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EVERYBODY’S DANISH The reluctant runner
By fred | August 11, 2009
Today we will close out most of my athletics at dear old Poly High, much to relief of our Poly girls as I am sure they would like me to get into other stuff, especially the girl / guys stuff. We will delve into that starting next week.
I guess talking about my high school sports career is like getting a bunch of devils off my back, I had no fun my senior year in sports. The guys making me a team captain of our varsity football team was a great honor, still football and having to handle the ball as a runner and receiver had me in constant fear of screwing up. I guess Big Ed Bravo had installed a “Lineman’s” mentality in me and all I wanted to do it play tackle, a star running back was no fun in my mind. I still remember the before game gitters, so real I almost had the shakes before a game.
I was thinking of skipping some of the sport stuff, track season my senior year created nightmares for thirty years, dropping a baton in one race, created so much heartache – still - too many of my buddies yet alive from those days so far far away wanted me to continue.
So – Poly girls this is the end of sports, next week we will relive entering Poly as a freshman, and freshgirl – is there such a thng?
So here is track with the worst coach Poly had on their staff, my opinion and that of quite a few others.
Love ya, Fred
CHAPTER (High School Track- The reluctant runner)
Hi School track, how I hated it. To tell you the truth I almost lived in terror of that part of high school athletic life, the reason, one man, a coach at Poly High.
Coach Bill Bates coached Varsity basketball, which fortunately I did not play. He also coached Varsity track. Now Varsity track was certainly not my idea of what to do in the spring. When I got to Poly I was thinking about going out for baseball, because Poly did not have that stupid rule of Trinity junior high about hitting the ball over the fence, and your out. I was looking forward to some ‘home run hitting.’
Coach Brennan, our football coach told us he wanted us to go out for track. I remember being disappointed, but was so full of the idea that football was the sport I wanted to excel in, the sport I thought would get the girls attention, that I did not think twice about conforming. Whatever the coach said was law. The coach said to go out for track, and that is exactly what all of us freshmen on the football team did.
My buddies, Ed Bravo and John Brewer were both big guys and were certainly not going to win any races running, so they went out for the shot put. So, what the heck, I wanted to be with my buddies, so I went out for the shot put too.
Shot put is where you have a sixteen pound round solid hunk of steel to hold in your fist. You first tuck it in your neck, take a couple of steps in a small confined circle, and try to throw it for as long a distance as you can, this sounds easy, but first try it. It is quite a feat of real skill and strength to throw that heavy ball any distance. The first time I tried to throw that heavy iron ball, it went about ten feet. In a week or so, I was up to about thirty feet, still far from a winning distance in any track meet.
I got into trouble when the coach made everyone run around the track as fast as they could on the way to the showers after practice. It was natural to let it all out, so I would give it hell, and was always near the front of the pack either first, second, or third. If I had had any brains I should have known that you can’t go out for the shot put, and then beat most of the runners and stay as a shot putter. Coach Bates said, “Forget the shot put, we will try you in the sprints, the hundred, two twenty, maybe the four forty, eight eighty, and eight man mile relay.” (100 yards, 220 yards, 440 yards, 880 yards)
Coach Bates had the same desire to win that Coach Brennan did. Bates however, when he had determined you were going to fill a spot on his team, he was impossible to convince otherwise. It did not matter that whatever he had in mind was just something that you were not equipped to do. I don’t ever remember any other coaches like that at Poly, certainly not Coach Leahy, Tex Chassen or Coach Brennan. Now Brennan may have done some stupid things but for some unknown reason you still felt he was always for you, sort of like a father figure. He would never knowingly hurt his players, give impossible goals that did not fit them physically, he always cared for his boys in a weird sort of way. Even if Brennan had his favorites, he didn’t seem to ‘dump’ on any of his players although my best buddy Dale may disagree with me here. Of course Dale is the only player at Poly that ever gave a coach the ‘finger’ so maybe Dale that is the reason you were not on Coach’s favorite list.
Coach Bates ran me in the 440 and the 880 to test me out. At the age of fifteen and sixteen these events, a quarter mile and a half mile were just too grueling. Several of the runners in these events were much older and lighter, thinner, and the events, especially the half mile were killers even for them at the ages of seventeen to nineteen. I have to say I tried, I really tried, but for some reason the longest I could run full out was the 220, the two hundred and twenty yard dash. Oh, I could run the 440 full out, but could barely make it to the tape, and would puke my guts out after. I well remember Coach Bates word of consolation, he said, “Don’t eat such a big lunch next time.” Then he would laugh and walk away.
