The rest of the season was sort of anti-climatic after that. Sure, I blew every body away at time trials. I was the fastest 440 runner in the school, even ahead of the juniors and seniors. But my shin splints forced me not to run as much as I’d have liked. Our first individual track meet was against South High School, where both my parents had gone to school. A big black guy from South High came over to where our team was stretching out. “Wheh's Luv-less?” he yelled. I said I was him. “I’m gonna try and beat you today!” he said.
“I’m not running the 440 today. I’m running the two mile.”
He was disappointed. Everyone was disappointed. I was disappointed. Somehow I felt that the two mile would have been easier on my legs that day than the rapid and pounding 440. Hindsight tells me I should have just endured that and done it. Maybe I was just chickening out from the pressure. But Coach Tripp was never excited about me running the 440 again. I soon settled in and ran the 880. And every year it was that way. I watched other guys get all the glory in the 440, while I languished in the 880. And I knew I could beat all the runners in the 440. But Coach Tripp told me I was too valuable in the 880. But what he was really saying was, “You let me down when we desperately needed you in the 440.”
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