An Ode to Life
“Life is hard sometimes. Life is about recovery.” -George Gervin
This will be the first article I’ve written in over six months. Until recently, I didn’t know if I would ever write another one again. It just didn’t seem to matter anymore. Nothing did. The roots of my despondency dated back to an article I wrote on April 14, 2012, entitled “My Man Cam,” regarding the death at the way-too-young age of 28 of one of my former athletes and close friends, Cameron Akers. Cameron was the first hurdler I ever coached who could compete on a national level. In his high school days, I looked upon him as the younger brother I never had. And he looked upon me as the father he never had. If not for Cameron, I doubt I ever would have gotten as deeply involved in coaching as I have.
Cameron died on February 14, 2012, a little over a week after he had visited me one joyous weekend spent reminiscing, catching up, and taking in a track meet.
His death devastated me. It debilitated me far worse than I was willing to admit. I continued to perform my tasks as a teacher, coach, father, and husband, but my heart wasn’t into anything. I was going through the motions, making it through the day.
After Cam’s death, I often found myself feeling sickened by the competitiveness I saw all around me – from opposing coaches, from anxious parents, even from my own athletes. Not until this past spring did I begin to realize that the problem was with me, not with them. I was the one who had changed, not them.
When I’d see a coach eagerly seek out an official to point out a rules violation that could lead to more points for his team, I’d think to myself, Am I supposed to act that way too? Any chance to gain points is a chance worth taking, right? But doesn’t the kid matter more than the points, even if the kid isn’t on my team?
I remember one time one of my hurdlers was voicing her frustration to me over the fact that she hadn’t dropped hardly any time in the course of the year, and she couldn’t understand why, considering that her teammates were dropping time even though no one worked harder than she did. And I thought to myself, It’s YOU that matters, not your time. Can’t you see that? But I knew I wasn’t supposed to be thinking that way. I knew I was the one who was supposed to be developing new strategies to help her run faster. The disconnect was very real, and it grew and grew. I just didn’t care, and I couldn’t make myself care.
Coaching had gone from being a joy, an escape into a blissful world, to being a chore, an obligation, a headache, a burden, an absolute pain in the ass. About a week before the school season ended, coaches from club team I coach for were asking me when I’d be coming out to practice, when I’d be ready to start. I was like, damn, I ain’t gonna get NO kind of break.
A few months ago I was reading a book in which the author said that the best thing to be in life is useless, because when you’re useless no one expects anything of you, no one is making any demands of you, draining of you of your time and energy. I disagreed when reading the passage and thought that attitude sounded rather selfish, but now I realize how valid it was. In developing a reputation as a hurdling expert, I had become a victim of my own success. I couldn’t get away from me. I couldn’t get away from Coach McGill who had coached so-and-so back in the day, whose hurdlers always represented well at the big meets.
I found myself resenting people.
After a home meet in early March, I fussed at my group of sprinters and hurdlers because many of them had been kicking a soccer ball around in the infield instead of warming up for their races or cheering on their teammates. We officiate our own dual meets, which means I’m always working as the starter at home meets, which means I can’t really coach. Early in the meet I had seen the soccer ball being kicked around, and I told one of our captains to take care of it. He said he would, and he did. But later on in the meet the soccer ball appeared again. That’s why I grew so angry in my talk to the kids after the meet, to the point where I dropped an F bomb, which I never do.
I don’t think anything gets under my skin like a kid with talent but no work ethic, and we had several of them last year. But because track was a no-cut sport at the school where I was coaching, there wasn’t much I could do except demote them to b-team relays and make them stay home when we traveled to away meets, neither of which seemed to bother them at all. I don’t understand how anyone can have the gift of health, the gift of life, and just fritter it away. What’s the matter with you? Such apathy has always bothered me, but last year it was just unbearable.
Another episode occurred this past May. The school I coached for hosted the state championship meet, and our head coach put me in charge of the hurdle crew. Perfect. Right down my alley. But stressful. Since most volunteers don’t know the first thing about efficiently moving hurdles on and off the track, setting them at the proper heights, on the proper marks, etc., I had to teach them all that, and execute the plan, all while trying to coach my athletes through their warm-ups. Before the finals of the girls’ 100m hurdles, I told the crew to let the hurdlers move hurdles around and warm up however they want to, but “ten minutes before the race, put all the hurdles on the marks, at race height.”
So that’s what we did. Except there was one coach who wanted one of her boys to have a little extra time to warm up, since he had just come over from high jump. I was like, “No, we need to set them up for the race.”