Most runners that run the 440 and the 880, learn to coast the curves, I guess they call it ‘striding’ the curves. On our high school track you had two curves at each end plus the straight a ways on each side. You start these races with staggered starts, the reason is that the guys closest to the inside of the track have the shortest distance to run, so the further out to the side of the track you are you are further ahead. This staggered starts can play havoc with your mind. If you have a inside spot you still think that the guys on the outside lanes are way ahead, even if it is not so. Also if you are ahead on the outside lanes after the gun you can hear these others behind on the inside lanes coming, and you worry about them catching up, so to mentally tell yourself to relax, and coast, or stride, a curve of our track, just somehow was a mental block for me.
I guess I ran at that age, like I did everything else, and that was full out – always wanting to be in front, wanting to win, the relaxing stuff just could not sink in. They even put some guys at the beginning of the curves to yell at me to ‘stride,’ I can still remember them yelling, “Stride Nielsen, damn-it stride!” I would see some one ahead of me or hear someone coming up and I just could not do it, I just gave it all the gas I had. When I hit the tape there would go the stomach and I would head for behind the bleachers to throw up.
If you are going to run the sprints, the first thing you have to learn is how to start. Most of the short sprints, especially the 100 yard dash is won by the guy getting the best start. This was not easy for me, for some reason. First, you have to put your feet on some little wooden blocks. Then bend over with our hands on the ground in front of you, your weight is forward. The idea is that when you take your hands away you either fall on your face or go like hell. The ‘go like hell’ part is what you are supposed to be doing. The starter will say, “Ready, set,” then shoot the pistol. At the word ‘set’ you have to move your butt in the air, and be ready to go. In a hundred yard dash, you had better get off those blocks as fast as the rest, or you don’t have a chance.
I well remember the first time I ever tried this starting from blocks stuff. I stood straight up first, then started running, of course the rest of the runners were already about twenty yards ahead of me, and impossible lead in a short race. The next thing the coach did was have another guy on the team knock my hands out from in front of me so I would have to go or fall on my face. Well, fall on my face a few times I did. I have no idea why this was so hard for me, but it was. It just did not feel natural. I practiced those starts by the hour. Our star hundred yard, two twenty and relay anchor man, Walter Thompson, worked with me for hours, starting beside me to help me get the feel of what I always consider ‘dropping’ yourself off the blocks. It got so that once in a while I could even beat him for the first thirty or forty yards, until old Walt would put his ‘aft burner on’ then he would take off.
This quick start stuff is something that is practiced not only in track, but in football by the hour. Beating the opposing player over the line for the first couple of feet, can win or lose a game. Watching a ball carrier in a broken field is a beautiful thing, but that is something that does not happen often, a big heavy strong lineman that can win the ‘start’ battle for the first five yards will win most games. Those linemen up front that can blast open the holes for the running backs, or protect the quarterback for another few seconds to complete a pass will win most of the games. They may not get the credit, but that is where the game is won or lost, from tackle to center.
I remember begging Coach Bates to leave me out of the 440, he never would. “Fred, run a 440, I want a good clocking, go at the gun,” the bastard would yell.
Finally one day in practice, near the end of a so called practice run, I fell before the tape. Skidded on the hard gravel track, since all you are wearing for track is a tank top and shorts, I had my whole front skinned and bleeding from my chin to my knees, chest and all, I was a bloody mess.
The thing that really pissed Coach Bates off was not that I was so beaten up, it was because of all the scabs I could not run in the relay that week. If it wasn’t for a feeling of letting all the other guys on the relay team down, I probably would have faked still being stiff for and extra week or two, I sure as heck thought about it enough. I would have done anything to spite my hated enemy, Coach Bats.
Coach Leahy who was acting as assistant track coach had run over when I fell, slid, whatever on the damn gravel track, and usually being so mild mannered, give coach Bates a look, and said when I was still on the ground bleeding and dirty, “Fred is not running the 440 any more.” That was the last quarter mile or half mile race I ever ran. Thank God for Coach Leahy!
I would lose five to ten pounds off a body that I must say in those days had very little fat on it, just running track. I was hungry as heck for lunch, but had to skip it. I even tried to eat a dish of Jell-O from the cafeteria. I would even throw up the darn Jell-O. I had a spot behind the bleachers, those stands that the students would sit on watching games and track meets. I guess I made one hell of a mess back there during track season.
