The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner -For Billy B.

If you did not know what happened to the late Peter Paul Markin who used to write for some of the alternative newspaper and magazine publications that proliferated in the wake of the 1960s circus-war/bloodbath/festival/new age aborning before the ebb tide which is still with us here is a quick run-down as prelude to this story written by the later Allan Johnson who in memory of his long mourning for his boyhood corner boy bastard saint took his name as a moniker on various blogs and other social media he was associated with before he lost his long fight against cancer. RIP, brother.  

 

Markin had a lot invested emotionally and psychological in the success of the 1960s “fresh breeze coming across the land” as he called it early. Maybe it was that ebb tide, maybe it was the damage that military service in hell-hole Vietnam did to his psychic, maybe it was a whole bunch of bad karma things from his awful early childhood that he held in check when there were still sunnier days ahead but in the mid-1970s he snapped. Got involved in using and dealing cocaine just starting to be a big time profitable drug of choice among rich gringos (and junkies ready to steal anything, anytime. anywhere in order to keep the habit going). Somehow down in Mexico, Sonora, we don’t know all the details to this day a big deal Markin brokered (kilos from what we heard so big then) went awry (his old time term for something that went horribly wrong) and he wound up face down in a dusty back road with two slugs to the head and now resides in the town’s potter’s field in an unmarked grave. But the bastard is still moaned over, moaned to high heaven. Sam Lowell     

 




From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin (Allan Johnson) 

  

…he, that daring black knight that some magi had prophesized , came out of the hundred generation hard-scrabble fierce warrior riff, came out of the ancient Atlas Mountains drawing strength from Rock of Gibraltar ocean swirls and hatreds of French cutthroats and Spanish perfidies, came out of the high Berber al Kim country scene of a thousand righteous battles, some won, some lost, came out of the dusty back roads of some Gide hot sun white nighttime nightmare , of some automobile kicking up dusts as some colon decided to blow some dust for kicks    came out of the Casablanca Kasbah, the bazaar, rugs, fruits, contraband, whiskey, flaming hookahs for meditation opiums and nirvana  whatever a man needed, or wanted, and could pay for, not some ironic Ricks’ Café scene but a black knight black market, all shivering and bright. He came out of the Moroccos when all was said and done.

 

He came like the wind, he came like Allah’s own curse on a pagan world, he came to conquer the big boys, the fast boys with their sweaty socks and shining suits, the black knight ready to run them down like some many bothersome curs. No more sly secret pokes from savage white suit and panama hat aging European white men looking for kicks in the Kasbah night, hookah in one hand, and some felon boy in the other,  no more dusty back roads coughing like crazy, no more laughter from veiled girls wandering along the roads, wondering like some old time North Adamsville cashmere sweater girls wondered in their time why a seemingly rationale guy was running the roads, the dusty tubercular roads,  running as if his life depended on it, and it did. That was where the fellahin met up, their dreams anyway, fellaheen black knight and fellaheen North Adamsville fast boy, Billy Brady, trying against all odds, a generation or more back, to break out of  yet another generation of fellahin madness, their dreams of breaking out, of being just that much faster that the next guy. 

 

And then  on some bright North Africa day, Allah smiling, or some god smiling, maybe that ancient god of running, the one that protected  young Greek boys from aging hipster pokes, protected the Olympus fiery- flamed fires, he ran, ran like the wind, ran like some primeval riffian whirling dervish, ran down some fast boy black man from some other Africa, from some other story, and nailed the thing, and those veiled girls, in private rooms, in very private rooms, would no longer laugh at him, laugh at him in those funny dust-laden shorts, and laugh at that slight tubercular cough…                 

And this

 

 

Funny how things come back to haunt you, or maybe haunt is not just the right word here, but rather another word connoting how you got all balled up over something and it turned to air at the touch after you sweated bloody hell over it to make it come out right but on second thought haunt is probably the right word now that I think of it. I was, probably like you were, over the top in high school about the school teams, especially football and basketball. Many a granite grey, frost-tinged, golden rainbow leaves-changing autumn afternoon I spent (or maybe misspent) yelling myself hoarse cheering on our gridiron goliaths, the North Adamsville Red Raiders, to another victory. Cheering for guys I knew, knew personally, like Bucko, Timmy Terrific, Thundering Tommy, Bullwinkle, Spit (yah, I know, there is a story, a gross story behind that but we will let history absolve that one ), Lenny, and Slam (ditto Spit, and ditto the nature of the story behind it).

 

Oh sure, I was interested in the big issues of the day too. I could, and did, quote chapter and verse on why we should have nuclear disarmament (and backed that wisdom up with my very first appearance at an anti-nuclear bomb demonstration over at Park Street Station in downtown Boston back in 1960 along with a few Quakers, shakers, ranters, panters, and little old ladies in tennis shoes, praise be)), why Red China (yah, it has been a while, People’s Republic, okay ) should be in the United Nations( done deal), and why black people should have the right to vote down South ( a very big done deal, although much remains to be done, damn it). The big literary issues too like who was the “max daddy” of the novel scene between the wars (oops, I better say between World War I and II so you know which wars I am talking about), Hemingway or Fitzgerald? (Hemingway). And, of course, the big, big questions like the meaning of existence, the nature of mortality, and how human civilization can progress. But on any given fall Saturday those issue, those big weekday issues, were like tissue in the wind when the question of third down and six, pass or run, held the world on its axis.

 

Those guys, those brawny guys, who held our humble fates, our spiritual fates in their hands if you must know because many of us took the occasional defeats just slightly less hard than the teams, deserved plenty of attention and applause, no question. But today I don’t want to speak of them, but of those kindred in the lesser sports, specifically my own high school sports, cross country, winter track, and spring track. Running, running in shorts, in all seasons to be exact. I will mention my own checkered career only in passing. It will be filled out more below, although I can tell you right do not hold your breath waiting for thundering- hoofed grand exploits, and Greek Olympus mystical night olive branch glory.

