As kids in the 1950s, we tore around like crazy except when formal activities (school, church) intervened. There wasn't much to keep us inside, so we were outside from dawn 'til dusk: running from here to yon. We lived half-a-mile from the local school and walked every day -- rain or shine. Mom insisted that we kids stay together, but the temptation to race ahead was irresistible. Until sixth-grade, I knew one speed: lickety-split.

At some point though, the fun -- the serendipity, the sheer exuberance -- went out of running, and it morphed into something unpleasant, even if beneficial. A necessary evil.

I blame the grown-ups. First, it was parents and teachers always telling us to slow down. "We don't run in the halls," teachers lectured. "Stay in line." "Wait your turn." "No running on the steps!" "Slow down!" "No running on the sidewalk." "STOP!" 

Ironically, coaches also contributed.  Instead of encouraging us to run for the joy of it, they touted the benefits -- primarily conditioning and stamina -- while acknowledging that it was unpleasant. Worse, they used running for punishment. Not paying attention: run laps. Late for practice: run laps. If running is a punishment, then it must be unpleasant. 

Perhaps that's why so few kids went out for track. Ours was a small high school anyway, and baseball claimed most of the spring athletes. But, that alone can't explain the scarcity of track athletes. Simply put, running wasn't supposed to be fun -- and certainly not sexy except for the sprinters -- and that's all there was to it.

Of course, you had to do some running to get into shape for football and basketball, but that was different. Running was a means to an end. With track, it was means and ends. You ran for conditioning, you ran for practice, and you ran for competition. No, the smart thing would be to run away when the subject of track came up. 

So, few kids were out for track and nobody -- absolutely nobody -- came to the meets.  Not even parents and girlfriends. Where's the glory in that? 

The football stadium was packed on Friday nights in the fall, and basketball drew large crowds in the winter. Heck, a few parents, girlfriends, and students even showed up for   baseball games. 

Track? The school could have cancelled the season, and few would have noticed. 

But, I shouldn't complain. The low interest and thin roster probably explains why Coach Finney asked me if I'd like to come out. I liked Coach Finney. He had been my baseball coach in Pony League and Little League all-stars. He didn't seem to have a personal agenda, he treated everyone with respect, and he was fair. To me, that's the Holy Grail of coaching. 

I can't speak for anyone else, but I had a blast. I learned to enjoy running again, and I joined three teammates on an almost-undefeated mile-relay team. Almost-undefeated?  Is that like a little pregnant?  I'll explain in good time.

I didn't know what Coach Finney had in mind.  I knew I couldn't compete with the sprinters: Bill Gunter, James Aman, and Billy McCord. But as I soon discovered, there were plenty of openings anywhere from 440 yards to a mile.  (Americans didn't do metric back then.)

Coach Finney tried me in the 440, and I outran everybody in the trial -- there were maybe three of us -- and that was it.  I was a quarter-miler. He also penciled me in as a member of the mile relay team (4 x 440). 

That's not all I did though. We were so thin that we entered only one person in the 880 (half-mile) and never found a dependable miler. For the conference meet, Coach Finney drafted Joe Pate from the baseball team to run the mile. At graduation, Joe would receive an award as our class's best athlete, but I believe he experienced a little humility that afternoon.  

All of us became generalists out of necessity.  In addition to the sprints and sprint relays, for example, James Aman ran on the mile relay team and was a conference-champion pole vaulter. Besides the quarter-mile and mile relay, I tried the pole vault and high jump with mixed results. There's not a lot of difference between "mixed results" and "limited success."  Mostly spin.

But, it was the mile relay that I enjoyed most. Aman, a football co-captain, ran the first leg. He passed the baton to me -- usually with a lead that I tried to hold. Wayne Hodges, a guard on the football team and a class clown of sorts, ran the third leg. Rex Etheridge, a 6'7" basketball star, came over from the baseball team on meet days to high jump and anchor the mile relay. 

On the face of it, we didn't look that formidable. Aman was a sprinter; Etheridge, a towering basketball player; and Hodges a weight man who threw the shot and discuss.  And, me. I was a band-aid. Drafted by a desperate coach trying to patch up the holes in his roster. But, the pairing turned out to be fortuitous. We won every race until the conference championship.

For the conference meet, there were two heats of the mile relay. There would be no final.  The results would be based on the combined times from the two heats. Back then, we didn't have fancy timing systems. Just an ordinary sundial. Okay. That was a joke. In fact, coaches with stop watches timed the runners. Opposing coaches. 

We ran in the first heat and won handily. Still undefeated. But, in the second heat, the winning team was clocked in a faster time. We had won. And, lost. 

Losing that last race was a disappointment, but life goes on and the disappointments -- large and small, serious and trivial -- have a way of accumulating.  If we're wise, we learn humility and perspective. And, with them, how to distinguish between disappointment and loss. 

I have had a good life since high school, but it hasn't been without disappointment or loss. My brother Alan died in a motorcycle accident at twenty-one. That was a loss. My father died recently but at age ninety. Another loss. But, I've been luckier than some.

James Aman, smart and talented as well as athletic, lost his Mom while in high school.  After graduation, he skipped college and joined the Marines. Handsome and ramrod straight, he could have posed for a recruiting poster.    

He suffered a grievous wound in Vietnam and recovered only slowly. Years later, his son -- an only child -- died suddenly in his early 20's. If there's a more grievous loss, I don't know what it is. 

I can still picture that mile-relay race in my mind after all these year, and I've always believed that if we had been in the other heat, we would have won. But, that's not important. Never was really.