The Bulldogs are the middle school cross country team I coach.  

	In the United States alone, there are bulldog mascots at fifteen NCAA Division I schools, 45 universities and more than 280 high schools. No one has troubled to count the number of bulldog middle school teams, but it is high. To complicate matters, our team colors are the ever-popular royal blue and white and our school is called “Central”, just like more than 328 others in the nation. To say the least, the branding is pretty ordinary.

	Our team’s racing record is usually average, too. Every year, there are some exceptionally fast runners but also many slow ones. The glorious thing is that losing does not detract from the indomitable spirit of the Central Middle School Bulldogs. Be careful here. When you read the phrase “indomitable spirit”, you are doubtless primed for a story of success against all odds: ragtag team achieves inspiring, improbable victory. Electrifying performance sparked by  years of transformative hard work, and all that. 

	In a traditional sports tale, the reader identifies with the perennial losers and experiences vicarious triumph through the team’s struggles, growth and eventual victory. In that narrative, the kids on the winning team feel special. They jump around and hug each other. There is confetti. Everyone is teary-eyed because no one thought they could do it. Hell, even they didn’t think they could do it. As the observer of this happy denouement, you get to feel special, too. It’s a highly marketable trope, a bit like the romantic comedy formula where the struggling-but-attractive heroine finds her perfect partner. No matter what life throws at you the next day, you had this great moment. You triumphed.

	The problem is that in an athletic Cinderella story, only one team at a time gets to feel valued. Perhaps youth sports, and maybe life, should be about more than that. Princes and championships are few and far between, but joy, struggle, hard work, and pride are for everyone.

	And so, here is the story of the Bulldogs. The entire story, not just the confetti part.

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	The goal of cross country running is to run. Pretty far. Every day. Getting middle school children to do this is an energy-intensive and often frustrating process requiring multiple adults to utterly exhaust themselves over the course of an eight-week season.

	On the first day of practice, however, we are all pretty fresh. Around eighty kids between the ages of ten and thirteen gather on the playground. We are in the middle of the second year of the COVID-19 pandemic and everyone is masked. All available slots are filled. Cross country is a hot sport right now because we run outdoors and the risk of getting COVID is low. Also, there are no “cuts” in middle school cross country; anyone who signs up is automatically on the team. But mostly, the blacktop is packed because after a season of isolation, desperate parents need their children out of the house. 

	The students arrive in a variety of outfits. A few are prepared with shorts, t-shirts and actual running shoes, but many are wearing jeans and the clothes they had on during the school day. I see a couple of glitter unicorn hoodies and at least one pair of Crocs. It is almost eighty degrees out, but a little boy named Jonathan has a ski hat pulled down over his brows. He is wearing a face mask with a picture of a smiling bat. His eyes glitter at me through the small opening between the bottom of the hat and the top of the bat’s fangs. 

	As I survey the churning mass of assembled athletes, the challenges ahead are clear. Although they are enthusiastic, the Bulldogs are distractible. They hurtle around the playground, shouting and climbing fences. Getting them to sit and listen to a workout plan is difficult. As soon as we get a couple of them seated and begin working on the next group, the first set leap to their feet and resume energetic Brownian movement. They dash, they wrestle, they leap. It is like the French saying, “weighing frogs.” 

	When the assistant coaches have the students more or less settled, I deliver what I hope is an inspiring speech about the season ahead. We will keep our eyes on the long goal, which is to build endurance and speed over the course of the next eight weeks. I stress the importance of perseverance, integrity, and hard work. It will not be easy, but it will be worth it. The smaller, newer Bulldogs, who cannot imagine any period of sustained effort longer than forty seconds, look at me quizzically.

	There is a group of older runners lounging in the back. They have heard all of this before and their minds are on other things. As senior Bulldogs, they are less concerned about surviving the runs and more focused on older-kid things like mile times, competing, and of course, each other. A few of these seventh and eighth graders are really fast. There is Ronan, an eighth-grade boy who runs reliably at 5:30 pace, and his friends Xavier and William, equally speedy. There is Valentina, a seventh-grade girl who is almost as fast as Ronan and his cronies. I outline the first set of routes we will run. The more advanced runners will do a three-mile loop. The fifth graders will attempt to cover a single mile. The masked crowd nods vaguely in agreement and the older students in the back stand. They know the 3-mile route and they are ready.

