Rhythms and Racing

Working in the high school world can feel a bit like living Groundhog Day.

Freshmen will enter the fall wide-eyed and panicky, racing through the hallways with overstuffed backpacks. Sophomores will gloat at their non-freshman status and triumphantly flash driver's licenses. Seniors will spend the first few months alternately nonchalant and frenzied, covering college-search nerves with big-kid bravado while juniors will keep their teachers sane with their relative maturity and commitment to all things high school.

School spirit and energy will come to a crescendo during Homecoming Week and crash to widespread crabbiness by Columbus Day. Breakups (and make outs) will happen during passing periods, school dances will swirl with drama, classes will experience some meaningful ah-ha! moments and even the most reluctant of seniors will get a bit misty on the last day of school. There's a natural rhythm to the school year that - though varied in exact yearly details - unfolds predictably, steadily, inevitably. It's the song of school.

Providing its own cyclical chorus is the march of the athletic season: The sweaty, determined training of the summer months. The high hopes and idealism of a fresh start. The butterfly stomach feeling of the first competition. The roller coaster reality of wins and losses, goals achieved and goals missed. The monotony of practice and the drain of tightly packed schedules. The warm coming-togetherness of team chemistry and heartfelt end-of-season-push toward playoffs.

And then there is emotion of the season's last showing.

This weekend was the state cross country meet in Peoria. Hundreds of runners swarmed Detweiller Park on a gorgeous November day to put all of their training quite literally on the line. Some places have a certain presence - Detweiller is one such place. It is more than a pretty park. It is running personified. On race day, it pulses with nervous energy, ground rumbling under determined feet, anticipation and hope snapping the air around brightly colored tents and proudly printed team signs. Old records and race stories whisper past competitors' ears as they attack the final hill toward the finish. Spectators and coaches scurry back and forth across the infield, anxious to catch a glimpse of their athletes and sneak an encouraging word through the clamor. From a distance, the mass movement looks like an elaborate dance. For three miles, nothing else in the world exists.

While I have vivid memories of Detweiller as a state racer, my most powerful experiences have been as a coach. As a spectator, you are invited into the big picture, the larger story, of the day. As a coach, you have an intimate investment in all that unfolds. There is a helpless feeling when the gun goes off and your athletes enter into the fray, feet flying, heart racing, eyes hungry. While you have given them the tools, they are ultimately in charge of their experience. You want to protect them from defeat and regret, to guarantee success and satisfaction. You want to see in them the soul-contentment that comes from doing their absolute best. You want to give them everything but can only watch as they stream past the 1 mile and the 2 mile and the 2.8 mile mark and yell and clap - and hope.

Inevitably, I tear up. No one notices, as we are all wrapped up in our own version of the experience. There is a weight to the stories unfolding, a beauty in the earnestness and timelessness of it all. There is the Cinderella team, the unexpected runner performance, the shattering of personal records. There are cheers of triumph, silent moments of defeat, groans of pain, and tears of good-bye. There are hugs from Mom and Dad and Grandma and Grandpa, high fives from teammates, one-armed side squeezes from Coach. There is the quiet of the post-race cool down and the pang of "the end" as the bus edges its way out of the park. The emotion of it is all-encompassing.

Yesterday, I found myself watching parents. As a coach, I have always appreciated the parent perspective, taking cues from my own. Yet now I wonder about my daughter's future. Will she run like her mom? Play water polo like her dad? Tackle soccer like her aunt? Try hockey or basketball or softball or lacrosse? Love playing for the band or performing with the cheerleaders? What kind of fan will I be? How will it feel to watch my child race out there on her own, chasing her goals on fast, spike-ensconced feet?

Five months ago, a gun fired and my husband and I started a race we cannot begin to comprehend. Our family story is unique but tied to the fabric of all of the stories that came before us. Our loved ones watch us knowingly; masters of the parenting dance, they tap in rhythm while we struggle to learn each basic step. First tooth, first word, first step, first day of day of school. First car, first dance, first year at college, first job, first home, first baby. How do parents handle it all?

Our daughter is off and running and while we are eager, passionate coaches, I know we cannot run for her. All we can do is cheer and guide and correct - and watch.

I'll need to carry Kleenex. This mom is going to be a crier!