April 20th, 2006
Damn Kyle and his damned snoring.
I blink the sleep from my eyes for what feels like the fiftieth time, willing the bitter hotel lobby coffee to resurrect me from the living dead. But between Kyle sounding like the sasquatch last night and the incredibly uncomfortable sofa I slept on, I don't have much hope.
The Northeast Athletic Conference is a full weekend affair, and this year, it's one of our last championships together as the Crows.
Outside the hotel, the Vermont air remains crisp and cool despite it being the end of April. My legs still aren't recovered from being cramped up on a bus for more than six hours, and a night of no sleep certainly doesn't help.
Sighing, I stretch and take another swig of the pitch-black coffee.
This past month has been a surprising blur of developments. I aced my calculus midterm, and I'm doing surprisingly well in the rest of my classes. I've even begun researching summer lab positions within the exercise science department, which would give me a leg up if I ever wanted to go into research or work at the university level.
Turns out Dad was right -- all I had to do was try.
Cass is doing much better now that she's no longer with that jerk. She seems happier and lighter, and on the rare occasion our floor eats breakfast together in Pelican, we are able to sit and talk to each other without being awkward.
Neither of us have mentioned what happened in her dorm room last month. I don't know if she will ever bring it up -- not that I'd blame her if she didn't, of course. I can't imagine her wanting to relive the trauma of that night, especially with me.
I've thought about her a lot recently.
For a wild, reckless minute, I did wonder whether she and I would get a second chance after Aram left the picture. I thought maybe we just missed our moment, and met at the wrong time. But now, it's harder and harder to ignore the fact that what existed between us last semester is slowly becoming part of a distant past.
She is different, and so am I.
I glance around the lobby and push my empty paper cup away. Nostalgia isn't a good head space for me pre-competition. I rub my eyes again and stand.
The elevator closest to the lobby dings as Jesse steps out. He catches my eye and saunters my way, dropping into the vacant seat across the tiny table.
"Mornin'," Jesse grunts. "You look like hell. I take it you didn't sleep?"
"Nope."
"Me neither," he yawns.
He unsuccessfully tries to flatten his hair, which springs enthusiastically back up.
"Your family's coming today, right?" he asks.
"Yeah, though I don't know why... it's a hell of a drive."
"Hey, I'd be ecstatic if my family came to watch me jump," he grins. "You've got it good."
"I know," I chuckle, meaning it.
Mom and Dad insisted on coming to watch me jump this weekend. Having their support at the NEACs means the world to me.
We are interrupted by a mob of black and green bodies as Sampson, Zeke, Bradley, and Eric pounce on us from behind.
"Guess who?!" they howl, cackling and slapping us on the backs.
It's a good thing my coffee cup is empty, because my head careens into the table, sending the cup flying across the hotel floor.
"Watch the moneymaker!" I jibe, elbowing Zeke away.
"It's no wonder you're poor," he taunts in return, snickering. "Ready for today?" Zeke pokes me in the arm.
"Ugh. Yes. Stop that," I swat him away.
"I'm hungry. Where's Wong?" Bradley asks.
"Still sleeping," I mutter.
"Let's go eat," Sampson says.
In unison, we stand and follow Sampson towards the freshly filled buffet lines.
By the time I return to my chair with a plate loaded with sausage, eggs, and fruit, the lobby begins to flood with athletes, some from CHU and some from other competing schools. The air becomes alive with anticipation and energy as the hotel staff watch us from afar like we are wild animals, and they are nature photographers on an expedition.
I down my food gratefully, happy to be sitting alongside my teammates. Nostalgia forgotten, I try to soak this moment in with my team.
Because time is not on our side, and we won't be together like this again.
---
There's a chill in the air and the sky is dotted with fast-moving clouds as we make the short drive over to the massive UVM track and field stadium.
The reception area is packed with people. Nearly everyone who is someone in the track and field world is here. We pass teams from Long Island University, Dartmouth College, Penn State University, and Maryland. There are at least twenty schools represented here today and judging by the influx of people around the complex, many spectators have come to watch.
Once our team checks in, Coach Dillon leads us out of the building and onto the field. Even with numerous volunteers, meet officials and assistants setting up equipment around the track, the open space feels vast and empty. Coach signals for us to stop as we approach a more deserted spot and turns to us. Coaches Mackey and Friedman flank him, and the rest of us gather around in a circle, waiting for him to speak.
