A Story about York High School

I wrote this story a few years ago while participating in the Oregon Writing Project summer institute.  I had just finished my first year teaching, which was the hardest year of work I have ever experienced.  This class offered a good boost in morale.  This was a piece I wrote, and read to a bunch of teachers on the last day of class.  It is mostly true:

The Mile

by Billy Nee

Today’s the day for the mile run in gym class.  Growinkle’s gym class.  A man that doesn’t talk but barks.

“Awwright lets go, it’s mile day”, Growinkle mumbles as if a toad were puking in his mouth.  He is used to ordering football players around and is hardly equipped to deal with 140-pound misfits.  I didn’t wake up today with a plan, but I know I have no desire to run this mile because Growinkle says I have to.  He can’t make me run; he can bark, grumble and yell all he wants.

Growinkle begins to mobilize the troops.  We begin gym class with some warm-up exercises and stretches; I sit on the sticky floor near the three point line.

“Oonn yer back, sit-ups; letss go!” 

I move slow, really slow, and settle in on my back, and pause for a second enjoying the view of the ceiling.  But the sound of Growinkle counting abruptly interrupts my small moment of solitude.

 “RRH…EHH…RRR …OOO…RRH…EHH.”

If anyone over the age of two walked in, they certainly wouldn’t recognize this noise as human being counting.  It is more like the rhythmic revving of a 15 year old chainsaw.  Every sit up I do lifts my shoulder blades only a few inches from the ground.  After ten, we prepare to do pushups, which is the same drill.

“RRH”, inch, “EHH”, inch, “ARR”, inch.

After our “warm-up”, we begin our walk through the grassy roundabout to the track across the street from the school.  I can feel the anticipation building as my classmates stretch their necks and start making goals for their time.  And since Growinkle is leading the way we are moving slow.  He built like an egg, and it seems his knees no longer work. 

“I am not running, this is fuckin’ stupid,” I whisper to myself as we make the final leg of our pilgrimage across St. Charles Rd.

            Shortly after I finish this muted proclamation I notice the thump of Sully’s footsteps behind me. “Hey Sully you want to walk this thing with me” I ask without hinting at the anger brewing inside of me.  “Who cares?” I continue.

Sully is an outcast at York.  Invisible.  He’s really quiet, has thinning pasted hair, crooked thick glasses and is working on becoming an Eagle Scout. He doesn’t talk to many people, but I know him from working together in the school print shop the last two years.  Since he is not the athletic type and hardly in mile running shape, he agrees.

            “Okay,” he mumbles as he walks uncomfortably is his overly pulled up Kelly green York Duke shorts.

            As we reach the track, Growinkle lets out something between throat clearing and a growl to get our attention.  Sully and I walk toward the track.

            “Alllrriight, four laps to finish,” Growinkle forces out directly from his ample belly.

It is a pleasant spring morning. The students gather at the start line as Growinkle readies his clipboard and stopwatch.  I take my position as if I were running the 100-meter dash at the Olympics.  Next to me, Sully stands uncomfortably aloof.

            “Lets do this thing! I’m ready!” I announce.  Who needs the presidential fitness award anyway?  I’m not gonna break a sweat for Growinkle or the President today.

            “Rourrww,” Growinkle forces out intending to sound like “go”, gazing intently at the confusing technology of a stopwatch. 

I stand up from my sprinters position and we begin our triumphant walk.  The track is bright red, and soft and easy on the feet.  Spring green grass covers the center of the field sparkling in the morning sunlight.  As the rest of the group starts to round the corner ahead of us, Sully and I are left behind.  We are alone.  Sully and I talk about the new Baum folder and silkscreen press. 

The first lap passes, and as expected Growinkle’s toad yells, his face gets increasingly red and moist, and his giant Rose Bowl ring on his fat finger from his glory days glints in the sun.  “Three more to go.  We are going to be out here all day,” I say to Sully, pleased with myself. 

A few super star runners begin to pass us.  “You guys want to walk with us?” I ask, receiving only a glance in their peripheral vision as they pass.

As the second and third lap pass more diligent students continue to pass us.   I can hear their breathing and shoes slapping as they approach behind us.  Most of them say nothing, keeping their objective in mind.  I can tell I inconvenience many of them as they run around us.  I don’t care.

Sully is not very talkative but I continue to ramble, “isn’t it nice out today,” I say, as my mood continues to brighten. I confess to Sully that I have never walked the mile in gym class. “I like to run the mile, but not for this asshole, not today.”  To this Sully exposes a sheepish grin.

As we begin our forth lap Growinkle barks, “CommmoonNee, letts go,” somehow ignoring Sully’s participation in this great walk, and follows with one more order that on the football field would be considered motivation.  “LEssssgo!” I just smile and keep walking with Sully.  I am used to hearing statements like this from him.  There are many gym teachers, but I always seem to pull the Growinkle straw.

            Eventually Sully and I reach the half-way point of our fourth and final lap, I am not sweating, but notice that Sully has begun to perspire a bit.  Everyone in the class is finished, and recovering in different areas of the grass, everyone except Growinkle who is standing stopwatch and clipboard in hand.  

I can feel the pressure to finish as the whole class waits for our final 200 meter stroll.  The pressure to break into a run and join the rest of the class is beginning to get to Sully.  He begins to wipe the sweat on his sleeve.  I try to encourage him by stating the obvious, “we’re almost there.”  Even though I know with everyone watching this last bit will seem like a short eternity.

            “You…um…want to run the rest?” he asks shifting his magnified eyes.

My words of encouragement have failed

            “No fuckin’ way! I’m walking,” I say with a grin.

We walk for a few more seconds, but with only 150 meters left, Sully decides he can take it no longer; he prefers the role of anonymous outcast.

“But we are so close,” I tell him in a last ditch effort.  He shrugs his shoulders.  It is obvious that this never held the same meaning for him. “See ya at the finish line,” I say as he begins to run.  Sully is not a graceful person; as he begins his off rhythm run, I see his shorts creeping into the crevice of his buttocks. 

I continue my walk, enjoying the spring breeze.  The reflection from the metal bleachers to the right of the track blinds my vision of everything but the giant potato with the clipboard and the lumbering silhouette of my former ally sprinting toward the finish line.

Sully finishes at a spry 13:37.  As I cross the line Growinkle stops the stopwatch at 14:07, he shakes his head and grumbles, “I’m disappointed in you Nee.”

I smile with the biggest f’-you grin I can manage.