Harriers: The Making of a Championship Cross Country Teamby Joseph Shivers, Paul Shivers
A fresh perspective enlivens this classic story about a losing team with an energetic new coach. Written by two Ohio teenagers about their high school's cross-country team, this account offers engaging portraits of the kids and their coach, passes on lessons of hard work and sacrifice, and follows the ascent of the Salem Quakers cross-country team to a first-place
A fresh perspective enlivens this classic story about a losing team with an energetic new coach. Written by two Ohio teenagers about their high school's cross-country team, this account offers engaging portraits of the kids and their coach, passes on lessons of hard work and sacrifice, and follows the ascent of the Salem Quakers cross-country team to a first-place ranking in their conference and third place at the 2003 state championships. Along the way the teenagers learn the unromantic truth about the athletic association that regulates their high school sportlegal wrangling and uproar ensue when officials find scoring errors in a postseason meet. As they develop their talents and teamwork, the teens also learn valuable lessons about sports rules, bureaucracy, and true success.
- Holy Macro! Books
- Publication date:
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- Product dimensions:
- 4.50(w) x 7.00(h) x 0.40(d)
- Age Range:
- 12 - 17 Years
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By Joseph P. Shivers, Paul L. Shivers
Fresh Writers BooksCopyright © 2006 Joseph P. Shivers and Paul L. Shivers
All rights reserved.
"We can't all be heroes because someone has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by."
– Will Rogers
Paul got out of the car onto the northern edge of the Salem High School parking lot, thanked his father for the ride, and walked over to the island of grass where his teammates were already gathered. He could have jogged, but this was his first day of high school cross country practice, and he wanted to save his strength. Soon he would have to run two miles. Or even three.
Paul had run his first race at the age of four: a quick 200–meter sprint at the local track. Since then his passion for running had grown. He was a full year younger than most of his classmates, and never received a legitimate chance in other sports to show his talent or develop experience and confidence. In the summer before his sixth grade year, Paul began training to run. He was conservative at first, three or four runs a week, and a road race here or there. By junior high, Paul had extended his training into a more rigorous, demanding schedule with five to seven runs a week including interval and tempo runs. He was entering high school with high expectations for himself and for his team.
Most of the boys and girls around him were unfamiliar upperclassmen: Alex Hoopes, Alex Barnett, Isaac Ieropoli, Andrew Bender, Jason Naylor, and Jim Dombroski. But as he looked around Paul recognized a few faces he knew from junior high. Jason Stewart, Tyler Bender, and Andy Thompson were all in Paul's grade, though only Andy had run cross country in junior high. Matt Yanek, another former middle school runner, noticed Paul from under one of the trees that grew on the team's patch of grass.
"Hey Paul. How's it going?" Yanek stood up to greet him. Paul appraised the boy, one grade older but no longer taller than he. Now that they both stood a little under six feet, Paul noticed how much stockier Yanek was than most runners–he looked more like a wrestler or a football player. Two years ago, when they had both run for the junior high team, he had beaten Paul every race. It was nothing personal, but Paul hated Yanek. Paul accepted nothing less than winning from himself. So, he could not endure losing to anyone, even to the more physically mature Yanek.
"What's up, Matt." Outside of running, Paul (like most people) got along well with the boy. He was well liked due to his warm personality, and his fellow runners respected him. In conversations with him and about him, his teammates dropped his first name and called him just "Yanek." He negotiated most of life with a smile and a laugh. His laugh, though disarming, was perfunctory, an obligation to be performed before he could continue the conversation. Talking to him, one got the impression that he brought great, infectious enthusiasm to any topic, and he seemed to expect fantastic things to come from the exchange. Nor did he ever seem disappointed when the talk was meaningless or unpleasant. If the subject under discussion made the other parties sad or discouraged, he refocused his energies to fixing their troubles. He could not stand silence and always had a slew of topics at the ready just in case the conversation flagged. If his earnestness made the listeners marvel, he grinned along with them. Today, however, Matt was in a serious mood.