Coach D surveys us silently, almost prayerfully, as we face him.
"This is it," he declares. "We made it to the NEACs."
The atmosphere is tense with reverence and grief. We huddle closer together, clinging onto each other for support.
"Over the years, the NEAC has become a significant capstone for our season as the Crows. Today, we compete together here one last time," Coach Dillon's voice is solemn. "As your coaches, we stand witness to the sweat, tears, injuries, and heartache you've all endured this past year. We see you, and we are damn proud of each of you."
Most of us on the team have marked our faces with small black and green stripes. I glance around at my teammates, most of whom wear hardened expressions full of determination.
We are all in this together, one last time.
Coach's eyes gleam with resolve. "Though we have a few more meets before the end of the season, this is our biggest one. This is the one that matters, the one they'll remember us for. So, when you run today, run for your teammate. When you jump today, jump for each other. Throw with everything you've got, and then some. Show them how, even after having so much thrown at you this year, you're still proud to be a Copper Hill Crow."
We all stand a little straighter and taller as Coach Dillon makes eye contact with us.
"Montes!" Coach calls.
"Yes, Coach!"
Jesse breaks away from the group and jogs into the center of the circle.
"Lead us in a chant."
Jesse turns to the rest of us.
"Actually, Coach, I want Peters to lead it today," he grins and points to me.
All seventy-some pairs of eyes swivel onto me, rooting me to the spot. Someone shoves me from behind.
"Come on, stop stalling. You heard him," Sampson mutters. "Get!"
I don't have time to be shocked. With a forceful push, Sampson launches me away from the circle while the team cheers.
I've watched others lead the team chant tons of times at this point, but I never imagined to be the one doing it. Jesse and the coaches step back into the circle, leaving me in the center. My heart thuds loudly in my chest. Everyone is waiting.
Flashes of the past nine months training, jumping, traveling, and eating with this team flicker through my mind. These are the people who cheered me on at my highest point and witnessed me at my disintegration, and there's no other place I'd rather be than here, with them.
Drawing a breath, I battle my emotions as I raise my voice and yell.
"Who's black and green?!"
"The Crows!" they shout, huddling close and rocking from side to side.
"Who's black and green!?" I roar, fueled by their voices.
"The Crows!"
"Who are we?!"
"The Crows!"
"WHO ARE WE?!"
"THE CROWS!"
Their thunderous cries and cheering detonate around me like cannon fire. We all scream like mad, cawing and flapping our arms in the CHU Crow sign. My teammates jump up and down around me as we yell and hug each other, bolstered by the noise. Through the mass of dancing black and green bodies, I catch Coach Dillon's eye.
He nods approvingly.
---
The men's pole vault competition today is brutal, dragging on and on.
The clouds shift and scatter as the wind starts and stops, forcing each of us to make last-minute decisions that make or break our jumps. Coach Dillon stands to the side along with other coaches, staring grimly ahead while a vaulter from Boston argues with his coach after he fails to clear height again.
Bradley is eliminated early from the competition after failing to clear the first several heights. Both Jesse and Sampson are jumping like aerial artists, holding their places at the top of the heat. No doubt they both want to finish their last season strong. Kyle and I manage to clear a few jumps, but we both struggle to account for the tail wind.
Claps sound around me as Sander Koppel, a lanky, blonde jumper from Albany soars over the bar. He springs to his feet deftly like a large cat as he dismounts.
"They recruited him from Estonia," Jesse mutters under his breath. Sweat drips down his brow from his previous jumps.
"Huh," I hum distractedly, noticing suddenly that I'm next.
The assistants run forward and drop an orange cone in front of the plant box as they prepare to raise the bar several inches higher. I blow out a breath, still tired from lack of sleep, and unzip my sweatshirt.
Coach Dillon strides over to me while I dip my hands into the chalk stand.
"Use the bigger pole this time," he instructs. "You've jumped higher back home. Give those last few steps all you've got."
"Yes, Coach."
I select a larger pole from the racks and move from foot to foot, waiting for the flag to go. A gun goes off in the distance, signaling the start to yet another race, and a roar sounds from the stands.
The orange cone is removed, and I begin to measure my breathing; contracting and expanding my lungs so that I'm flooded with oxygen. I lift the pole upwards, check my clasp, and find my focus.