 

What I aim to do though is give, or rather get, some long overdue recognition for the outstanding runner of my high school days, Billy Brady, and arguably the best all-around trackman of the era, the era of the “geek” runner, the runner scorned and abused by motorist and pedestrian alike, before the avalanche of honors fell to any half-baked runner when “running for your life” later had some cache. Christ, even the guys, and it was all guys then, on the just so-so billiards team got more school recognition, and more importantly, girl recognition than track guys, and their king hell on no wheels champion Brady. Hell, even I went over to Joe’s Billiard Parlor (although everybody, let’s face it, knew the place was nothing but a glorified pool hall and that Joe was “connected” connected bookie connected, but the less said the better about that just in case) on Billings Road when the team had competitions.

 

Do you think I was there to bleed raider red for them? Be serious. It was nothing but the boffo, beehive-haired, Capri-pants-wearing, cashmere sweater-wearing, tight sweater-wearing, by the way, honeys (yes, honeys) who draped the tables not being used that drove me there. So there you have it.

 

Needless to say no such fanfare tarnished our lonely pursuits, our lonely, desolate, hands-on pursuits, running out in all weathers. Even the girl scorer was nothing but a girlfriend of one of the shot-putters, and she served only because no other girl would do it, and she loved her shot-putter. So there again. Here is how bad it was- a true story I swear. I spent considerable time talking up to one female fellow classmate whom I noticed was looking my way one day. That went on for a while and we got friendly. One day she asked me if I played any sports and so I used this opening to pad up my various meager exploits figuring that would impress her. Her response- “Oh, do they have a track team here?” Enough said, right? Yes sad indeed, but so that such an injustice will not follow Billy Brady’s very not needing padding exploits to eternity I, a while back, determined to pursue a campaign to get him recognition in the North Adamsville Sports Hall of Fame. To that end I wrote up the following simple plea for justice, the superbly reasoned argument for Mr. Brady’s inclusion in the Hall of Fame:

 

Why is the great 1960s cross country and track runner, Billy Brady, not in the North Adamsville Sports Hall Of Fame?

 

“Okay, Okay I am a “homer” (or to be more contemporary, a “homeboy”) on this question. In the interest of full disclosure the fleet-footed Mr. Brady and I have known each other since the mist of time. We go all the way back to being schoolmates down at Adamsville South Elementary School in the old town’s housing project, the notorious G-town projects that devoured many a boy, including my two brothers and almost, within an inch, got me. We, Bill and I, survived that experience and lived to tell the tale. What I want to discuss today though is the fact that this tenuous road warrior's accomplishments, as a cross-country runner and trackman (both indoors and out), have never been truly recognized by the North Adamsville High School sports community. (For those who still have their dusty, faded 1964 yearbooks see page 63 for a youthful photograph of the “splendid speedster” in full racing regalia.).

 

And what were those accomplishments? Starting as a wiry, but determined, sophomore Billy began to make his mark as a harrier beating seniors, top men from other teams on occasion, and other mere mortals. Junior year he began to stake out his claim on the path to Olympus by winning road races on a regular basis. In his senior year Bill broke many cross-country course records, including a very fast time on the storied North Adamsville course. A time, by the way, that held up as the record for many years afterward. Moreover, in winter track that senior year Bill was the State Class B 1000-yard champion, pulling out a heart-stopping victory. His anchor of the decisive relay in a dual meet against Somerville's highly-touted state sprint champion is the stuff of legends.

 

Bill also qualified to run with the “big boys” at the fabled schoolboy National Indoor Championships at Madison Square Garden in New York City. His outdoor track seasons speak for themselves. I will not detain you here with the grandeur of his efforts, for I would be merely repetitive. Needless to say, he was captain of all three teams in his senior year. No one questioned the aptness of those decisions.

 

Bill and I have just recently re-united, the details of which need not detain us here, after some thirty years. After finding him, one of the first things that I commented on during one of our “bull sessions” was that he really was about ten years before his time. In the 1960s runners were “geeks.” You know-the guys (and then it was mainly guys, girls were too “fragile” to run more than about eight yards, or else had no time to take from their busy schedule of cooking, cleaning, and, and looking beautiful, for such strenuous activities. Won’t the boys be surprised, very surprised, and in the not too distant 1970s future when they are, are passed by…passed by fast girls of a different kind) who ran in shorts on the roads and mainly got honked at, yelled at, and threatened with mayhem by irate motorists. And the pedestrians were worst, throwing an occasional body block at runners coming down the sidewalk outside of school. And that was the girls, those “fragile” girls of blessed memory. The boys shouted out catcalls, whistles, and trash talk about maleness, male unworthiness, and their standards for it that did not include what you were doing. Admit it. That is what you thought, and maybe did, then too.

 

In the 1970's and 1980's runners (of both sexes) became living gods and goddesses to a significant segment of the population. Money, school scholarships, endorsements, soft-touch “self-help” clinics, you name it. Then you were more than willing to “share the road with a runner.” Friendly waves, crazed schoolgirl-like hanging around locker rooms for the autograph of some 10,000 meter champion whose name you couldn’t pronounce, crazed school boy-like droolings when some foxy woman runner with a tee-shirt that said “if you can catch me, you can have me” passed you by on the fly, and shrieking automobile stops to let, who knows, maybe the next Olympic champion, do his or her stuff on the road. Admit that too.

 

And as the religion spread you, suddenly hitting thirty-something, went crazy for fitness stuff, especially after Bobby, Sue, Millie, and some friend’s grandmother hit the sidewalks looking trim and fit. And that friend’s grandma beating you, beating you badly, that first time out only added fuel to the fire. And even if you didn’t get out on the roads yourself you loaded up with your spiffy designer jogging attire, one for each day, and high-tech footwear. Jesus, what new aerodynamically-styled, what guaranteed to take thirteen seconds off your average mile time, what color-coordinated, well- padded sneaker you wouldn’t try, and relegate to the back closet. But it was better if you ran.