She grew real angry with me, claiming I was being unprofessional, and she threatened to turn me in to my head coach. She grabbed the hurdle and raised it back up to the boys height so her boy could do a warm-up rep, and I reciprocated by grabbing the hurdle and lowering it back down for the girls race. It got pretty ugly and people were staring, including the hurdlers, who I’m sure would’ve preferred to focus on their upcoming race instead of watching the two of us go at it like a couple of clowns. She finally asked me if her boy could do one rep, and she promised she’d lower it back down immediately afterward. I relented, walked off to the infield, but I was fuming. Here I was trying to do my job and this b*tch was messing up my flow. And I was already stressed out to the max because I was trying to officiate and coach at the same time.
Not until later – the next day, really – did I realize the rival coach thought I was trying to sabotage her athlete, that I was engaging in gamesmanship. She thought that I thought that if I didn’t allow her athlete proper time to warm up, my athlete would have an edge over him. The truth is, that was the furthest thing from my mind. My mind doesn’t work that way. And once I realized that was her logic, I just felt so exasperated. I thought to myself, I don’t want to do this anymore.
Finally, there was the Junior Olympic national championships in Baltimore at the end of July, 2012. My mom lives in Delaware, so I decided to stay with her instead of staying in a hotel near the track. I hadn’t seen my mom since Christmas, and this would be my last opportunity to do so before being swallowed whole by the beginning of another school year. So for three days in a row, I drove an hour from my mom’s house in Delaware to the track at Morgan State University. Two hours total per day, with an unavoidable $5 toll on I-95 on the Northbound trip. And it was hot as hell at the track. And the more time I spent at the track, the less time I spent with my mom. On the last day of the meet, as I was driving into Baltimore, I wondered aloud, “Why am I doing this?” Why was I stressing myself out during the summer as much as I did during the school year? I would rather have just stayed in Delaware and chilled with my mom, watching Jeopardy and solving word jumbles.
So yes, since the death of Cameron Akers, a general dispiritedness gradually engulfed me. Maintaining hurdlesfirst.com got to be too much – too time-consuming, so I let the dust settle on the pages. I stopped following track altogether. All the drugs, the paper chase, disillusioned me. What was the point of it all? I might glance at the Track & Field News website every now and then. I kept up with the careers of athletes I used to coach who were either running collegiately or professionally. That’s about it. When Aries Merritt smashed the world record in the 110’s in the summer of 2012, I didn’t even know. One of my former athletes texted me, “Did you see that?!” I texted back, “Did I see what?” And when he told me, I didn’t much care. I felt so far removed from it all. Back in the day, news that the 110H record had been broken would’ve sent me into an array of somersaults and cartwheels, and I would’ve burst through the front door and sprinted down the street yelling, “Oh my god, what a race!” But after Cameron died, it seemed like my love for the hurdles died with him.
But recent meditations during my daily morning run have revealed to me that my love for the hurdles is still there. That’s the magic of playing the music of the John Coltrane Quartet in your iPod for an hour every day – eventually, you’re gonna get to the truth. As I was contemplating whether or not I should let the website die of natural causes or whether I should try to resuscitate it, I quietly acknowledged that I want it to live. Ideas started involuntarily coming to me. Ideas for articles. The idea of making some videos that break down the various aspects of technique. The idea of revamping the website so that it fits the expectations of the modern-day web browser. The idea of creating an on-line magazine. . . .
So The Hurdle Magazine is, to quote the title of a jazz album by pianist Don Pullen, an “ode to life.” It marks my return to life. My personal resurrection.
This past June I watched a documentary on the NBA channel about all-time basketball great Julius Erving, also known as Dr. J. Having starred for the Philadelphia 76ers from 1976-1987, he was the object of my admiration and adoration during my childhood in suburban Philadelphia. The Doctor was the man. I was ten years old when he joined the Sixers, and sixteen when they won the NBA championship in 1983. The documentary covers not only his basketball career, but also some of the personal tragedy he has endured, namely the death of his younger brother, and then later on the death of his son. In the trailer for the documentary, Erving’s former rival George Gervin, known as the “Ice Man” during his playing days with the San Antonio Spurs back in the 1970s and early ’80s, says, in reference to the death of Erving’s brother, “life is hard sometimes, life is about recovery.”
I was very moved by Gervin’s words. I felt a surge of tears swelling in my eyes when watching that part of the trailer. And I felt very disappointed when his comment didn’t appear in the actual documentary. The Ice Man was right. Life is all about recovery. And anyone who has run over hurdles knows that. Life isn’t about falling down; it’s about getting back up. With the publication of The Hurdle Magazine, that’s what I’m doing. I’m getting back up. I’m recovering. From the loss of a dear friend who brought an ocean of joy into my life.
To Discuss this Article on the Forums, CLICK HERE!
I have recently decided that I will dedicate my life to Cam. Not just to his memory, but to our ongoing relationship. To the friendship we formed that not even death can destroy. More specifically, I’m dedicating my life to the hurdles, because the hurdles were where he and I connected. They are also where you and I connect, and that is a beautiful thing.