	The fifth grade students think that they, too, are ready. However, there are some key misconceptions. To begin with, they believe that the best starting strategy is to take off like a booster rocket, sprinting for all you are worth until you can no longer continue. This is usually about fifty meters. The next step is to flop beside the sidewalk. Here, you have several options: 1) claim that you are dying; 2) state that you are mortally injured (it is helpful to grip the affected body part and moan loudly); 3) attest that you are only here because your parents forced you to join cross country; or 4) reveal that you are not a distance runner but actually a sprinter. 

	Variations on these strategies are as numerous as the Bulldogs themselves. The only requirements are that the cries of distress must be loud and that all running must stop immediately. This rule applies to everyone present, not just the kid who is “hurt”. One Bulldog with a strong sense of drama can take out fifteen other runners, and soon there is a pack of would-be distance stars swooning on the grass, requesting ice packs. 

	After the older runners depart on their three-mile tour, we gather the newcomers in front of the school. They will run a mile by going around the building several times, with a coach at each corner to help in case of physical or emotional emergencies. From experience we know there are likely to be many of these, so we keep them close to home base.

	The kids toe the starting line, which is etched in pink sidewalk chalk. There is tremendous athletic tension. I blow the whistle and the runners sprint forward at top speed. They jockey for position, giving it every ounce of energy they have. This goes really, really well. They are striding, they are happy. Then, crisis strikes. Fifteen seconds into the run, a fifth grader at the front of the pack crumples in a heap on the tree lawn. The rest of the initiates slow to observe.

	To avoid a complete work stoppage, I know my response must be swift. I jog over to the wounded warrior.

“Eleanor.” 
(agonized moan) “Yes?”
“What is wrong?”
“I am injured. My legs hurt.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes. I think I need an ice pack. Well, two.”
“Eleanor, you only ran fifty meters. Let’s see if you can do a little more. Just to that tree over there.”
Eleanor rises to her feet and limps back to the sidewalk. She glowers at the tree.
“Coach Starr?” 
“Yes?”
“My parents made me sign up for cross country.”
“I am sorry, Eleanor.”
(looks at me hopefully) “I do better with short distances. I’m really more of a sprinter.”

	A small clutch of Bulldogs assembles around us. Jonathan, the kid with the bat face mask, offers muffled encouragement. “You can do it.” Several hands reach out to pat Eleanor on her back.

	It is a turning point, one of those moments in sport when a mountain of icy difficulty sublimates in the sudden heat of hope. The assembled athletes join the chorus of support. “You got this.”  “Dig deep.”

	Fortunately, optimism is as contagious as despair. Sensing the positive energy of the crowd, Eleanor takes a step. Her shoulders settle. Her eyes narrow on the goal. As a coach, I know I must seize this moment. “To the tree!” I shout bracingly. “To the tree!” bay the Bulldogs, setting off for the next fifty meters with renewed energy and confidence. Head high, injuries forgotten, Eleanor races as fast as she can toward her goal. 

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	This process repeats itself in various forms for the first two weeks of practice. The team sprints, lies down, limps, cries, and sprints again. Injuries are experienced and ice packs are distributed. Stealthily and with minimal comment, we add distance to the runs. We change the routes, append sneaky sprint workouts to the end of practice to add extra meters, and play running games to make it fun. We pass out more ice packs.

	Each week, the Bulldogs run a bit more steadily—and a bit farther. They are still erratic and distractible, but the training is working. This is good, because the opening meet of the season is upon us. 

	The first meet is called the Forest Stream Icebreaker. Most of the suburbs in western Chicagoland are named for different flora and bodies of water: Forest Stream, Prairie River, Park Stream, Glen Pond, Elm Stream, Maple Lake, and so forth. “Icebreaker” is something of a misnomer, because it is late August and the temperature is in the mid 80s with an aggressive sun and high humidity. At the Icebreaker, there is no sign of a shady forest or a cooling stream. It is held in a suburban park through a series of sweltering soccer fields. The runners must dodge playgrounds and goal nets to navigate several half-mile loops: two for the little kids, four for the older runners.