 

And you did for a while. I saw you, and Billy did too. You ran Adamsville Beach, Castle Island, the Charles River, Falmouth, LaJolla, and Golden Gate Park. Wherever. Until the old knees gave out, or the hips, or some such combination war story stuff. That is a story for another day. But see, by then though, Bill had missed his time.

 

Now there is no question that a legendary football player like Thundering Tommy Riley from our class should be, and I assume is, in the North Adamsville Sports Hall of Fame. On many a granite gray autumn afternoon old "Thundering Tommy" thrilled us with his gridiron prowess running over opponents at will. But on other days, as the sun went down highlighting the brightly-colored falling leaves, did you see that skinny kid running down East Squanto Street toward Adamsville Beach for another five mile jaunt? No, I did not think so. I have now, frankly, run out of my store of sports spiel in making my case.

 

Know this though; friendship aside, Bill belongs in the Hall. That said, what about making a place in the Hall for the kid with the silky stride who worked his heart out, rain or shine, not only for his own glory but North's. Join me. Let's "storm heaven" on this one.

 

March 22, 2010

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Markin comment, April 10, 2010:

 

I really do want to solely talk about the subject matter described in the headline and that I have forcefully argued for above but apparently in this confessional age, an age when anyone with the most rudimentary cyberspace skills can feel free to sabotage even the most innocent project, the simple task of getting track legend Billy Brady into the North Adamsville Sports Hall Of Fame, I feel compelled to answer, generally, some of the already crazed responses received from old time North Adamsville alumni before proceeding.

*****

What kind of madness have I unleashed? What kinds of monsters have I let loose? Recently, as a simple act of friendship, I wrote a commentary in this space arguing that my old friend and classmate from 1964, Bill Brady, should be inducted into the North Adamsville High School Sports Hall of Fame. Now my e-mail message center is clogged with requests from every dingbat with some kind of special pleading on his or her mind. A few examples should suffice, although as a matter of conscience (mine) they shall remain nameless.

 

One request argued for my writing up something in recognition of his finishing 23rd in the Senior Division of the North Adamsville Fourth of July Fun Run. Well, what of it? Move on, brother, and move faster. Another, arguing for inclusion into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, touted her near perfect imitation of Mick Jagger on Gimme Shelter. Please!! A third sought a testimonial from me for an employment opportunity, including a resume that made me truly wonder where she had been all these years. Here is my favorite. A fellow classmate wanted me to get in on the ground floor, as a financial backer of course, for his idea of putting the ubiquitous teenage cell phone use and the Internet together. Hello! Jack (oops, I forgot, no names) I believe they call that Sidekick, or some such thing. And so it goes.

Listen up- I hear Facebook and YouTube calling all and sundry such untapped talents. Please leave this space for serious business. You know this writer's musings on the meaning of existence, the lessons of history, and the struggle against mortality. That said, at the moment that serious business entails getting the gracefully-gaited speed merchant, Mr. Brady, his shot at immortality by induction into the Sports Hall of Fame. Let us keep our eyes on the prize here. Join me in that effort. Enough said.

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Markin comment, April 14, 2010:

 

And yet what could one make of this twisted saga, other that something, in the water in old North Adamsville, from this unknown fellow townie:

Apparently being Billy Brady’s friend since the “dog days” of Adamsville South Elementary School down in the "projects" is not enough. Recently, strictly as a sign of that friendship, I argued the merits of his case for entry into the North Adamsville High School Sports Hall of Fame. Now it seems that I am to be eternal "flak," you know, "press agent," "spin doctor,” "gofer," or "stooge" for every wannabe “sports figure” whoever donned the raider red garb in any sport, at any time. Isn't there some kind of constitutional provision against indentured servitude? Here is why I ask that question:

 

I feel, after an extended e-mail from Brian Kenney, North Adamsville Class of 1965, a man unknown to me unless my memory is more befogged that usual, now “duty-bound” to announce the latest 'newsworthy note' about this, according to his resume, silky-striding, fleet-footed, fast moving tennis player from the Class of 1965. He wants, as a matter of due, apparently, a full course Bill Brady treatment by me on his behalf as another lonely and neglected “athlete.”

 

Brother Brian, as part of that projected relentless campaign has upgraded his photograph on his class profile page. Yah, I know, for starters, hold the presses, right? Earlier this year he stated that had placed his Commonwealth of Massachusetts driver's license on his class site for your inspection. (For those who did not get a chance to see the picture I have not made this up. I really don't have that kind of imagination.) As one would expect of such a photo, Brother Brian, of course, looked like he had just finished a long stretch in Cedar Junction State Prison (Walpole, for those who have been out of the area for a while). And maybe he had, and just “forgot” to include that in his rather extensive e-mailed resume. Christ, Brian those driver’s ID photos would make the Madonna look like an axe murderess. What did you expect?

 

In any case Mr. Kenney has rectified that situation with a new downloaded photo on his profile page. As to the photo itself, and his pose, there is a method to the madness. Brother Brian insists that one and all should know that he is no longer that slender and svelte tennis player of 135 pounds of his misbegotten youth. Like we could not figure that out for a quick peep, right? He mentioned, in passing, that now people who did not know that he was on the boys’ tennis team will think that he was a maybe a bleeding raider red football player. In short, a person not to be messed around with, a person one would not dream in a thousand night dreams of throwing sand in his face like in the old tennis days. Nice, right? And so it goes. Good luck brother but I swear I do not know you, and while I wish you luck, my eyes are on the Brady prize. And so it goes.