I take off, lengthening my first few strides before powering into my run. I wait slightly longer to lower the pole and explode into a sprint, running as fast as I can towards the standards. I shove the end of the pole into the box, planting deep – and extend my arms as I rocket my lower half upwards. The bigger pole is slightly stiffer, and I grunt through the maneuver of getting head down as I approach the bar. I twist and arch over the bar quicker than I expect, and nearly let go of the pole too soon.
Just barely, I hang on until most of my body is over the bar, and the pole clatters down to the ground just as I land on the mat.
"Yes!" Coach shouts from beyond.
I clamber off the mat and walk back towards Jesse, Sampson, and the rest of the vaulters. My arms and shoulders are sore, and my right wrist hurts.
The competition intensifies as four more athletes are eliminated after my turn. Rutgers University's sophomore Jackson Navarro hits the crossbar at each of his attempts, and Landon Wilkes from Virginia has a very bizarre mishap during his jump when his pole flies backwards in the air. It knocks down a camera and nearly takes out the cameraman's eye. Jesse holds his standing as one of the top vaulters as Sampson passes his turn, eager to save his next attempt for higher starting height.
Sampson swears audibly when Sander lands another perfect jump.
He glares sourly at the stately Estonian waving happily to his coach and teammates after he hops off the mat. When it's his turn, Sampson yells out and charges forward like a bull, catapulting himself into the air. His foot clips the bar on the way down, and he quickly shields his face during his descent as both the bar and his pole scatter around him.
The judge waves a red flag, and Sampson storms off the pit. The officials block off the pole vault area as the crossbar gets raised once more.
I wipe the sweat from my brow -- it's been a long day, and I'm beat.
I step back to my starting position and pick the same pole I used previously. The exhaustion has finally hit, and I'm suddenly uncertain I'll be able to clear a jump at this new height, especially one higher than I've ever jumped. I'm not performing at my finest, but I knew this would be the case. I prepared myself before coming here today... I want to end my track career remembering how much I love pole vaulting rather than being frustrated about not meeting some expectation.
I can barely see Mom and Dad in the stands on the other side of the field. But simply knowing they are there, watching me is enough. I hoist the pole up once more and begin to breathe.
Run hard. Plant deep. Extend, swing, and fly high.
I bolt, rushing forward.
My entire body lights up, every muscle fiber charged with power and speed. The sounds of the stadium fade away as I zero in on closing the distance between myself and the crossbar, and suddenly I'm fourteen again -- younger, lighter, and less scared and jaded by the fear of falling. I'm transported back to the first time I cleared the bar with Dad cheering me on, a time when I jumped simply because I wanted to and could.
Blinking, I throw myself into the last few steps of my sprint and ram the pole into the earth.
The end of the pole strikes the metal box. The impact is acute and harsh, like my current reality of every missed dream and disappointment this past year, from falling in love with Cass only to realize it too late and being told my track career is over. I feel the impact of the ground vibrate through the pole and into my bones, launching me onto a trajectory I can't change or control.
But like the pole, I can be flexible and redirect its energy at something new.
I grit my teeth and swing up. Blood pools in my head as I hang upside down, and my arms burn with fire.
Fatigue laces my body as I struggle to gauge the fast-approaching crossbar, which suddenly feels impossibly high. Too high.
If I miss this jump, I'll be eliminated.
A new realization dawns on me as I dangle precariously in the sky. For every jump I make, I will inevitably crash back down to earth. I didn't used to be scared of falling, but this past year I've fallen in more ways than one. But falling doesn't equal failure, because I'm already in the air, and I've already taken a leap.
I arch over the crossbar and sail through the air. I land hard, smacking onto the cushioned pit. Panting, I bounce back up and stand. My hip had glanced off of the crossbar during my descent, eliminating me from the competition. But I feel strangely at peace with these results, because it was never about flying over the highest bar perfectly.
It was about deciding to take the leap in the first place.
In the end, Sander places first. Jesse takes second, and I rank fifth. Coach Dillon's satisfied face says it all when the scores are announced. But it's not his affirmation I crave anymore. Instead, I search the stands for my old man.
When I spot him jumping up and down with Mom at his side, I grin and lift my arms over my head in a wave.
Thanks for teaching me how to fly, Dad.