	On the appointed day we rise early. The team arrives at the buses mostly on time and mostly dressed to run. The Central Bulldog uniforms have been through many years of competition and some are a bit ragged. They were inexplicably purchased in adult sizes and they are huge on the tiny bodies of the younger runners. Eleanor has tied her jersey in the back with a shoelace, and her friend Nicholas has secured the waistband of his running shorts with a huge safety pin, roughly at the level of his chest. They are ready to go.

	We arrive in Forest Stream and pitch our team tent. Groggy parents pin race numbers on the kids’ uniforms. The Bulldogs gossip in groups, eyeing the competition and the course, discussing strategy. Excitement builds. One of the team’s great strengths is boundless confidence. In spite of known liabilities like shaky focus and lack of endurance, they always, always believe they can win. Their self assurance is unwavering from race to race, no matter the prior record or the challenges ahead. They are not deterred by trivial statistics. In the Bulldogs’ minds, past performance has absolutely no connection to the current odds of victory.

	It soon becomes clear that the Icebreaker will provide substantial challenges. The neighboring tent belongs to the fastest team in the region, the St. Olaf Warriors. “Go, Go, Go, St. O! Warriors for the Win!” screams the custom banner appended to the side of the tent. The banner features cameos of their star runners in various fierce-looking poses, staring at the camera with determined expressions. The effect is rather unnerving, given that the star runners are middle school children. The Warriors have a well-oiled team support machine. Alert-looking parents are cutting up bananas and oranges for the runners to eat after their races. There is a huge, immaculate cooler of iced sports drinks. There is a table with coffee and scones for the volunteers. Improbably, they even have a sports massage table next to the tent. Every Warrior girl has matching ribbons on her ponytail and the whole team wears coordinated, themed socks. They eye the disorderly jumble of backpacks under the Bulldog tent.

	A sixth grader named Ellis surveys the Warrior tableau. “Meh!” he trills cheerfully. Ellis’s voice has not yet changed and his natural enthusiasm makes him shout everything he says, many decibels and several octaves above everyone else. He is easy to echolocate even in a large crowd. He turns to his fellow runners in the 5/6 division. “I think it’s silly. Why do they need all that?” he squeaks. Behind Ellis, the eighth grade boys nod. “Ridiculous,” growls Ronan. Valentina narrows her eyes and mutters, “It doesn’t mean they’re fast.”

	“They’re faster than Freddy,” screeches Ellis, giggling. Freddy is a towering sixth grader whose parents made cross country a precondition of playing football next year. Freddy hates to run. In the first place, he is built more like a defensive lineman than a distance specialist. In addition, the minimal effort Freddy has invested in cross country training has not paid off. Despite weeks of preparation, Freddy’s endurance has not improved. He can still only run, or rather slowly jog, about 200 meters. To make matters even worse, the largest version of the uniform that hangs so loosely on most of the Bulldogs is skin tight on poor Freddy. He pulls at the seat of his shorts, wincing. “Shut up, Ellis,” says Freddy affectionately, “Or I’ll sit on you.” “EEEEW!” Ellis shrieks, dashing out of reach.

	We have our pre-race pep talk and go over strategies. I tell the kids to get off to a strong start (we know they are good at this). They must then level off at a sustainable race pace, saving a little in reserve for the final sprint to the finish chute. I emphasize the scoring: the top five Bulldog finisher places are added to produce a total team score; the lowest team score wins. Even runners at the back of the pack can help by passing opponents, thereby adding damaging points to the scores of the other teams. We have a special, quiet moment to discuss the hazards of starting too fast. “Why do we want to pace ourselves conservatively in the first part of the race?” I quiz them. “Because if we don’t, we will crash,” nods Valentina. “It feels really, REALLY BAD,” pipes Ellis joyfully, hopping from leg to leg. The fifth graders nod, eyes wide. 