 

Markin comment, June 23, 2010:

 

Below is the traffic on this Billy Brady question, mainly unedited, from an old track guy duffer, Clarence “Shaker” Boren, Class of 1957, that at least has the virtue of being on the subject at hand, mainly, and includes, where necessary, my response:

 

Shaker Boren, Class of 1957, April 16, 2010:

 

Hi, Markin-Good post for us old-timers-I agree that "back in the day" the cross country, winter track and spring track athletes were usually the "forgotten ones," “los olvidados,” as we say out here in San Jose (New Mexico, not California) where I have lived in splendid and sunny retirement the past several years. Although maybe “batos locos” is more like it. You know, crazy, crazy as a loon, for running around in all weathers with just shorts and a white tee-shirt on, and funny black sneakers, or black spiked track shoes that looked like regular shoes, regular Thom McAn shoes, except they has spikes in them. Funny looking then anyway when tennis sneakers, white tennis sneakers (for girls) and black Converses (for guys), were cool and track shoes, with or without spikes were not, definitely not.

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Markin reply, June 28, 2010

 

Jesus, I remember those “uniforms”, black shorts always too big or too small so that they either cut off your circulation, you know where, or practically came down to your knees. Half the time I ran in my white gym shorts, well kind of white by the race time after taking a beating all week in gym and on the roads. They probably could have run the race without me sometimes. And the brazen singlet tee-shirt that draped off your shoulder and made you look like some alluring old- time female movie star like Veronica Lake, or Rita Hayworth. No wonder guys, and girls too now that I think of it, kind of steered clear of us like maybe we were contagious.

 

What you would do to get a “uniform,” and here my memory is clearest, is at the start of the season rummage through this big old cardboard box in Coach Jenner’s class room, a box filled with about twenty years’ worth of discarded shorts and shirts, in all conditions except new, and try to get a fit, as close as you could. I think the track budget must have been all of fourteen dollars then, maybe less, but certainly not more.

 

The shoes, oh the shoes. Well, we were not too bad off for cross country and indoor track (at the armories anyway) because we could wear those old thick rubber-heeled black-striped track shoes that we would get up at Snyder’s in Adamsville Square. And get them cheap because the school has some kind of deal with that store if you brought in a note from the coach. Every fall, starting with freshman year, at the beginning of school there was always the annual trek up there to get my pair. A pair would last both seasons, no problem. Of course those low-tech days shoes, those hard-pounding, asphalt-bending shoes are, probably, at least partially responsible for our later hip and knee replacement worthiness. But the spiked spring track shoes were something else. Again we would rummage through some cardboard box for a pair that both matched (not always the case) and were within a couple of sizes of your actual foot measurement. They were mostly black and looked like shoes your grandmother might have worn, or like Jesse Owens’ if you have ever seen a picture of the pair that he might have worn back in the 1930s. And then, if you did find that elusive matched pair, have to hit the coach up for spikes, if he had them. I do remember more than once, if memory doesn’t fail, having to share spiked shoes with other track team members. Ouch!

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Shaker Boren, Class of 1957, July 10, 2010:

 

…It may have been in part because those sports [referring to cross country, indoor and outdoor track] were not considered "team sports" like football, basketball, baseball, hockey, field hockey, lacrosse, soccer, gymnastics, golf, squash, swimming, tennis, billiards, badminton, volleyball, ping pong, table tennis, darts, and bowling (did I forget any? And I forget, was billiards a team sport then, I included it anyway) since other than the relays (4X440 and 4Xmile, outdoors) each individual ran or did a field event on his own hook, the 100, 220, 440, 880, mile, two mile, shot put, discus, javelin, high jump, broad jump, triple jump, pole vault and the hurdles, high, low and intermediate. (All measured in the English system then: inches, feet, yards, miles, not the metric system, millimeters, centimeters, meters and kilometers, kilograms, and so on). I don’t think anybody, officially anyway, did the decathlon (100, 440, mile, 110 high hurdles, broad jump, high jump, shot put, discus, javelin, pole vault). I don’t think anyone did the hammer throw either. About the only way a track athlete (cross country, winter or spring track, runner or field man) would be recognized would be if he were a star in at least one of the team sports, the big team sports like football, basketball and baseball not billiards and bowling or those other lesser team sports, except maybe soccer.

 

Markin reply, July 11, 2010:

 

…I, by the way, as you seemingly endlessly rattled them off, pretty much remembered the various sports offered at North, although like you I am not sure whether billiards was a team sport or not. All I know is that after the football guys, naturally, in a time when we lived and breathed raider red every granite grey-skied fall Saturday, home or away, the billiard guys always seemed to have the pick of the best looking girls. I would go over to Joe’s Billiard Parlor on non-running days just to check out the girls hanging around, hanging around looking, well, looking very interesting. But let us keep that between us, okay. I, in any case, never took up billiards. Did you? I can’t believe though that I forgot the badminton team, mixed boys and girls. Christ, they were state Class B champions three years in a row during my North time, or maybe twice champs and once co-champs. Thanks for the reminder. I know that we are getting older but I do not think that darts was a recognized team inter-mural sport. I do know that it was an intra-mural sport and that every spring there would be a championship, and every spring my ragamuffin gang that couldn’t shoot straight team would lose in the first round, and lose badly, but I thought that was strictly part of gym class.

I also, since I did cross country and track for all four years at North, pretty much remembered the various events that composed the track programs, indoor and out except, I think that the indoor hurdles, while high, were 45 yards. I also remembered that the events used the English system of measurement and not the metric system then. Although, as you know, the old home town track was actually five laps to the mile so that meant two and one half laps for the 880, and so on. I don’t know what they would be in the metric system. Anyway, the five lap system didn’t help when we went to “real” tracks for pacing purposes.

