Our gathering place as freshmen guys was around the radiator near the back doors. That’s where we frosh boys would laugh at each other’s stupid jokes, say stupid things and just act … stupid. We saw that as our role.
Each class above us had its own group personality. The senior Class of ’66 at Oakesdale High School, south of Spokane, was filled with beautiful, friendly, helpful people. (I’m biased. My sister, Dorothy, was among them). The junior class considered us riffraff, to be held at arm’s length. We were more familiar with the sophomores, but they stuck together and sometimes bullied us.
None of it mattered; we blindly pressed on. If I had taken the time to think about anything, I probably would have felt completely lost. As it was, I felt only a little bit lost.
In my view, high school girls fell into three categories: (1) nice, (2) lovely, (3) beautiful. The problem was that all three categories were out of my league. I don’t remember having a conversation with any girl in high school. I certainly wouldn’t have initiated it and if, by chance, one of them had said anything to me, my nervous brain would make the words as unrecognizable as Swahili. So, my chances of having a girlfriend were as remote as a chicken looking for love at a fox convention.
Academics could have been my strong suit, but I had an aversion to studying. I was just too lazy. Books were OK, but who had time to read? Not me.
The excitement of sports had always been a draw for me. As much as I liked watching sports, I craved the rush of competing.
My first love was baseball, so I turned out for the team. I’d played PeeWee and Little League and could throw and catch with anyone. The problem was, I couldn’t hit the curveball, fastball, slider, change-up or anything else. My baseball career was over before it got started.
I loved football too, however, I stood 5-foot-11 and weighed 106 pounds. I looked like a praying mantis in shoulder pads. It didn’t take me long to figure out that football was not my game.
Basketball became my new love, and I played through my junior year. But my senior year, the coach told me I could either ride the bench or get cut from the team. I told him that I loved practicing and being on the team and that I would relegate myself to the bench. He cut me from the team anyway. That was the end of high school basketball for me.
That left the sport of track. With an early tryout, I was plugged into the 880-yard (half-mile) race. That’s considered a sprint, but it’s not over quickly like the 100 or the 220. In the 440 (quarter-mile) sprint you feel as if you are about to die as the finish line approaches. But in the 880 sprint, you finish a quarter-mile and still have another quarter of pumping your legs as fast as you can. It’s a killer! But that was my chosen race.
Building my stamina through track season, I became faster and competed for the top finishes. I might even place second at a meet, but I couldn’t win a race. A senior on the team ran the 880, and he was fast. Greg Parch was one of the top 880 runners in the county. As hard as I ran, I couldn’t seem to overtake him.
Track meets were fun. I reveled in the competition and camaraderie with other athletes — the butterflies in your gut before a race, the exaltation of finishing and doing well. The pain of the exertion, the relief that washes over you after a race. I loved it all.
We had one remaining meet at a neighboring town called Tekoa, and I was hoping to finish second. As I stretched out in preparation, I could feel the adrenaline start to flow through me.
That’s when my coach walked up and said, “Clyde, this is the last race of the season. If you win this race, you will letter in track. But you have to win first place.”
I was struck numb. I would have to beat Greg. What were the chances of that?
It was time for the 880. The runners lined up. There were seven or eight competitors, some that I knew. Greg stood next to me. The gun fired and we took off in a bunch, gradually spreading out after the first turn. Greg was near the front and I stayed within striking distance. After the first 440, there were four runners in front of the pack. Greg was first and I was third.
With 220 yards to go my lungs were on fire but my legs still felt strong. Greg upped the pace and I passed the runner in front of me. With 100 yards to go, Greg was stretching out the distance between us. I was expending every ounce of strength, and realized I wasn’t going to catch him. I would come in second place.
But then Greg stopped. Just short of the finish line, he watched me run past him to win the race.
I won my letter in track that year. And every year after. I have seen Greg at high school reunions and I always thank him. And I always will.
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