	A call blares through the PA system that there is a coaches’ meeting under the timing tent, so I make my way through the concessions area to the assigned spot. The race director, Bob, is a cheerful former collegiate runner with a developing pot belly and mad hair. Bob likes a good laugh. He’s wearing a bright pink shirt with “Running Sucks” blazoned on the front in a graceful, script-like font, and a Smashing Pumpkins trucker hat perched backwards over his forehead. “Hi coach,” he rumbles at me. “Good to see you back out here. You just never say quit, do you? Like the Energizer Bunny.” I’m not feeling very energetic. Trying not to glance longingly at the Warrior tent coffee bar, I tell Bob I am glad we are running again despite the pandemic and I thank him for once again including the Bulldogs. Bob smiles benevolently. “We wouldn’t do the Icebreaker without you!” he booms. “I just love seeing you here every year. You’re always surrounded by a crowd of kids who aren’t listening to you!” He cackles at his own joke, elbowing the air to be sure I get it. I have to smile because it’s true.

	The assembled coaches are a varied lot. There is a haggard-looking mother with a Cubs hat jammed over her unbrushed hair. The toddler she is balancing on one hip grabs her coaching whistle and blows on it joyfully over and over. She makes a half-hearted attempt to take the whistle away, at which the toddler erupts in blood-curdling screams. Next to her is an aging basketball coach. During a lull in the screaming he confides that he is only coaching cross country to increase his pre-retirement salary. “You know,” he wheezes, “I’m a ball sport guy. Real strategy there.” He checks his phone roughly every twelve seconds for updates on the offseason trades. I also meet the coach for the Mustangs, an ambitious-looking man in his early twenties with an impressive black handlebar mustache, and a chatty history teacher who confides that she is here because the regular coach has COVID. “I don’t really know how this works,” she whispers confidentially. The Warriors’ head coach is standing to the side of the group, his arms crossed high on his chest. He is wearing an Ironman hat and a Boston Marathon t-shirt. 

	The race official is a tired-looking man with a receding hairline and a lot of badges on his jacket. After he discusses the rules and the history teacher asks numerous questions, Bob sends us off. “Just get out there and have a good time!” he chortles. It does seem simple. 

	I make my way through the concession area toward the Bulldog tent with the intention of rallying the first group of runners. On the way, I intercept Freddy and Nicholas, who are in line to buy chocolate churros. They are an odd pair, since Freddy is twice the size of any other child present and Nicholas, the smallest Bulldog runner, looks like a strong wind will blow him away. “No churros until after your race,” I tell them sternly. Alas, it appears to be too late; Nicholas is hiding his hands behind his back and there is a suspicious brown smudge on Freddy’s cheek. “Guys,” I sigh. “Show me your hands.” They reluctantly do, revealing half-eaten chocolate churros. They are in line for seconds. Like so many of the Bulldogs, Freddy and Nicholas lack foresight. Moreover, they are middle school boys and eat constantly. After a brief but pointed lecture on the importance of pre-race nutritional management, the remains of the ill-timed churros go in the trash. 

	“All girls in grades five and six, report to the starting line!” cackles Bob  through the loudspeaker. We jog back to the Bulldog team tent, where his announcement has produced a blue-and-white cyclone of activity. There are girls putting on racing shoes, girls putting their hair in ponytails, girls braiding each others’ hair, girls dabbing sunscreen on their cheeks, girls swilling Gatorade. There is way too much talking. One child is crying and saying she is too upset to run, one has just gotten her period for the first time ever, and five of them suddenly need to use the bathroom. After several minutes of assisting, comforting, and port-a-potty visiting, the JV girls’ team lopes behind me to the starting “box”, a small area spray-painted on the grass where our team will begin the race. I line up the girls, placing the faster kids in front, and we do some quick warm-up exercises. Two boxes down, the Warriors execute fast practice starts, sprinting out of their team box, matching hair scrunchies flashing, ponytails flying in self-generated wind. 