 

Shaker Boren, Class of 1957, July13, 2010:

 

[In response to an off-hand Markin question about his running career story]… My "running career" at North was only in sophomore, junior and senior years, and was not continuous. As I mentioned before, my 9th grade English teacher Dave Mooney was the reason I considered running. At the beginning of the 10th grade (1954), he called a few of us to his classroom to see if we might be interested in cross country. I took the chance and ended up as the 5th, 6th or 7th kid in most meets that season. That gave me enough to barely get a letter. I didn't compete in the 1954-55 indoor season; because I didn't know it existed. I started 1955 spring track and got as far as running the 880 in the first meet. Sadly, I ran the race with the start of a case of the mumps and ended up missing the rest of the season.

 

I began working nights at a variety store on Billings Road the summer of 1955 and didn't go out for cross country that year. Then a friend, Ron Kiley, convinced me to try out for winter track in the 1955-56 season. We started running the 1000 and even ran in the State Meet at the old Boston Garden. I was near the end of that race. Running on a 10 or 11 lap board track for the first time was scary. In any given race, Ron was ahead of me, because he was faster and had a good "kick" at the end. If he was 1st, I was 2nd. If he was 2nd, I was 3rd, and so on. Coach Jenner switched me to the mile just past mid-season. I still didn't win a race, but came in second once to Natick's 1000 yard State Champion. Jenner even tried to get me to break 5:00 during practice around the circle in front of the school. He put 2 or 3 guys who normally ran the 600 to act as "rabbits," but the best I could do was 5:01.5. Somebody later said the mile wasn't measured right around the circle, but I never knew if it was short or long. I did manage a letter for that season. Somewhere in there coach Mooney had a heart attack and I didn't go out for spring track in 1956.

 

I started cross country in the fall of 1956 with Coach Jenner. We had a bunch of good young distance runners that year, so I was put on the "junior varsity" team, which ran a shorter course. We even ran up and down Hemmings Avenue at the edge of North Adamsville to get some hill practice, and also ran out to Coach Jenner’s house in South Adamsville where he served refreshments. I barely made it to mid-season when I decided to leave the team. I started the 1956-57 winter track season. Then in January I chopped off part of my right index finger slicing bologna where I worked nights. So much for my senior winter track season. Then came spring track again. That time I tried to give it "my all." We held a "Junior Olympics" in which all competed in all track and field events. I was one of a very few who actually did compete in all events even though I still had my arm bandaged from the January accident. Those who competed in everything were given new uniforms and shoes. I think I was near the top in the overall competition, but probably because I did try all events, though the results were far from spectacular. I ran the 880 all season with Ron Kiley again just ahead of me. The most fun race was the last one against arch-rival Adamsville High at Memorial Stadium. Coach Mooney was back and for some reason put Ron in the mile. He also switched Slim Baldwin and Slacker Russ Tandberg to the 880. Jim was a good all-round athlete who also played football and basketball. Russ was a good all-round runner. I thought, "Oh, boy, a chance to win a race." We swept the 880 with Russ 1st, Jim 2nd and me 3rd. I was a bit disappointed, but was ecstatic over our sweeping the race. I thought we had won that meet, but Ron didn't think so. Oh, well. At least my last meet was fun and I again managed to get a letter. Memories that made the rest of life in those days bearable.

 

Regards, Shaker

 

Shaker Boren, Class of 1957, July 22, 2010

 

…[ in response to a question about what got him running from Markin] I probably never would have participated in track at all if it hadn't been for my 9th grade English teacher, Mr. Mooney. See, he was crazy for literature, and made us crazy for it too, so when I found out that he was the track coach I figured I’d try out just be able to ask him questions about Shakespeare, Hemingway, Hardy, and Flannery O’Connor who I was crazy for after reading the short story, Wise Blood. Jesus, Mr. Mooney knew his literature, and poetry too come to think of it. Especially the magical mad man William Blake, Keats, Shelley, Lord Byron, T.S Eliot, W.H. Auden, and William Butler Yeats, naturally, because of the Irish thing. Not much new “beat” stuff though, like Allen Ginsberg with his huge up-front homo fag references and doings and swearing, no howling it, in about every line. That was not to Coach Mooney’s tastes, maybe because he was an old guy and that just didn’t appeal to him. I found out more about it later in college, and read it too.

 

Markin reply, July 23, 2011

 

I’m glad you brought up literature because I was crazy for it too in ninth grade, although I did not have Mr. Mooney but Mr. Larkin. I guess they must have both been crazy for William Butler Yeats because Mr. Larkin made us memorize his Easter 1916 in the Spring of 1961 because of Yeats’ Irishness (even if it was Anglo-Irish, meaning in those days, Protestant Irish, and maybe just maybe not really Irish but I have since learned better). Mr. Larkin sure could make a story jump off the page when he read in that deep bass voice of his and then discussed with us what he had read to us. And asked us questions, hard questions. That’s where Wise Blood came in but also Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea, Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge and lots of poetry like T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland and The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (I loved that name). Like Mooney, no way was Larkin going to tout Allen Ginsberg to a bunch of high school kids although I read his Howl, through the Harvard Square grapevine poetry network that filled every coffeehouse there in the early 1960s. If I remember the names of other books and poems I’ll let you know. What else did you guys read?

 

Shaker Boren, Class of 1957, July 24, 2010:

 

…. [Continuing on with his reasons for taking up running] And I’d also figured that I would be able to stay in shape for the summer beach job as a lifeguard I was promised by running, as well. (That job didn’t pan out because I had cut my hand doing something, cut it badly, and it hadn’t healed in time so I couldn’t swim up to the regulation speed or lift anybody, except maybe little kids.) As for him thinking I could run, Mr. Mooney that is, I guess that he thought my being just over 6 ft. tall and just under 150 lbs. I had a possibility of being a distance runner because most distance runners then, and now too, were tall and thin. He did answer a lot of my questions about literature even though his tall and thin theory was probably wrong. In other words you could be, like me tall, thin, and slow too.