Getting back to my vote for worst coach, I remember in an all city meet I was third man in eight man mile relay. The fastest man is always the last, the anchor. Walter Thompson was our anchor, he was fast as any man I have ever seen. He may have lost a race once in a while, but I sure cannot remember ever seeing him do it. In the 100 and 220 yard dashes he was top gun. This guy did not like to see anyone in front of him. He was running college times.
The funny part was that Walt was not a tall thin runner. At least that was always my idea of a sprinter. Walt was just of medium height, not exactly lean either, maybe you would say a tiny bit stocky. Walt was just fast, period. I would have given anything to see him on our football team, but he wanted to get a college scholarship in track and I guess he did not want to hurt his legs.
In the eight man mile relay the second fastest is the starter, on our eight man mile relay team that was Tommy Irvine after almost sixty years still a best friend, and the third fastest is the second man to run. That was me.
They have a stick, they call it a baton, each man hands it to the next runner, until all eight have had their turn and the race is over. When the runner that is going to give it to you is about ten yards away you start sprinting as fast as you can, holding your hand back to receive the baton
At this particular All City Track meet we had gotten into the finals, we were one of the best eight man mile relay teams in the city of Los Angeles. We really figured we had a chance to beat em all, in fact I think we figured we could do it, we were a bit cocky as I remember, we figured we had eight hot speed burners and would beat any team we ran again in the city of Los Angeles.
Well, somehow the baton dropped on the exchange. It must have been my fault, maybe I started to fast, maybe our starter slowed down to fast, anything could have happened How the hell it happened is beyond me, we practiced these handoffs constantly. I had to stop and pick it up giving the competition at least a thirty yard lead. I can’t tell you how stupid I felt. Here we are in the huge Los Angeles Coliseum that seats over one hundred thousand people. We did not have that many at that All City Track Meet, but we had quite a few thousand. I am stumbling around looking for that damn little stick.
Once I got the baton back I ran probably as fast as I ever did, but the rest of the bunch was still at least thirty yards in front, a heck of a big lead to give away. Each guy ran 220 yards, an eighth of a mile, our guys run all out but still, by the time our anchor Walt, got the baton, I think just about every one of those seven other guys were ahead of him. Oh, we had made up some, but not enough.
I have never before, or ever after, seen such a run as that. Pure guts, is the only way to describe it. I was standing there on the infield grass feeling sick to my stomach over my awful goof up, and watching Walter take the hand off still behind most of the competition. In just a short 220 yards he passed runner after runner.
Walter got us a third place medal, third best of all the high school relay teams in the city of Los Angeles after giving the other teams a 30 yard or more advantage, hard to believe. Walter did not get beat, he just was not given a fair chance. Walter Thompson just ran out of space, another hundred yards and he would have beaten the best runners in the city of Los Angeles, and this coming from way behind, I have no doubt in my mind that we would have taken first place in that All-City relay if it hadn’t been for my screwing up.
Coach Bates did not care that all of us, and myself most of all, felt awful. He exploded, he was spitting mad, he lit into me, screaming and yelling that it was my fault, and likely there he was right. Screaming, swearing, telling me I had ruined our chance of being number one. He just poured it on, dumped on a kid that was sick and ready to die. I stood there and took it, tears streaming down my face. If there was a hole I would have gladly jumped in and died. Never will I forget the chewing out that son of a bitch gave me, is scared me of life.
I had nightmares for years after that track meet. I would wake up in a sweat, run the race a million times in my mind, die time and time again over a event forgotten by everybody else. I will never forget or forgive that man, he was supposed to teach, guide his young students, give them support – teach them good sportsmanship. Instead he wanted to win a high school race rather than consider the feeling of a student in his care. I will always think of him as a real mean, rotten, son of bitch, and with the years, have never softened that view.
I have to say that not one of my buddies on that mile relay team said one word about me screwing up. They all patted me on the back – they knew how bad I felt, it could have happened to then. Walter Thompson came over and hugged me, never said a word, just did that. I will never as long as I live ever forget this support when I need it so much. Weeks later there would be jokes, like, “Next time we hand the stick to Fred we put glue on it.” Never did the ribbing get rough, they were friends, we never dumped on each other, what happened to me was something that we all worried about.