	The starting gun goes off and the kids catapult forward. It is a blazing display of ambition. Three of the Warrior runners are leading the charge, along with Eleanor, who has apparently forgotten our discussion about pacing. To her credit, Eleanor keeps this up for almost 300 meters, but then slows to a walk, gasping for air. As the group hustles past the concession area, I see two Bulldog girls exit the port-a-potties and realize that they have missed the start of the race. Undeterred, they leap directly into the river of runners streaming past. 

	The official does not notice this transgression because he is preoccupied with keeping the enthusiastic crowd off the race course. “Go, Mustangs!” shouts a father in tennis whites. I can hear Ellis’s piercing cries of encouragement rising above the din. “BULLDOG DOMINATION!!!” he sings at a high “C” with operatic power. 

	The crowd shifts toward the half mile point, which the 5/6 division runners will pass twice. The second time they pass this marker, they are to turn toward the finish chute. Mustache Coach is calling out his runners by name, encouraging each one personally. I try to do this, too, but there are a lot of Bulldogs. Luckily, our support crew is on top of it. All of the team members who are not currently racing or crying in the tent are jumping up and down next to me, screeching incoherently at the top of their lungs every time a blue and white uniform streaks by. This strategy is imperfect—since half of the teams present are wearing blue and white uniforms—but inclusive. “Your runners are such good sports!” comments the mom with the Cubs hat.

	The race is over quickly for most of the kids since it is only one mile. But for some it takes much longer. Ten minutes after the frontrunners cross the timing mats, there are children still laboring slowly toward the chute. These kids work every bit as hard as the leaders, and it is fitting that they, too, inspire wild clapping from the assembled spectators. The loudest cheering of all is for a Bulldog named Corrine. Corinne has a developmental disability that limits the distance she can run. She wears braces on her legs, but she has the heart of a lion and the smile of a film star. With Bob’s permission, she starts about 400 meters from the finish line. She is accompanied by her friend Valentina, who is jogging next to her and cheering. It is impossible to miss that this is awesome. Everyone, including the stoic head coach of the Warriors, is clapping. Even the beleaguered Eleanor, completing the race at the same time, is inspired. When she sees Corinne’s glowing smile, her attitude transforms. Soon, Eleanor is running gleefully next to Valentina and Corrine, fatigue forgotten. The three of them finish the race to thunderous applause. 

	Next, it is time for the younger boys to run. “No rest for the wicked, haw haw!” Bob bellows through the fuzzy loudspeaker connection. “Grades 5-6 boys, report to the starting area!” The male Bulldogs have a minimalist idea of preparation. The second they hear Bob they streak to the starting box, shoelaces dangling, race numbers askew, sunscreen forgotten. Soon, the entire JV boys’ team is jammed into the starting box, adjusting their jerseys, picking their noses and smelling each other’s armpits. Freddy pulls uncomfortably at his shorts, and Nicholas checks his safety pin. Ever confident, Ellis does a bit of trash talking, shrilly proclaiming the Bulldogs’ superiority.

	Jonathan is still wearing both his ski hat and the bat mask. When I note that this wardrobe will make running considerably more challenging in the heat, he glares defiantly at me. “I don’t want to get COVID,” he growls. “Jonathan, the ski hat will not protect you from COVID,” I point out as gently as I can. In the aperture between mask and hat, the glare deepens. It is clear that compromise is not on the horizon. 

	The starter raises his gun. The runners crouch at the starting line, eyeing him keenly. Several of them leap out before the signal, provoking rippling cries of “He cheated!” up and down the line. There are two separate restarts, since a different group of kids jumps the gun the second time. Finally, on the third try, the blank signal barks from the official’s pistol and they are off in a more or less legitimate beginning. I am hopeful when I see a clot of blue and white in the middle of the pack.

 	Following Mustache Coach, I join a cluster of spectating Bulldogs at the half mile point to cheer. It is actually pretty inspiring: the boys are running strong, showing a lot of improvement since the beginning of the season. Ellis sweeps by, grinning ear to ear, chatting even in the middle of his race. “Great job! See you at the finish!” he pipes to several huffing Mustangs as he passes them. Ten or eleven other Bulldogs race by, trailed by the minute figure of Nicholas. Their faces are red and their eyes squint in the glare of the morning sun as they begin the second loop, working to maintain their positions in the pack. I check my timer and I see that they are doing pretty well; if they can keep it up, we are looking at a decent finish. 