 

Markin reply, August 5, 2010:

 

As for why I ran. I don’t know really except one thing for sure- to get out of the house, to blow off steam when my mother, mother and father, my mother and father and brothers, mix and match the combinations, got on my nerves about, well, about kid’s stuff really when you think about it now. Starting from getting a job (basically why didn’t I do so to help out) to why are you hanging around with the corner boys at Harry’s Variety over on Sagamore Street so much you are going to only get in trouble to why do you need money for this, that, and the other thing since you don’t work and are only going to spend it on some girl, some girl who is just using you (that from mother, usually, read Freudian implications at your peril though). See, really kid’s stuff. But real enough then, starting in middle school, enough to get me out of the house with my long black chino pants (cuffed, as was my odd-ball, off-the-wall fashionista statement then) since I didn’t have shorts, or didn’t like to wear them, or something like that, a white tee shirt and some kind of sneakers, maybe Chuck Taylor’s, and just run over to the oval in front of the high school, run the oval a few times, and I would feel better. So put it down as therapy if you want. To get out of my kid head, and cool out.

That and to play sports, or rather play a sport. Unlike you I was not tall and thin though. But probably like you, if talking to other guys who ran track (not field event guys because they usually were football players or other rugged sports-types) was any indication, it was because no way, no way in hell, was I big enough, brawny enough, physically tough enough or plain old-fashioned coordinated enough, mainly the latter, to play team sports like football, basketball, or baseball. And like I said I was never into billiards (or volleyball or badminton, and the like) so there you have it. The one, sour, lonely attempt at football was in seventh grade when I was a center, a ninety-eight pound center, who go to play in one game (a game that we were far out of reach on as for winning), for about three plays and was manhandled, no kid-handled like some kind of dish rag by the one hundred and fifty pound guys on the opposite side. Enough said.

 

Running was thus the only other option. Now I mentioned that not playing billiards (and the others) idea for a reason. Tell me if I am wrong but part of playing sports, any sport it seemed, or at least it seemed at the time was about using athletic prowess to act as a magnet for the, umm, girls. And it worked, worked big time for the…football players who had more chicks around them than they could shake sticks at, if they were so inclined. Or, like I said before, those damn billiard players who had babes hanging off the rafters. Runners though, and field event guys too unless they were football players got nada, zilch, zero. I already told you about the response of that girl I was trying to chat up –no dice. I also don’t think the running teams collectively got more than one sentence in the daily P.A. end of the day notices. Maybe less. So like I said it was for the joy of running, of being at one with ancient Greek Olympus spirits, of being at one with the ancient marathon men, the ancient wind runners, and nothing as crass and crude as trying to do it in order to be a magnet for babes.

 

Regards, Markin

 

Shaker Boren, Class of 1957, August 13, 2010

 

… [continuing his saga of his high school running career which has probably by now taken him more time to relate than the combined time it took him to run all his races in high school] Coach Jenner was the winter track coach and got me to try the mile after being in a few 1000 yard races in the old Metropolitan Indoor Track League over at the Newton Street Armory in Boston. That was where I first saw black kids running, running like the wind some of them, and others slow like me. But those fast guys were great to watch. I was not so good in that indoor stuff, however, because I couldn’t get the hang of “elbowing” other runners around those tight corners. See, an indoor track is smaller, maybe ten or eleven laps to the mile, and the events are different, the running events anyway, 50, 300, 600, mile, two mile, 55 high hurdles, shot put, high jump, and relays. So a lot shorter program with less choices for events. What I remember most of all from those days was that we always seemed to enjoy ourselves and had a lot of laughs, regardless of a meet's outcome. Although I do not know if Coach Mooney or Coach Jenner saw it the same way, or if their jobs depended on winning or stuff like that. Then maybe we wouldn’t have laughed so much, especially on the bus back to school after losing.

 

I have often wondered if anyone kept track of North's cross country and track meets over the years. Winter track competitions were not always held indoors. During the 1956-57 winter track season we had a meet against Weymouth which had an outdoor slightly elevated board track. We even had to walk through about 8 inches of snow to get to the track. Those were the days. Take care, and keep it country.

 

Regards, Shaker

******

Markin response, August 22, 2010:

 

Shaker- Thanks for the latest attached material and note and all the good information about the years just before Billy and I ran at North. When I get a few hours, or more, I will read it through more closely. Much of the material, at first glance, was unfamiliar to me, especially about the guys who were the third or fourth best runners or field men on a team in the different events in the Metropolitan Track League. It was nice to see that you have remembered those in our era who also tended to be also-rans like us. Most of the names of the coaches, other than North Adamsville’s coaches Mooney and Jenner, were unfamiliar to me as were the locales and conditions of the various track facilities, indoor and out in the Greater Boston area. This seems like a massive task, and apparently you have some time on your hands to compile it. Or was it part of a doctoral dissertation, or something?

I do see in the blizzard of data sent that you guys ran at the same armory (Newton Street) for winter track as we did a few years later. I know what you mean about that elbowing problem because I could never get the hang of it either. I would either get too far inside and get “boxed” in or, if I laid back to avoid the box I would get too far back to be able to get back in contact with the lead runners and would have to run like crazy at the finish. I did have a fast finish, although it was not enough many times, too many times.

The situation was even worst on that outdoor Weymouth track that you mentioned. The oval was smaller, maybe thirteen or fourteen lap to the mile, and so you also got dizzy running it. And always, always, always it would be about seven below zero out when we had the meet because it was usually in January before the Met League got under way. I never ran well there because of the frostbite on my feet, the failure to bring snowshoes, and/or I would get “shuffled off to Buffalo (my expression)” on those hairpin turns. Once I got run off the track on a turn but you probably know all about that. As bad as the Newton Street Armory was it was better than that.