"Nothin'." Yanek's clear blue eyes returned Paul's gaze. Each was still wary of the other. In junior high, Yanek had always won. But when Yanek moved on to high school and Paul continued racing for the junior high team, he had beaten the older boy's best times. Yanek had not expected that. But Yanek did not have Paul's hatred of losing; he tended to live more in the moment. And right now, he had more pressing concerns than his rivalry with Paul. "Do you know anything about this new coach?"
"Not much," Paul replied. "My dad said he was from Marlington. His name's Almond." Paul's father was on the school board, which had hired Almond only a few days earlier. Salem had a strong history of cross country success. The boys' cross country team had won three State Championships (back to back in 1930 and 1931 and again in 1993), which gave it three more than any other team sport at SHS. In recent years the teams had been unremarkable, but with a new coach and new runners, that trend might reverse.
While Matt and Paul speculated about the new coach, Paul's cousin Joe talked to some of the other boys on the team.
"We're gonna make you do all kinds o' stuff," one of the upperclassmen informed him.
"Why?" Joe asked. He generally stayed away from belligerent people, and was unused to bullying. He was constantly reading a book or studying for tests or classes, and he did not involve himself in any wrongdoing or arguments. His sense of humor was beyond his age: it took more than the usual high school antics to make him laugh.
"'Cause you're a freshman. You'll be 'Fish.'"
"What? Why would you call me Fish?"
"There has to be a Fish. I was Fish last year," piped in Josh Matthews, a sophomore. Josh's dark eyes glimmered with amusement. Josh Matthews was distinguished mainly by his stature and humor. He stood about five–and–a–half–feet tall and weighed barely over 100 pounds. He wore a constant grin, and he laughed frequently and enthusiastically. Because he so often maintained his easy–come, easy–go demeanor, an electric current was almost palpable when he got serious. He had been on the fringe of the top runners in junior high, but remained inspired enough to continue his running in high school.
"I don't know, Josh," Joe replied. He knew Josh a little already from their days together on the junior high team, when Josh had beaten him consistently. Joe did not especially mind. Like Paul, he was a late–bloomer who had improved significantly since middle school. Unlike Paul, Joe had no expectation of ever being the high school's top runner. He would be lucky to finish among Salem's top seven.
"You don't get a choice, freshman," replied the upperclassman that had begun the discussion. All this talk of seniority was beginning to grate on Joe. Running was the ultimate meritocracy: the fastest seven guys made varsity. It did not matter who was older or who had been on the team longer, honors were accorded based on times.
If Joe had thought about it longer, he might have decided that his teammates cared so much about seniority because they were not very good at actually running. The Salem boys simply were not that fast. But there were exceptions. Robert Vogt, who had graduated last year, inspired Salem runners by qualifying as an individual for the Regional Meet. Shane Harding, a senior, was filling Vogt's spikes and looked as though he might be even faster than he. A good cross country team, however, needs more than a single fast runner. Paul was optimistic in his dreams of glory. But he was not alone in them.
It was during their freshman year, in 2001, that Josh Matthews and Matt Yanek had made an agreement, a "pact" they would later call it. They agreed to win a State Championship by the end of their education at Salem High School, a short four years to accomplish something so few had in the past. What made their dreams all the more unrealistic was that their team failed to reach the Regional Meet that year: Salem was not one of the top 70 out of 185 teams in its division. By 2002, Vogt, the top runner and team leader, had graduated. The talent coming up from the middle school was modest. As freshmen, Yanek ran barely under nineteen minutes in the 5K (the standard high school distance, roughly 3.1 miles), and Josh had yet to break twenty. If they had been freshman girls, their futures would have been bright. As it was, they seemed naïve to think that in three years Salem could climb past 70 teams, let alone defeat proven programs with considerable experience–advantages at the State Meet in Columbus. Yanek and Josh were secretive about their pact, keeping it to themselves, but using it as a constant motivator to attain their full potential.
Everyone's eyes turned to the car that had just pulled up: red, shiny, a young man's car. And sure enough, the man who stepped out looked young enough to be in college. He seemed to radiate exuberance through his dark skin, from the soles of his running shoes to his gleaming black high top haircut. He smiled like someone who never got tired of smiling. And he was the only man the team had ever seen wearing such short shorts after puberty.