Walt Thompson the guy that ran his heart out, the hero of that race is black, he is one of the finest men I know, either white or black. Walt is a friend of mine and will be until the day I die.
COACH ED LEAHY, THE BEST OF THE BEST
Since we are discussing coaches lets go back to the best. Coach Ed Leahy, I do not think that a guy at Poly would not lay down his life for him. Just to give you one instance, it was the same track season as I mentioned above. Coach Leahy had agreed to help Coach Bates as an assistant coach for the track season.
I was the number three runner on for the 100 yard and 220 yard dashes. I was also the second man on the eight man mile relay. Oh, we scored a lot of points on the relay, but very seldom did I score any points as third man in the sprints.
Walter our first man always won and our second guy Tommy was hot stuff too. In most meets they came in first and second and the first man of the other school would get third. In the sprints, I would usually be fourth or fifth in any duel meets. There are no points for fourth place at a high school track meet.
I remember getting awful discouraged, we had to enter three runners for each event, it was discouraging to never be good enough to win. For that matter, I only remember being third in a couple of hundred yard dash races, and once in the two twenty.
On this particular day, I was walking down the track on the way to the locker room after practice feeling awful low, and I guess it showed. Someone put his arm around me. I glanced over and it was Coach Leahy. He said “What’s the matter, Fred?” I told him that I just could not win, could not even place, tried, but just could not do it.
Coach Leahy was not a big man. It must have looked a little funny with him walking down the track with his arm reaching up on the back of the big lug that was me. He asked me, “Fred, how many kids are in this school?” I said something like “Gee coach, I understand there are about 2,200 students. Why?” He said “How many are boys?” I was thinking, what is going on? Is he crazy? Anyway, I said, “About half, I guess.” Coach Leahy looked at me and said, “OK, that means there are only two guys out of 1,100 guys in this school that are faster than you. That makes you pretty darn good in my book! Third best of eleven hundred men is nothing to feel down about, think about it!” He took his arm down and walked away.
I do not think Coach Leahy ever said more than a few words to me before or after that. Why should he, he had said it all, he made me feel like a million dollars. That is what a great coach does, builds up his players. He does not constantly tear them down, he tries to build confidence, I was not the best in sprints, but I was better than most. The coach used this to build up my morale.
Coach Leahy always found something good to say about all the students in his care. It did not matter if you were constantly sitting on the bench. He would say, “Good try Mike,” to some guy that would never make the first or even second string. Maybe, there were just too many guys better. To coach Leahy the guy was giving it his all, and that was good enough for him. Many other guys had similar experiences with him.
A friend and classmate of mine, Dale Martinusen played ‘B’ football for Coach Leahy during his first two years of high School. His first year, in a scrimmage three weeks into the season, he broke his arm. Coach Leahy left the practice with Dale immediately, and drove him to the Georgia Street Receiving Hospital. Then home to talk to his mother.
Dale’s Mom was another Mom not to sure about the game of football for her son in the first place. To have him walk in the door with his arm in a cast did not help his case very much.
Dale said that Coach Leahy talked to her about football and Dale’s participation in it. She was not totally convinced that football was the game for her son, but Coach Leahy’s very obvious concern and sincere regard for the young men in his care was such that Dale was able to convince her to let him play the next year. Dale managed to wreak his knee the next year, but that is another story.
Many years later, Coach Leahy retired. A bunch of his former students, former players, wanted to give him a retirement banquet. So many wanted to come that they had to change sites three times, as each became sold out. They eventually held it at the huge hall at the Los Angeles Police academy. Well, over a thousand of us came to say goodbye to the man we all respected – Mr. Leahy looked completely overwhelmed. Tears were in his eyes, when he stood up and said thanks for coming.
Former students he had coached flew in from the east coast and foreign countries. They came from all over, the world. Just for a few hours on one evening to honor an individual that always had the time to give a young person a ‘lift.’ A game was never worth it to Coach Leahy to tear apart the feelings of the young persons put in his care. Because of that he created winners, year after year. Thousands of us will remember him as long as we live.
I have to think that if Coach Leahy was the head track coach during my high school athletic career, then I would have probably killed myself for him, done anything in the world he asked. Why? Because he would never ask a student under his care to do anything that he did not think was in the student’s best interest, or that was more than he could do. If you lost a race, you would get a word of encouragement, a hug, or a pat on the shoulder. He was telling you by that pat that he knew you gave it your all and as far as Coach Leahy was concerned that was good enough.
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