	Alas, not everyone is having a good day. At the end of the stream of runners I see Freddy trotting slowly along, looking grouchy. Several hundred meters behind him is an obviously overheated Jonathan, alternating between a jog and a limp-looking walk, still wearing his ski hat and mask. They are further demoralized when the frontrunners lap them, streaking past toward the turnoff to the finish. I see Freddy eyeing the chute and I glare meaningfully at him, shaking my head. He knows perfectly well that he still has another lap to go.

	Mustache and I hurry to reposition ourselves at the final turn, just before the last stretch to the timing mat. Here, the runners will emerge from the only stand of trees on the course with about 100 meters to go. They are supposed to sprint this part in the hope of passing athletes from opposing teams in an ultimate, sneaky, positional attack. The crowd becomes boisterous as the lead runners burst dramatically from the tree grove. Parents yell encouraging platitudes like “Finish strong!” The history teacher screams “You got this!”  Ironman Boston Coach shouts mightily at his athletes, “Pain means nothing! Pride is forever!!” The basketball coach is the loudest of all, his face purple as he roars “Pass!!” over and over at top volume.

	First, second and third are two Warriors and a Mustang, followed by a stream of kids from other teams. I don’t see any blue and white until about thirty kids in, but when the first Bulldog rounds the turn, I am shouting as loud as everyone else. It is Ellis, his face twisted in a snarl of determination. He has finally stopped talking, using all his available oxygen to sprint. He passes two other runners on the way to the chute. The other junior Bulldogs come fast behind Ellis, racing out of their minds, small legs and arms pumping. 

	Then, sartorial disaster strikes. Eleanor tugs my sleeve. “Um, Coach Starr?” I turn to see Nicholas rounding the corner. His shorts have vanished. The safety pin has failed him and he is finishing the race in his Scooby Doo underwear. His dad is filming, highly amused. This will be all over social media in less than thirty seconds. “Posted!” cackles Dad gleefully. Less than thirty, apparently. I say a brief, silent prayer that this publicity will finally motivate our athletic director to purchase new uniforms in smaller sizes.

	Just as Nicholas and Scooby Doo cross into the chute, I turn to see the race official pointing emphatically at the last part of the course. Caught up in the thrill of the moment, the Mustang dad in tennis whites is now running the race alongside his son, shouting encouragement. “Great job, son!” he huffs. I have to admit that the dad is looking strong, although the kid is clearly mortified. I see the race official scowl but Bob is smiling. “That’s gonna be a DQ,” he guffaws, slapping the official on the back. “For at least the dad.”

	The stream of finishers gradually slows to a trickle. The kids who have just run are now joining us, flushed but proud. Just as I am breathing a sigh of relief, I feel a tap on my elbow. It is Eleanor again. “Where’s Freddy?” she asks. I make a mental note to promote her to junior team captain, since she is clearly more on top of the race than I am. “THERE!!” yells Valentina, pointing an accusing finger at the last part of the trail. I follow her gesture and see a large, royal and white-clad figure lumbering slowly across the middle of the soccer field, looking furtively to both sides. It is Freddy, cutting the course. He stops to pick at his shorts. 

	The team is not daunted by this clear breach of protocol. “Go, Freddy!” shrieks Ellis, who has joined us to spectate. Heedless of the stern look on the face of the race official, the kids cheer wildly as Freddy crosses the finish line. They jump on their friend, congratulating him heartily. They don’t seem to mind that even cheating, Freddy’s time is more than fifteen minutes for the one-mile race. Times, in the minds of the younger Bulldogs, matter less than moxy. Way less.

	“Is that all of us?” I ask my new assistant, Eleanor.

	“Jonathan,” she says simply. We stay at our post, eyes on the final turn. We wait. And wait. Finally, more than twenty full minutes into the one-mile race, Jonathan trudges dolefully around the corner, still wearing his ski hat and face mask. “Isn’t he warm?” asks the history teacher, who is also waiting for a straggler. I swallow a sarcastic remark. 

