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True Stories Submitted by
Members and Friends of Mass Velocity
MOST EMBARRASSING
MOMENT AS A HIGH SCHOOL COACH
by Lee
Hess
It was my seventh year as Assistant Girls Track Coach at West High School in Manchester, New Hampshire. Construction of our new high school track was nearly complete. The smooth asphalt black top on the 400 meter oval awaited the final thick application of the cushioned polyurethane surface and striping. Because of this, it could only be used for training. The track remained in this unfinished condition throughout the season. It was very slippery when wet. A passing rain shower had just let up and the sun was now breaking through the spring clouds.
I was with a group of our student-athletes at the far corner of the field preparing to begin our 200 meter sprint repeats. The girls had completed their stretch routines and were waiting for me to complete mine. The last stretch of my warm up routine involved head high straight leg swings (like a place kicker). As my foot swung slightly over my head, the coefficient of friction on the wet track surface and my running shoe went to zero. The momentum of my leg lifted me high off the ground. I landed on my back with a loud grunt and a dozen female teenage eyes staring down at me. Only my pride was hurt. The suppressed laughter was deafening. Each team captain passes this story down to the next so that it cannot fade away.
A SPRINTER
AND GYMNAST
by Roger Pierce
A number of years ago when we were running for the New England Sprint Force Team in a 4 x 400 Masters Relay and Neil Steinberg took the second handoff. In a tightly contested first leg we were even with the other team and Neil was very hyped as he took the pass in lane 2..so hyped in fact that as he was looking back running and reaching for the baton he managed to move from the 2nd lane on the high turn to the 4th lane which happens to be the top of the turn. The passing zones were very chaotic because of all the converging runners, officials yelling where to stand etc., etc.
Neil grabbed the baton and turned to blaze out on the beginning of his leg only to realize at the last moment that there was no track under him, and found himself looking at a 6 foot drop off the edge of the track!!!! In an amazing feat of super gymnastic proportions he twisted back and managed to regain his balance on the track and actually finish his leg of the relay with no injury. I was third leg on that relay and as I watched from across the track in the 3rd passing zone I was smiling as he evaded a very dangerous situation. By the time I got the baton from him I was laughing. Actually, I am smiling as I write this story. I can still see the, "what the hell!!!" look of shocked surprise on his face.
NEW WORLD
RECORD
by Roger Pierce
When I was a junior in high school, 5' 3" tall and weighing a solid 100 lbs I went to an indoor Essex County track meet held at the Andover Cage with one of the old leather 12 lb. shot puts in use at the time. I ambled over to the practice area with the shot putters who were warming up prior to the competition. Patiently I waited my turn in line, cradling the shot as each of the relatively massive weight men warmed up by heaving their shots in preparation for the competition.
When it was finally my turn in the shot circle, I stepped in and proceeded to go through all the macho movements I could muster. Most every one was laughing at this point and the people waiting to retrieve the shots for their turn, all began to move much closer to the shot circle I was standing in. I held up a hand and motioned them all back. They laughed even louder and harder.
With my best Parry O'Brien shot put technique, I proceeded to kick slide across the circle and the shot exploded from my hand as I gave a loud shot putters yell. To everyone's surprise (except a couple of my teamates) the shot followed a huge arc flying over everyone's head and landing at least 80 feet from where I released it, setting a new World Record and slamming into the protective wooden barrier. There were shocked expressions on many faces as I raised my arms in victory while leaping hollering and sprinting toward the good old trusty leather shot. I scooped it up as the entire track watched and then proceeded to toss it up with only one hand to a team mate standing on the balcony which surrounded the track. At this moment it was obvious that I had an empty leather shot weighing less than a pound and the entire track exploded in cheers and gave me a standing ovation. My high school coach still talks about that day...and I still think I could have done the same distance with a real 12 pound shot....really!!!!!!
THESE SHOES
ARE MADE FOR RIGGING
by Michael Fortunato
I hated this race. I loved the 100 and I could cope with the 220, but the 440? What kind of ridiculous idea was this -- I had to run all the way around this gigantic track? I was a football player, for Chrissakes. One hundred and ninety-two pounds earned the hard way with push-ups and sit-ups and stairs. (No proper gyms or protein shakes in those days, although I had been known to make mama cry while guzzling a quart of milk directly from the bottle.) All I really cared about was my 40 time and breaking 10 flat in the 100y (stubbornly resisting me until the summer after graduation).