The worst shuffling (although not always to Buffalo) though was in ninth grade in the 600 yard dash that was the only event available for ninth graders then. Every kid, every ninth grade kid who wanted to run had to run in that one event (or maybe they divided in two sections, but either way it was massed chaos like the start of the Boston Marathon these days-for the also-rans) and sprint, sprint like mad for the first corner. That, most of the time, determined how you would do because as you know the 600 is a short, fast race that does not allow much room for error since it was only in a little over a minute, and some change.

 

Markin response, August 27, 2010:

 

…A couple of points for your information [in response to Shaker’s unsolicited, earlier in the day detailed chronology of his life immediately after high school which included service in the U.S. Navy where his ran unattached in Amateur Athletic Union (AAU)-sponsored events]. It is amazing how many good runners, not just average or below average runners like us right after high school, for a number of reasons, also joined the Navy or some branch of the military. That was kind of the point behind my comment about Bill Brady being somewhat before his time as a great runner in one of our “bull sessions.” Nobody from colleges, and places like that, was offering track guys, good track guys, much of anything in those days, especially guys who were not already on the way to college anyway and track prowess was the clincher for acceptance at say, Villanova or New York University, so the military was the escape route from a tough home situation. A few guys told me their stories and from what I can gather they had rougher home situations than mine, and mine was just the ordinary garden variety hell. Unfortunately that garden variety hell was kids’ stuff, pure kids’ stuff, compared to the impeding escalation the war in Vietnam that was staring them dead-ass in the face when they enlisted.

 

By the way looking at the meet results you sent me with your attachment my career in track and cross country seems to have paralleled yours. A few good races but mainly "the slows." I got letters in all three sports but some of them, frankly, were gifts. My best year in cross country was probably in 11th grade. Indoor and outdoor track were not memorable. Like I told you I started running in the 9th grade (actually in eight grade for fun- and to get out of the house) and thought I was going to be a star. As I pointed out in another thing I wrote "A Walk Down Dream Street" so much for some dreams. The reason I ran, at least thinking back on it, and like I mentioned before, was because I was not, and am not now, good at team sports, like baseball or volleyball, yet I wanted to do some physical activity. Such is life.

 

Markin response September 4, 2010;

 

… [in response to Shaker’s observations about the lack of college opportunities in those days for academically-challenged track runners compared to today and whether that affected their performances-Markin] I saw many, many great runner who really had the silky stride and the determination to go for it. I know guys that ran the beaches, the sand dune beaches of New England, mainly down the Cape [Cod] in the early morning summers. I would do some such running but these guys were driven to go farther and harder. With added coaching and some encouragement they could have reached for the stars. Remember that many of the best runners ran for running clubs, like the Los Angeles Striders and Grand Street Track Club (New York City). What a waste of human capital.

 

Shaker Boren, Class of 1957, September 6, 2010

 

[… In response to Markin’s question about his take on Coach Jenner’s coaching techniques, or lack of them]. You have mentioned that Coach Jenner just seemed to be "doing his time" while you were at North Adamsville. I first became acquainted with him when I went out for winter track for the 1955-56 season. I was told that he was teaching at one of the junior high schools while coaching winter track at North. I never had any difficulties in my dealings with him. Maybe my expectations weren't very high, because my "running talent" was somewhat limited.

 

He did seem to pay a bit more attention to those of us who needed more guidance and let the more talented kids just "do their thing." He did seem to want to get the most out of the talent he had "for the good of the team" and may have rubbed a few egos the wrong way. He, like coach Mooney, may not have been perfect, but I felt they both were fairly sympathetic to the weaknesses of all of us. In 1955-56 Coach Jenner was probably around 50 years old, so by the time you guys dealt with him, he was closing in on 60. His seeming to be just "doing his time" may have been due to other causes outside of school and coaching.

 

Who knows? Teachers and coaches are more-or-less human, too. We had a few who may have been a bit on the "nutty side" or may have had problems with booze or at home. Adolescents, as in most eras, don't really understand adults and vice versa. Sometimes it might just be a lack of "chemistry" between pupil/athlete and teacher/coach. Life isn't always "fair" and some of us may not be as flexible or adaptable as we could be.

 

Anyway, I saw Jenner as a decent coach and we may have actually won a few meets with him. We had one runner who was Class "C" State Champion for the 300 yd. dash (George Dolan) one year and later ran for the four years he was at Brandeis University. He told me that in those four years Brandeis didn't win a track meet, but he did end up in their Hall of Fame. However, it is good that you are campaigning for your friend’s being recognized. It is time to recognize the "marginal sports," including those of the past. I have tried to keep up with track at North, but it's not easy from San Jose. I even sent a message to the Adamsville Gazette a couple years ago asking about high school sports, but they said they were not allotted enough space to cover everything. As I said, life is not always fair and we may not always get what we want when we want it. I constantly tell my 9 year old grandson that he should not let frustration cause him to give up on anything.

 

Regards Shaker in San Jose

 

P.S. While touring the old school last year, I asked a guy who seemed to be a teacher or coach why there was little or no recognition for some of the sports teams after 1992, which seemed to have been a banner year. His answer was brief; "Budget."

 

Markin response to Shaker, September 12, 2010

 

Shaker- Thanks for your take on Coach Jenner. It certainly was true that he tended to cater to the better athletes but he left the rest of us to dangle in the wind in my time. But at this remove that is just so much water under the bridge or over the dam, take your pick. I know from my own observations since that time that some high school coaches take on the job as a source of extra income as much as to fulfill a desire to coach. That probably was true, or truer, in the old days when teachers' wages were very poor indeed. That is not the problem that I was trying to address though. What was the problem, as far as Bill was concerned, was that in him Jenner could have had that one extraordinary athlete of a coaching career. And he, frankly, blew it. But like I say, let’s leave sleeping dogs lie.