---
We return to campus on Sunday night, just in time for dinner. I traipse into Pelican along with my teammates, each of us hauling our gear, spikes, and sweats.
Our plates and dining trays fully loaded, the six of us cram around the end of a long table to eat.
"Coach seemed happy today," Joy says after a minute, slurping her lemonade.
"Yeah he did," I nod.
"It was a good weekend," Sam chimes.
There's a murmur of agreement around the table before we all dig into our meals. People eye us curiously as they walk into the dining hall. I wave to the ones I know.
Andre sighs.
"I'm gonna miss this next year."
His words hang heavy in the air. Joy picks and pokes at her rice, shoulders slumping.
"Do you have to leave?" she asks sadly.
Andre shrugs. "I've gotta do what's right for me. I'll be closer to home, and though Hofstra won't give me as much money as CHU, they'll let me run. And that's what I really wanna do."
He glances at Kyle wolfing down his pizza.
"What about you, Wong? You gonna stay, or what?"
"I'm staying. My academic scholarship's still good, and it'll help my parents out since my sister's going to school next year. Besides... it's not so bad here," Kyle says, avoiding Athena's eyes.
"I should hope not," she teases, playfully elbowing him.
The rest of us snicker as the tips of Kyle's ears turn red.
"Sam and Zac are sticking around, too," Kyle mutters, trying to deflect the attention elsewhere. "Right?"
"I'm undecided at the moment," Sam says. "Waiting to hear back from UNC. They should let me know by this week if they can take me."
"That leaves you, Peters," Athena smirks. "You staying, or leaving?"
I chuckle and scratch my head.
My friends don't know it, but I haven't stopped thinking about my future -- especially since Dad came to see me on campus. The only other person I'd ever told about my life aspirations after college was Cass. She didn't laugh at me then, so maybe my friends won't laugh at me now. I take a deep breath.
"I'm staying," I tell them. "I might not be able to jump with the team anymore, but I've always wanted to try competitive cycling. Plus, I think I want to try to get a spot in the exercise science lab next year. It'll make me look good for... for graduate school," I flush. "That's only if I wanted to go some day."
"Whoa!" Kyle's jaw drops open.
"Zachary Peters, who knew you were so ambitious?" Athena ribs, smacking Kyle in the head.
"Good for you," Sam grins.
"Everyone's moving on," Joy mopes sadly. "But track won't ever be the same again if the six of us aren't together."
"Don't get me wrong," I insert, gesturing broadly around. "Nothing will ever replace you guys!"
A murmur of agreement ripples around our group.
"We should stay in touch," I suggest. "Even after we all go our separate ways."
"Yes!" Joy exclaims, perking up.
Sam dips his head and picks up his glass.
"To one hell of a year," he declares, raising it up.
"To excellent memories," Athena smiles, raising her cup full of ice.
"And shitty times," Kyle adds.
"Getting our asses lit up all year long," Andre smirks, lifting his glass of Coke.
"To the future, wherever it takes us," I join.
"To us!" Joy finishes happily.
As our glasses clink together, I wish desperately for time to slow down. But because I know I can't stop time, I settle back into my chair and take in my teammates' faces, their happiness and laughter.
I want to savor this memory for many years to come.
---
An hour or so later, I hike up the Swan Hall stairs, ready for a good night's sleep.
The second floor is raucous tonight. Mohan and Dev are playing video games with Noah and some other friends, and many of the girls are chatting out in the hall together with bowls of popcorn and smoothies from Church Street. People wave and call out to me as I tread down the hall, careful not to step on anyone's fingers or toes.
One particular sound carries over the hallway noise -- a rhythmic guitar and Cass singing a Jack Johnson song. Grinning, I drop my belongings in my room before turning around and walking back down towards her room.
I raised my glass to the future earlier, during our impromptu dinner toast. There once was a time I selfishly wanted Cass to be in my future, either as a good friend or potentially something more. This year, I've learned I know very little what my future holds.
Now, I'm letting go of my expectations for my future and embracing a new season. And that means I also need to finally let go of Cass.
But if I'm honest, I think I've been slowly letting her go for a long time now.
I nudge her door open just wide enough for me to stick my head inside. She perches by her desk, strumming happily on her guitar. Her face lights up at my intrusion, and she smiles.
She will always be beautiful to me.
"Hey," I grin. "You busy?"