But now Coach wanted me to run the 440. Then he hit me with the kicker. My opponent today would be a kid from Bayshore who had run the 440 the week before in 50.3 -- much faster than our school record of 51 point. It was up to me to take him, Coach exhorted me in his ominous baritone. Hell, all I had to do was run the 220 in 25 and then do it again (Coach could sure do his arithmetic). What could be so hard about that? He stared at me, as if I wouldn't dare say a couple of 25s could be tough.
I was skeptical, but I was a boy, and in those days you didn't say to your coach "I can't."
"Just a couple of 25s?" I squeaked. My throat was dry. "I guess that sounds pretty easy." I had run a 22.8 the week before but I wondered why my previous efforts at this marathon distance had not yielded better results, according to this logic. It seemed that Coach was glancing at one of the kids on the team, Teddy, a kid who ran the 220 in around 25. Was I to think that all I had to do was run a 2 x 220 against Teddy and his mythical twin brother, Skippy?
"You're the sprinter, so get out first." This logic may not really work these days, but at that time and in that place we ran without lanes, starting in the middle of the straight, and raced for the turn, so the lead was something of an advantage. "Beat him to the turn and don't let him pass you." Hey, maybe this wasn't so hard after all. So why did I feel sick?
My Alpha Juice evaporated when we warmed up. Before the 100 and 220, I just knew the other boys were watching me nervously out of the corner of their eyes. But not in the 440. The tables had turned, and I was watching the kid from Bayshore do his warm-ups. And he looked like Lee Evans, frankly, or was it Tommy Smith I was watching warm-up? In any case, I felt more like Gomer Pyle. And I thought I could hear him saying "Goooooolly!" somewhere in the back of my mind.
We moved to the starting line.
Ladies and Gentlemen: In this race we have Lee Evans Tommy Smith versus Gomer Pyle for the fastest friggin 440 we are gonna see this season. That is, if Gomer doesn't choke.
And then something took over. Who knows where the power comes from? I think I did imagine one of my old man's 440 foot home runs. Whatever the answer to that mystery, the gun went off and I was ...alone.
Huh? Where is this kid, this Lee Evans Tommy Smith of Bayshore? This 50.3 wunderkind? I was flying! I hit the turn and could barely hear footsteps. Around the turn and I'm flying still. Into the backstretch and I'm singing Who's Bob Hayes now? Who's Bob Hayes now? Who's Bob...I hit the second turn and then it hits me. Holy shit, I'm only half way there!
And then I hear him. He's right there. Is he struggling? Is he breathing hard? What is that sound? He's rigging, right?
Well, almost. It's me. I'm starting to rig. Lee Evans Tommy Smith of Bayshore is flying on my shoulder, and I'm the one drinking A Big Fat Lactic Acid Cocktail. My legs, my legs!
Doctor, I can't feel my legs!
That's okay, son, you'll live.
But will I really? We come out of the turn and I can't hold him off any longer. 385 yards and I'm dead, dead. Dead. He goes by, flying, and I sit on the chair and tell myself, Damn, second place. But whose kidding whom? Another kid goes by me, and then another. The world is turning blue. No air, no legs, no arms. Just a death march on the final straightaway.
Did you really think you'd miss your chance at Bataan, son?
After that, it's all a blur. I’m passed by Barbara Eden from I Dream of Genie. And then Lassie goes by. Hell, it's not so bad being beaten by a dog, is it? But then I'm taken up short -- another boy is passing me. Is that who I think it is?
Is that...Teddy?
Before the meet is over, I cross the finish line. Like one of those old guys who finish the marathon after nearly everyone has gone home and the banners are half-detached, flapping in the breeze, kicking empty plastic drinking cups across the road. My coach is looking at his stopwatch -- or is it his shoes? He comes up to me and I turn to him, still gasping, still blue. Still incoherent.
"For a smart boy, you're suuuuure dumb," he begins. Coach wasn't just good with arithmetic. Coach had people skills. "As near as I can figure it, that was the stupidest 440 ever run by a boy," he continued. "You ran the first 220 in 23 flat and the second 220 in..." He paused, as if the shock of it (or was it pure disgust?) stopped him cold. "The second 220 you ran in…30.2. Boy, you just ran a 53.2. The hard way."
That might have been the first and last time I ever agreed with Coach. I turned to him, still gasping, and ever the magnanimous boy worried about the well being of others I muttered, "How did Lassie do?"
Fortunately for me, Coach had already wandered off in search of Teddy. He was planning to put his new star into the 880. Of course, Coach had a plan for Teddy. All you have to do is run two 60s -- what could be so hard about that?
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