In the photos from the meet, I look old. I see my father in my face.
He never ran, although he came to my races, not the first few, but, after a while, every one. He would sooner give up an eye than miss seeing me run.
That was years ago. Decades actually. He’s older now, gray hair, ever-so-slightly stooped. Moving slower than before.
So am I, running an oval, taking on a distance that’s as much a part of my youth as baling hay and hunting arrowheads, even if I’m running 1600 meters now instead of the mile. The measurements doesn’t matter. Each time I come down the front stretch, every time I pass before the grandstand, there’s an inner ear expecting to hear his voice.
“Go, Donald!”
Two words.
Only two words.
Always two words.
I miss his being here. I miss his voice over all others. I miss him not seeing me run, even when my running means nothing and my best time today is a minute and a half slower than the PR I set more than 30 years ago — a day when, with certainty, he was in the stands. A time when, without question, I heard him cry out.
I look at the photos, seeing my father’s face. And, it’s not such a bad thing.
Run: 1600 meters — Greenfield-Central All-Comers Track Meet
POSTSCRIPT: I hope he gets a chance to see his granddaughter run cross-country this fall — to smell the autumn-mown grass underfoot, feel the chill in the air, hear the crack of the starter’s pistol and recall races past. And, I hope he raises his voice to cheer for my girl.