"My name is Michael Almond. I'm your new coach." Even his voice was that of a kid. The words came out high and clear.
"I'm 24 years old, I was a five–time All–American at Malone College, and I'm a Christian. I've been married for just over three years. And I just found out that my wife is four weeks pregnant." So he was young. And a fast runner, to whom a lot of things were happening fast: new job, new team, and new child. It barely occurred to the coach how strange it was for him to mention the news to complete strangers. "We just found out, and you guys are, like, the first people I've told." The honor drew the kids in; evidently Almond cared about them already.
"I grew up in Painesville," Almond continued, "but I've known about Salem for a long time. I was in high school when you guys won the State Title in '93, and everybody all across the state knew Salem. And do you guys know Jason Julian?" All of the kids had heard the name, and some knew its significance. Jason Julian was the legendary runner who had captained the State Championship team, who still held the school record of 15:53. He made even Robert Vogt and Shane Harding look slow. They knew Jason Julian.
Julian was only one of the great athletes Salem had graduated over the years: others include three NFL players and Jenni Brown, a cross country runner who still holds statewide records. Salem High School had been, at various times, a powerhouse in one or more sports.
SHS is 25 miles south of Youngstown in the northern tip of Columbiana County, and as part of the then job–rich Mahoning Valley, the school graduating class reached a peak of 325 students in 1975. Major college recruiters came to see Quaker athletes compete against the biggest and best teams in the state. But over the years, as industries closed and manufacturing jobs disappeared, students disappeared from Salem's schools. And as SHS hallways emptied, the athletic talent pool drained, and Salem slid into mediocrity. With the school's population dwindling, the Quakers dropped to lower divisions in many sports.
"I raced against Julian at Regionals my sophomore year. He was a senior, and everybody thought he was gonna win it. It was at the Boardman course, the same place they hold your Regionals now. It was an insanely cold day. I'm not kidding you; there was three inches of snow on the ground. I mean, it was cold.
"Well I beat him, and I won the meet. When the official gave him his second–place medal, Julian took it and threw it on the ground." Some of the more knowledgeable runners were realizing exactly how fast this meant their new coach was. Their respect for him was increasing with each word.
"And my coach at Malone always talked about what a great booster program you have here, and what a great tradition you guys have. So I know about Salem, and I'm glad to be here." The booster program he mentioned was the X–tra Mile Club, an organization made up of parents of track and cross country runners.
"I want to take this team back to where it was in 1993. My ultimate goal is for us to win a State Championship, and for Salem to go to State every year. I don't know about this year yet, because we're starting practices so late." Late? The first race wasn't for nearly a month. "All the good teams start in early June. That's when we'll start next year. Really, you guys should be running all year. I don't want a bunch of kids who play other sports that are doing cross country 'to stay in shape.' I want you to be committed to running. Because I want Salem to be the best."
This was the coach Paul, Matt, and Josh had been hoping for. Almond had seen success, and he wanted to show it to all of them. He was holding them to the standards of the Salem he had known, the Salem of ten years ago. But Paul also had his concerns. Never before had he run so many miles in a day or week. Never before had he run every day of the week. He did not like being told to quit basketball, his sport of choice. Ultimately Paul feared change and the unknown. He was a freshman used to the sheltered world of junior high. All of a sudden he had been thrust into a situation with new people who presented Paul with seemingly revolutionary ideas. The only thing that calmed Paul was his will to win, since that was oftentimes all that mattered to him.
"All right, that's the end of my speech. There won't be many more of those; I'm not really much of a talker." Of all the predictions he made that day, this one eventually proved least true.
"Oh, there's one more thing I've gotta tell you guys, just 'cause it was so weird. My dog gave birth yesterday." The juxtaposition of this pregnancy story with his wife's did not seem to strike him as the least bit odd. "And it did it all over our new white carpet. So all the afterbirth and blood and everything was sitting there. My wife and I just moved into our house, and we were like, 'Oh, no, we'll have to clean it all up. It's gonna stain.' But then the dog started eating it and licking the blood up. I guess it's like an adaptation from the wild, so the smell doesn't attract predators. When she was done, the carpet was spotless."
