’s hope. Someone else’s belief. That can propel you in ways you’d never imagine. That’s the kind of hope you need to have and give your team.”
“I’m glad you had that kind of coach, Thomas.”
“You know what? I believe in you, John Harrison. Just you asking these questions means you can be that kind of coach.”
Thomas told John how he would approach the next week in practice, the drills and incremental training that would build endurance. John furiously took notes, trying to keep up, and when Thomas began to talk about threshold speed, John stopped him and asked for an explanation.
“So your threshold speed is the fastest you can run at a consistent pace. Anything beyond that becomes anaerobic, which you save for your kick at the end.”
John had his head down in his notes and barely noticed a nurse arrive to take Thomas’s vital signs. When she was finished, she said, “Okay, Mr. Hill. I got what I needed. Can I get you anything?”
“I’m good now. Thank you, Rose.”
“All right, I’ll check on you later.”
There was an easy communication between the two and John used the pause in the conversation to finish a couple of notes. When Rose left, Thomas turned his head and picked up where he had stopped.
“Interval training is also good. Run one minute fast, then one minute slow. Then increase to two minutes fast, one slow. Three fast . . . you get the idea.”
“Oh, this is good,” John said, drinking in the information.
When Thomas spoke, he waved the CD remote like a conductor waving a baton. “It should go without saying that them eating healthy and getting good sleep is crucial for your team.”
John felt bad that he hadn’t told Thomas the whole truth about his team. Now seemed like a good time. “Well, I only have one runner and she’s got asthma, so I have to figure out—”
Thomas interrupted him with a wave of laughter. “Wait a minute, hold up. You lost your ball team. You changed sports. And you still got no team. Well, that’s sad, even for me.” He cackled to himself.
John took the ribbing in stride. “You see why I’m so frustrated.”
“Yeah, actually I do.”
The passion rose in John. “This year I had the players, I had the schedule. I mean, this was going to be our year.” He stopped, catching himself as the tension rose. He wasn’t here to talk about his shattered dreams. They’d simply come tumbling out. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to dump on you.”
Thomas quieted and became serious. “Well, look. I’m sure you’ve thought about leaving town, too.”
“I don’t know where I’d go,” John said.
This man who was broken and secluded had entered into John’s pain. It wasn’t fair to burden him, but somehow Thomas seemed ready. And with every blip from the heart monitor, it seemed this friendship drew closer. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head.
“John, if I asked you who you are, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?”
He thought a moment. “I’m a basketball coach.”
“And if that’s stripped away?”
“Well, I’m also a history teacher.”
“Okay,” Thomas said. “We take that away, who are you?”
There was something about Thomas and how he spoke that let John put down his defenses. “Well, I’m a husband, I’m a father . . .”
“And God forbid that should ever change, but if it does, who are you?”
That question unsettled him. Like some of his arguments with Amy, Thomas had touched a nerve. The third rail of his heart. He’d come for coaching help. Suddenly the spotlight had turned to his own life.
“I don’t understand this game.”
“It’s not a game, man,” Thomas said. “Who are you?”
John uncrossed his l
egs and sat forward. “I’m a white American male.”
Thomas threw back his head and laughed. “Yeah, that’s for sure.”
John checked his notes—he wanted to get Thomas back on the cross-country trail.
“Is there anything else?” Thomas said, not letting up.
John searched his mental biography. “Well, I’m a Christian.”
Thomas grew quiet. “And what’s that mean?”
“It means follower of Christ,” John said matter-of-factly.
“And how important is that?”
A flash in John’s memory. He was on the floor in his dorm room. Helpless. An injury had brought him to the end of himself. A friend had been there to help point him in the direction of who he really was.
“It’s very important,” John said.
“Interesting how it’s so far down your list.”
John sat back, feeling like he’d just been fouled going for a layup. “Okay, wait a minute. I could have easily said Christian first.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t.”
John knew Thomas couldn’t see, but it felt like he was staring straight through him.
“Look, John, your identity will be tied to whatever you give your heart to. Doesn’t sound like the Lord has first place.”
“You’re calling me a bad Christian?”
“Let me be a little direct,” Thomas said.
A little? John thought.
“Last time you were here, you said you’d pray for me.”
The words sank deep and John knew what was coming. He wanted to stop Thomas, protest, explain he wasn’t a professional minister, he was busy with work and family, and he’d taken the time to talk out of the goodness of his heart and here he was using . . .
He decided not to go there. Instead, he listened and heard words that cut like a knife.
“Did you?” Thomas said softly.
Simple questions often lead to hidden passages. The world turns and hearts find their way when simple questions are given the space for honest answers. John tried to avoid it, but he knew Thomas would call him out. It was the most painful word John had ever said.