Chapter 12

Skip Chapter Six

On the day I joined the St. Rita Cross Country team in the fall of 1972, I was not exactly in peak physical condition. If I had been, “husky” pants would not have been such an integral part of my wardrobe. I said “joined” instead of “tried out for,” because there were no tryouts for the cross country team. If you showed up for practice and completed the assigned workouts – no matter how long they took you (and they always took me longer than everybody else) – you were on the team.

Joining the team was easy. Staying on it was hard. The workouts were grueling. I was ridiculed for being so slow. And I was so wiped out by the practices that I once dozed off at the kitchen table while eating my supper.

It was no surprise that my Pillsbury-Doughboy™-like, adolescent physique had failed to earn me a nickname like “Muscles” or “Jimmy LaLanne.” And it was also no surprise when, at our first practice, the nickname “Pudge” was unceremoniously bestowed upon me by the jag-off who’d eventually become one of my best friends – Raymond J. Shaughnessy. Fortunately, after a few weeks of practice I’d shed enough weight to also shed that embarassing moniker.

I believed that once I’d logged enough miles I’d become fast enough to stay with the main pack of runners during workouts and races. But I was wrong. Although I put in the same number of miles as everybody else, I lacked the mental toughness and the ability to deal with pain that are necessary to be able to run long distances competitively. From day one I’d developed the habit of falling off the pace of the pack at the outset of every practice and race. And once you lose physical contact with a group of runners, you’re bound to lose mental contact with them, too. Once you’ve done that, you’re toast, and chances are you’ll never be able to catch back up to the pack. At least I never could.

So my teammates were greyhounds and I was a dachshund. At least I wasn’t the slowest guy on the team – that is, until the slowest guy on the team quit. And sure it sucked to be the last Rita runner in at every practice and meet, but what made it worthwhile was that I was still part of a team made up of crazy, hilarious knuckleheads like Neumann and Wolak; Dewinski and Hoeflinger; Cortez and Weston; Ripoli, North and  Jankowski; Doyle and Pirih; Jaskolski and Ternes; Bricker and Lein; Shaughnessy and Nash; Moore and Wojtowicz; and Rogalla and Lodding.

Then one morning, as usual, I was the last one to arrive for homeroom. As I slid into my seat in the last row I wondered why in the world a pack of snarling wolves – i.e., a roomful of 15-year-old boys – was staring me down. And through the early-morning fog my thoughts drifted back 24 hours to when …

… I’d been talking to Gary Piwowarczyk and Dennis Macejak as morning announcements blared over the P.A. Talking was not allowed during announcements, but being a Klenn I was unable to resist. (FYI – Klenns can go on and on and on about how close-mouthed they are, but don’t you believe ‘em. Because in addition to being great talkers, the Klenns are also great liars.)

Just as the announcements were ending, without even looking up from his desk, Mr. Eckert said: “Klenn. Macejak. Piwowarczyk. Write out chapter six for tomorrow.” Three fish caught on a single hook. Unbelievable.

When cross country practice ended that evening Mr. Eckert called me over and asked: “So whattayagot for homework tonight?”

“Uh, some Spanish and Biology … an Algebra quiz to study for… and I gotta write out chapter six,” I said.

“Sounds like you got plenty to do, so just forget about writing out chapter six,” said Coach Eckert. As he strode off to join the other coaches I trotted off to the locker room, grinning like an idiot – which in retrospect was apropos. I took the bus home, ate supper, did my homework, watched some tube, and hit the sack without telling a soul what had happened.

The following morning (back where this story began) I was struck by a thunderbolt of realization. I was the focus of the class’s attention because before I’d arrived, they all must have seen Macejak and Piwowarczyk turn in their hand-written chapter sixes. So if and when I failed to follow suit, my punishment was certain to be ratcheted up exponentially, providing some outstanding early morning entertainment. I stared at the floor as the wolves licked their chops.

I wish I could tell you that I sprang into action and tore some blank pages from my notebook and marched them up to the front of the class. But I did no such thing. I just froze, ashamed by the realization that my tardiness, combined with my absent-mindedness, had painted Mr. Eckert into a corner.

However, I had utterly underestimated my teacher/coach’s resourcefulness, who with a sadistic grin announced: “Instead of having him write out chapter six, after cross country practice yesterday I had Mr. Klenn run sprints till he hurled.”

Holy St. Jude! (For all you non-Catholics: St. Jude is the patron saint of hopeless causes.) As the gallows’ trap door sprang open, Mr. Eckert, with a simple bit of fiction, cut the noose I’d tied around my own neck. The wolves nodded their approval in unison, having found a fictitious barf-fest incalculably more satisfying than an ordinary case of writer’s cramp.

Mr. Eckert never mentioned the incident to me, and I never mentioned it to anyone. And for a long time I’d regretted the fact that I’d never thanked him for bailing me out that day. Then at some point I figured that maybe I had thanked him simply by keeping my yap shut. Ya know, until now.