On a beautiful spring day Jack The Dog and I took our morning walk on the path in our park that runs next to the grammar school playground. Being a bit late in our morning schedule allowed us to witness something we had never seen in our previous walks by the school; the boys - 4th or 5th grade, my guess - in an organized run around the permitter of the school playground and baseball field.
Our park path and the chain link fence allowed us to observe the fresh pink faces and various smiles fading to winces on these young lads, and as they paraded by us I found myself curious as to which boys were leading the pack and which were following behind. I felt good when I saw the last runner was not that far behind the leader, that is until I realized he was not the last runner, and that the last runner was a good quarter lap behind the pack.
He wasn’t fat, but he did carry more weight than most of the runners we had seen. My quick observation told me he wasn’t loafing or noncommittal; he would run with arms swinging and feet plopping hard against the ground for a dozen paces or so and then slow to a walk, his head bowing in shame to stare at the feet and legs that were failing him, but he kept moving forward with an I-wont-quit pace. His body language told me “My heart’s not in this, but I’m trying.”
I was instantly fascinated.
Realizing that the good folks in charge of these young runners might become alarmed at the site of a strange bearded man with sunglasses hovering outside the perimeter fence of a grammar school, I tried not to stare at the running event and keep my dog-walking duties in motion, but now I was transfixed by our last place runner. I was relating to him, projecting my troubles and sufferings on him, and I suddenly wanted nothing more than for our runner to just finish the race.
A few more minutes of Jack and I reducing our walk to a meander - ridiculously slow even for us - and we we able to witness the pack of young runners pass our last place hero. My mind was racing with questions: how many laps were they doing?, which one were they on?, was our runner tired because this was the last of many laps we hadn't seen?, and right then, a young smiling bright faced runner looked at me and proudly shouted, “We’re running the mile!” “How many laps?” I asked. “3”, he screamed between gasps for air and then was gone, which meant our last place runner had tired after just the first half-lap. I was rooting for him even more now. I wanted to cry for him, my parental instincts kicking into full throttle. I wanted to yell to our last place runner and encourage him not to quit, and tell him Jack and I were proud that he never stopped moving forward and he never gave up.
Our morning walk finally lead us away from the school yard fence and our view of The Great Race. I was heart-broken for our last place runner. As Jack and I made our usual large circle through the park, I was wondering what message The Universe was sending by giving me this vision, today of all days, when suddenly something made me look up and I realized that from our place across the long ball field I could still see the playground….and one lone runner still running. Jack and I were at the spot where we turn to head for home when I looked at him and said, “this way” and pointed towards the school yard. I had to go back to see the finish.
Jack and I slowly walked back towards the school yard, my stare locked on the scene I could not stop watching. I found a bench and table near the school yard fence that would allow us to witness the end of this Herculean effort. I watched as the end-of-recess bell rang and the kids from all the classes rushed to line up for their re-entry into class and slowly make their orderly parade back to their seats. Our runner, a lone figure on the farthest outskirts of the school yard, was still moving, running six paces, walking six paces.
As other classes of activities took the playground, I identified the P.E. teacher - a man of slim build with whistle, stop watch and clipboard - busying himself with other duties. It seemed he had given up on our last place runner. I was rooting for our runner harder than ever now, I wanted to scream over the fence, “Come on, Buddy, you can do it! I’m proud of you! Keep going!” The little girls who were at the finish line yelling their encouragement to our runner when he completed his first painful lap were gone now. He was on his own, but he was still moving.
As our runner crossed the finish line with one last burst of running and then walked dejectedly but still with his I-wont-quit pace to his classroom door, I heard an adult voice call out “Gary!” Our runner stopped quickly and raised his head up - his name was Gary and he was receiving instructions from someone I couldn't see. Suddenly Gary took 5 steps back to what would have been the spot to line up for re-entry into his class, stood there for a brief moment receiving further instruction, then moved forward towards the classroom door and stopped. I got up from the table and made my way towards the fence, I didn't care who saw me or what they suspected, I had to see how this played out.
I could tell by his reactions Gary was not receiving encouragement for completing his run, he was being lectured by the P.E. teacher. I couldn't hear what the teacher was telling him, but I could barely hear Gary say “I WAS running”, then Gary received more instruction, shrugged his shoulders in a “I don’t know” gesture, then took the final instructions from the P.E. teacher and headed off of the playground away from his class and towards the office. I’ll never know for sure, but I think Gary was being punished for his lack of effort. I wanted to jump over the fence and rip out the throat of the P. E. teacher, and then lift Gary up on my shoulders and parade him around the school yard, but in another short moment Gary’ final walk was done as he disappeared behind the office door with the same defiant I-wont-quit pace he displayed on the playground.
Of course, I have no way of knowing the true intentions and inner-virtues of Gary The Last Place runner; for all I know, Gary’s fame as the laziest kid in the fourth grade might be legendary, or perhaps he’s a budding scofflaw who laughs in the face of authority and was merely going through the motions to produce the minimal effort he thought would get him through this tortuous exercise.
But that’s not what I saw, because it’s not what I wanted to believe.
There was no rebellious attitude in a face he could only lift skyward for short bursts before something told him he could run no more, but he never quit moving forward at the best pace he could. I could feel it. He wasn’t picking flowers out there, he was trying. He just didn't have it. And I looked down and there was Jack The Dog peering through the fence. I like to think Jack was watching Gary and commiserating on how it feels to want to run with great leaps and bounds when your legs just don’t have it anymore, but I know he was probably just wondering what the hell I found so fascinating on the other side of the fence.
And as we made our way home and I tried to make sense of what we had seen I thought to myself, “there it is; never quit moving forward, no matter how badly the race feels, no matter what results you may get from your best effort, no matter what they tell you, no matter how much it hurts, keep moving forward.”
Thank you Gary, I’m proud of you.
In honor of Bev Slyter and all the great teachers that inspire us to keep moving forward.
Ken Owen Van Niddy Press March 2014
