After a few more stretches, and Aaron’s way-too-serious countdowns, it was time to run.
“Okay, so we lost a day yesterday. And y’all know we gotta make up for it today,” Coach said, spinning his car keys on his index finger. The whole team seemed to brace itself—we all knew what was coming. “So here’s what’s going to happen. Coach Whit is gonna lead y’all on the long run as usual. But it’s going to be a little different. All of you who aren’t running relays will run the regular way. But all my relay runners are going to stagger.” Coach Whit stood off to the side, kicking her legs behind her, one at a time, catching them by the ankle and holding them for an extra quad stretch. That should’ve been a sign. If the coaches are doing extra stretches, we’re in for a doozy. “What this means is, according to what leg you’re running on Saturday, that’s the order in which you run this long run. So, for the girls, Deja, you’re gonna start off with everybody else. Same goes for you, Freddy. Stay with the pack. Now when they get about ninety seconds out, I’ll blow the whistle and our second legs, Brit-Brat and Mikey, y’all will start. Your job is to keep a steady pace but not to catch up with the rest of them. Understand?” Brit-Brat nodded.
“Yeah,” Mikey grumbled.
“Ninety seconds after them, Krystal and Eric,” Coach said. I was happy he didn’t call my name, because everybody knows the third leg is the weakest. “And then come our anchors.” Coach held two fingers out and pointed them at me and Curron. “That’s you two.” Curron was known for false starts during his individual eight hundreds, but apparently he was the man as the anchor leg for the relay. And I gotta admit that while today had been the pits so far, I couldn’t help but be a little gassed about the fact that I was chosen for the anchor.
Coach pulled a baton from one of his back pockets. Then from his front pocket he pulled out a small jar of Vaseline. He popped the top off, slathered the baton in the petroleum jelly, and handed it to Curron. Gross! I could tell Curron thought so too. Then Coach pulled another baton out and gave it the same oily rubdown, handing that one to me. Uuughhhh. “Patty, after the other day, plus your temper tantrum last meet, I wasn’t sure. But I feel like you’ve got the heart for this. Like you can handle this responsibility. I don’t know why, but I feel like you’re the comeback kid. Prove me right,” Coach said like a cornball before releasing the baton.
“Got you,” I said, cool, switching hands, wiping the grease on my shorts.
Coach cleaned his hands on the towel that seemed to live around his neck, then raised his voice. “Listen up. Here’s how this is gonna go, relay squad. Every time you all hear me hit the horn, the person with the baton has to run and catch the leg in front of them. Call out, ‘Stick!’ Whoever is receiving the baton cannot turn around—you have to find the rhythm of the run, reach back and take the baton, just like you went through on Tuesday. Then you continue running on pace until you hear my horn. Then the person with the baton has to catch the next leg and hand off the stick. At the end of the run, all first legs should have the baton, and you should all be together. You start apart, but you end together. Everyone needs to make sure of that. This is like a reverse relay, but it’s good to push ourselves, especially since as relay runners, a lot of times it’ll be your job to eat up track and make up time. If anyone messes up the handoff and drops the baton—I don’t care that it’s slippery—the relay team has to start the process over, meaning, if Mikey drops it, we start again with Curron. Got it?”
We all just sort of nodded, numbly. This was going to be hell.
“I don’t understand nods and I can’t read minds,” Coach growled.
“We got it, Coach,” Mikey said, putting on his game face.
“Yeah, Coach,” Krystal said, game-faced too. “Pass and don’t drop.”
“Again, everyone is responsible for everyone. In relay, you win and lose as a team. You are not two legs, you are eight,” Coach droned. “Now, the rest of you non-relayers, you know what this is. Ghost, I don’t wanna see you in last. Lu, if Ghost is in last, you owe me a mile.”
Lu’s mouth dropped. “What?”
Coach ignored him and kept on preaching. “And, Sunny, if you don’t finish first, you’re gonna be running sprints.”
“Got it, Coach,” Sunny said, totally unflustered.
“The best never rest. Now let’s get it.”
“First legs and non-relays, follow me!” Whit said, taking off. Me, Krystal, Curron, Mikey, Brit-Brat, and Eric all hung back. Coach eyed his stopwatch and as soon as it hit ninety seconds, I guessed, he blew the whistle and Brit-Brat and Mikey took off. After another ninety seconds, the whistle blew again. Krystal and Eric headed out. Curron and I were last, holding our greasy batons, waiting for our whistle. Coach made his way to his taxi—the Motivation Mobile—had his arm out the window, the other holding the stopwatch. Then, wheeeet! And me and Curron broke out, off the track, through the grass and onto the street, seeing sets of two in front of us, and in the far distance the jostling mob of colorful cutoff T-shirts and jerseys, bush-balls and cornrows, and farthest ahead, Sunny, tall and light, towering above everyone.
“Just keep pace,” Curron suggested, as we trotted down the street. “If you can.”
“If I can?” I shot back. I was not in the mood for his mess.
Curron tried to back it up. “I mean, not because you’re not fast, but because my legs are longer,” he said, opening his stride. But he clearly had no idea who I was. Patina Jones. No junk. Frida in a suit. Mary J. Blige in track shoes.
“Uh-huh,” I said, the baton glinting in the sun every time I lifted my right arm. I opened my stride too. And then, the horn.
“Let me see you push!” Coach shouted from his window as me and Curron started running faster. I needed to beat him, or to at least be with him. Didn’t matter if his legs were longer. Did. Not. Matter. I got the legs of two people, me and my mother. We pounded down the street, gaining on Krystal and Eric, who had just reached a construction site. Workers in hard hats were hoisting big metal containers on ropes and hooks up to the roof of a building. Krystal and Eric cut into the street to get around the orange cones and yellow tape, and we would have to do the same. Thankfully, there wasn’t much traffic.