The boys and girls listened with mingled disgust and interest. Almond told the story with the same language any of them would have used, and with a sense of wonder befitting a teenager. Joe felt drawn to the new coach, and he wondered whether the unconventional anecdote had been intended as an icebreaker. As the runners learned more about him, they still found it hard to guess the reasons behind many of his actions. Whether he had hoped to break the tension of his arrival or only to tell a cool story, Almond made a strong impression on the high schoolers sitting in front of him. It is hard not to form some kind of opinion about somebody after he gives a graphic description of animals being born on his rug.
Of course, not everyone liked Almond. The new coach often came off as abrasive: even though he was a newcomer, he made next to no effort at diplomacy. He was especially brusque with kids who he did not think were committed enough to running. His demands and his personality became too much for some of the students who set off on the road with him that day. But several stuck around, and kept running.
That year, 2002, both the girls and boys teams finished well enough in the District Championships ("Districts," as the runners called it) to qualify for the Regional Meet ("Regionals"). Despite a knee injury, Paul finished third on the team at Districts with a personal record (PR) of eighteen minutes, three seconds. Joe also set a PR; his time of 19:18 placed him sixth among the Quakers. Both of them, and the team as a whole, performed much worse the next week at Regionals. Despite finishing dead last in that race, the Salem boys' cross country team had not enjoyed so much success since 1993.
Senior captain Shane Harding ran well enough at Regionals to advance to the 2002 State Meet as an individual. Many of the underclassmen traveled to Columbus to watch Shane's race, in which he narrowly missed earning All–Ohio status. After seeing the race, the Quakers wanted even more to qualify for State next year. The 2003 team would be relatively inexperienced. The only returning upperclassman was Jason Naylor; the rest would be juniors (Yanek and Matthews) and sophomores (the Shiverses, Jason Stewart, and Andy Thompson). Almond's success as a coach would rely heavily on these runners, and theirs on him.
* * *
On October 18, 2003, a little more than a year after meeting Almond for the first time, the Salem Quakers Cross Country Team lined up alongside eighteen other teams at the Trumbull County Fairgrounds to compete for the Ohio High School Athletic Association (OHSAA) Northeast District Championship. The team's goal was to finish among the top four teams in that race and qualify for the Regional Meet, one step closer to a berth in the State Meet. The runners stared down the horseracing track that constituted the first few hundred meters of the course, and they focused on the dimly lit stable through which the course ran. Anxiousness shone on all seven of the Salem runners' faces, but confidence dominated their thoughts. Their view shifted to the official, dressed in the standard navy blue OHSAA jacket, standing on a stepladder as he called the runners to their marks. He raised his starter pistol, paused, and then pulled the trigger. At the explosion, all 134 runners broke toward the stable, falling into one giant pack. Salem had begun its mission: to prove that a relatively small school just two years into a new program could compete at the State level.
The crowd, seated in the horse track grandstands, erupted into cheers as the race began. From the gun, Patrick Gorby took off in an attempt to latch onto the lead pack. His form was nearly perfect; he had a slight forward lean and an efficient arm carriage. He was a lithe 5'8", 110 with coarse black hair and a long forehead. Patrick appeared effortless as he sprinted to the front of the race; his face would remain stoic and his breathing light throughout the race. Though only a freshman, he had beaten everyone on the team in all but two races this season. What set him apart from was not a higher level of dedication, but an "I must win" attitude. He believed that he was the best, and if he fell short, he could always rationalize it and preserve his self–confidence.
Excerpted from Harriers by Joseph P. Shivers, Paul L. Shivers. Copyright © 2006 Joseph P. Shivers and Paul L. Shivers. Excerpted by permission of Fresh Writers Books.
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Meet the Author
Joseph Shivers and Paul Shivers are cousins, high-school seniors, and winners of the 2005 Fresh Writers Competition, a contest encouraging students to pursue careers in writing. They live in Salem, Ohio.
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