 

On another matter, a matter of the utmost historical importance I have a question. Did you guys run your practices and official track meets over in the old "dust bowl" off of Hollis Ave near the North Adamsville Middle School, a place where the football team also practiced in the fall? More importantly, did anyone come out alive?

 

Regards, Markin

 

Shaker Boren, Class of 1957, September 19, 2010:

 

… I think the "dust bowl" you refer to is still called Hollis Field. The first time I ever set foot on that track was our first or second practice for cross country in the fall of 1954. We started by jogging 5 laps (1 mile) and the legs were hurting for a week, since I had never really run more than a few yards before that. Then there was spring track in 1955 when I ran my first 880. The mumps prevented me from finishing my first season of track. It may have been that same spring pre-season when I tripped over a teammate's heel and fell. I suffered a pretty bad scrape, but I got up and finished the 220 without looking at the wound. It was just practice, and most of us were trying all events to see where we would fit in on the team. Coach Mooney cleaned up the scrape the best he could with his first aid box. The bleeding soon stopped and I still have a couple cinder chips in my left knee.

 

Anyway, we did have our home track meets at Hollis Field. I don't remember it as being that "dusty," but it was far from being a good track facility. There were bleachers on both sides of the field, but never many spectators. The 5-lap track made it difficult for me when I had to run on a 4-lap (440 yd./400 meter) track. Most of us still had fun at Hollis in spite of its failings. Where does North hold its home meets these days? Most tracks these days appear to have a rubberized asphalt surface instead of the old cinder/dirt. I never have run on such a track. My only running after high school was for the Navy right after high school as an unattached AAU runner, or now an occasional jog around the neighborhood. I tried to get to the Hollis Field in 2007, but was confused by the way they have one-way streets around it. It was easier when we walked from the school to the field "back in the day."

 

Regards, Shaker

 

Markin in response, September 24, 2010:

 

Shaker, thank you for your memory of the "dust bowl." I know, from a trip over to the old oval last year, that Cavanaugh was its real name. Strangely, after not having seen it for something over forty years it was basically the same. A little better surface on the track (although not much). They had taken out, and not replaced, the old wooden bleachers that were there in 1964.

 

Now for my "dust bowl" war story. This saga takes place during the spring track season in the seventh grade, which would be in 1959, when I competed for the newly-minted North Adamsville Junior High School (now Middle School). If you recall the dash was about one hundred yards and was in those middle school years the longest race junior runners could run. I assume, like with young girls and older women for an even longer period then, that the running gurus of the time, the august Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) probably thought that any greater stress than about eight yards would give us heart palpitations, or something. In any case, as I have mentioned before, I had the "slows" which were not so bad in longer races which required more stamina than speed but which would leave me in the dust in so short a race. Nevertheless I was determined to try it. Naturally, also being somewhat teenager clumsy I fell down, or was tripped, after the start of a dash. I took “cinders,” as you mentioned in your comment. Last year I had a knee replacement operation and noticed that the cinders were still there. I believe that I should get a "purple heart" and maybe a veteran’s pension or something, right? Do you have a "cinder" story?

 

Regards, Markin

 

Shaker Boren, Class of 1957, September 26, 2010:

 

That's what's good about getting more people involved in these message swaps. I stand corrected concerning the name of the old "dust bowl." Cavanaugh Stadium does ring a bell. Have they put that rubberized asphalt on the track?

I just remembered another incident that could have been fatal to one of our track team mates about the spring of 1957. The team's javelin throwers were practicing one day and one of the other guys took it upon himself to throw the javelin back to them from the other end of the field after each toss. The "returner" was waiting for one of their tosses when it seemed something off the field distracted him. The javelin grazed one of that "returner's" eyebrows, nicking him slightly. Talk about lucky. Another centimeter and the thing would have lodged in his eye socket and probably killed him. He didn't say much for a few minutes and had a very surprised expression on his face. I ran into that guy at our 50th reunion last year and asked if he remembered the incident. He laughed and said, "Oh, yeah. I haven't been the same since." He was another of our good all-round athletes and had a heck of a sense of humor. Good to see he still has it.

 

As an aside to that incident, I think it may have been Coach Dave Mooney who had told us that most high schools in the Western states didn't have the javelin throw as one of their events. That's still true today, at least here in San Jose. That scary incident at Cavanaugh Stadium kind of confirmed what he had said. Curiously, the discus probably isn't much safer.

Anyway, thanks for the correction.

 

Regards, Shaker

******

Markin response, September 28, 2010:

 

….Shaker- is there anyone who went on to that track [the dust bowl of blessed memory] (at least in the old days) who does not still have cinders somewhere on their body as a reminder of their youthful activity? I asked around about it and, naturally, one and all related their “cinder” experiences. Was this a "rite of passage" from the vengeful track gods and goddesses? I think you could still pick up some these days from what I saw of the track last year.

 

Okay, let’s keep what I have to say next between us. I have never known a javelin thrower, ah, a spear-chucker, or “returner” who had the sense that evolution has given geese. These guys (and nowadays, gals) lived in a world of their own, probably deep down in some recess caveman remembrance thing and that is probably why the Tarzan in the story you related barely remembered the incident. All I know was that whenever I ran, or meant to run, I checked, and checked carefully, to see if the javelin boys were “practicing.” If they were I, and other runners as I remember, would run out in the streets. It was safer there, honking horns and all, a lot safer. Hey, and the swarthy, whip-lashed, spin-dazzled discus throwers were not much better, believe me. In fact the only field men that had a lick of sense were the shot putters, although maybe I am giving them much the best of it. I do know I was sweet, secretly sweet, in order to protect my life even now on our number one shot putter Caveman McKenney’s girlfriend, Beth. But like I say let’s keep that between us. I think she married him.

 

Regards, Markin

 

And so it goes.