Red & Black

I come from a LONG line of Coatesville High School graduates. Being inducted into its Hall of Fame for cross country WITH my Uncle Bruce was an honor that, quite honestly, I didn’t feel worthy of.

I was, of course, initially elated to learn the news of such an honor being bestowed upon me. Yet as the event loomed, I felt a growing disconnect. It was a fundamental sense of not deserving this recognition. My high school running career, and collegiate running for that matter, was not what I had dreamed it would be. In both, I had surprising success as a freshman runner and I was soon swept off my feet with high hopes for the future.

I saw names and numbers in the record books. I looked up stats from recent races to check up on the competition. I constantly sought not only self-betterment but elitism. I put the elite on a sky-high podium, forever admiring them and longing to run amongst them.

But the problem with elitism is that it instills this belief in you that no matter what you do, you will never be good enough. After running my heart & soul out, I would frequently feel the euphoric rush of accomplishment of besting an old time, followed by the vicious crash of reality: there would always be better, faster, & stronger women running circles around me.

My obsession with the upper echelon of running was furiously fueled by what I had learned about sports growing up. My sports of swimming and running were rarely televised and, so, I only had access to displays of athleticism once every four years for the Olympics. I watched as the camera screen zoomed in on the top person, perhaps even second and third person being highlighted on the screen. Being swooned over. Being championed. The other top athletes in the world got a hair of a fraction of screen time, acknowledged for their name and origin and that’s about it. The message was clear: only the very top athletes, the ones breaking Olympic and World Records were worthy of recognition and praise. The podium was so small.

I internally processed this message to mean that I had a lot to live up to. It meant that no matter how fast I ran or how high I placed at a race, that there would always be more work to be done. Faster times to be run. It took away from me actually enjoying any success I did have. I would run the race of my lifetime and be flooded with endorphins of ecstasy and pride. That would all come crashing down within a few hours to find me feeling empty and insignificant. How many other women out there would run that time? How many women out there were there to beat? No matter what race I placed at, I’d ruefully look back and think, “it was just a small little thing”.

As I reflect on such a flawed belief system, I redirect my focus on what this night was really all about. I thought long and hard of what it meant to be a part of this community, to be a part of the Coatesville Cross Country legacy.

My real success was not predicated on times or medals or steps on a podium, but, rather, the resiliency to endure and triumph in the face of grief of a lost loved one, another Coatesville graduate, my father. The real honor was being part of something bigger than me, the very community & leaders that helped raise me. From my selfless coaches that treated me as their own kin, to my teammates & their families that became my refuge, to my loyal friends who unconditionally support me, to my sister & mother who showed me how to carry on in life, even when the burden seems too heavy to carry. This night was a culmination of what a community banded together can achieve in the face of adversity. The night was a homage to the blood I bleed that will forever be red & black.

Phantoms of Fall