	When poor Jonathan sees me, his fierce eyes fill with tears. He stops, not caring that the seconds are still ticking by and the runners for the next race are already waiting in their starting boxes. The mask billows in and out as he sobs. “Coach Starr,” he chokes sadly, “This is real pain I’m feeling here.” I nod sympathetically. “I’M ALL OUT OF STEAM,” he wails, shoulders heaving. I try to be tactful. “I can see that you are a little warm, Jonathan. Let’s get you into the shade. And get you a nice, cold water.” The sobbing slows, and I detect a small nod.

	As we turn to head to the concessions area, we hear the crack of the starting pistol for the next race. The race official, increasingly frazzled, has lost patience with the stragglers from the JV boys’ competition and has begun the next wave. The varsity girls streak past in a blur of color, ponytails flaring. 		

	Valentina is in the lead and it looks like she intends to stay there. Normally this would be a big violation of my pacing instructions, but in her case, it is allowed. Valentina is a physiological exception to the rules; she just doesn’t get tired. This child can run as fast as her limbs allow… seemingly forever. It will be no problem for Valentina to run the entire two mile varsity race at this speed. There is a small pack cruising behind her but it is clear that even the Warriors’ best runners are struggling to keep up. 

	Jonathan gets an ice cold water and guzzles it over the top of the bat’s fangs. We head to the observation point, just in time for the girls’ final lap. Soon I spot Ellis, shrieking and waving his arms like a small, excited vulture. “Fly, Valentina! Fight for it! DOMINATE!!” he cries joyfully. At least forty other hysterically gleeful Bulldogs have flocked to join him. The Bulldogs don’t win very often, but when they think they might, it is bedlam. Ironman Boston Coach is shouting too, trying to encourage the lead Warriors to overtake Valentina, and the basketball coach is positively apoplectic, purple with frustration, shouting his mantra: “PASS!”

	We turn toward the finish chute, expecting to see the girls burst from the stand of trees. However, we are halted by a series of strangled cries from the vicinity of the water vendor. Everyone pivots to see a singular sight. Valentina, blissfully unfatigued, has taken a wrong turn. She has missed the finish segment entirely and is leading the pack through the concessions area, weaving deftly past the first aid tent, the churro stand and the confused DJ. The hundred or so other runners, focused entirely on catching up to her, are following. “Nooooh,” I hear Mustache Coach whisper.

	The strangled noises are coming from Bob, who is running just behind the girls, gesturing frantically at the course markers. The Smashing Pumpkins hat has tumbled in the dust. The Running Sucks T-shirt is heaving. The race official is right behind Bob, blowing his whistle over and over again. Completely out of breath, Bob stops and gasps out several vivid curses, clutching his chest. “Is that where they are supposed to go?” asks the history teacher wonderingly. 

	Valentina, head high, executes one more lap of the soccer field and then at last locates the finish chute. Despite strong challenges from the Warriors and Mustangs, she stays in first all the way in. Her pace in the final 100 meters is sizzling, and the Bulldogs are hysterical with joy. At the exit to the chute, Corrine throws her arms around Valentina’s waist. The happiness is palpable.

	The Warrior coach does not take this outcome well. He rips off his Ironman hat and his cool demeanor disintegrates. He argues with Bob and the race official, maintaining that Valentina must be disqualified. Bob snorts, recovering his sense of irony. “Are we gonna disqualify the entire field?” he queries, scratching his belly. “They all followed the same course.” After further debate, the race official wheezes his decree. “The times aren’t valid, but the place finishes are.” Glowering, the Warrior coach stalks away. “Sore loser,” whispers Eleanor.

	The final race of the meet, the varsity boys’ division, has now become a proving ground. Ronan, Xavier and William are already warmed up and ready to go. For them, times do matter. A lot. They have stalked the statistics of the other runners online, and they know they must maintain a brisk 5:45 pace over two miles to even have a chance of placing in the top ten. To win, it will need to be even faster. There are eight other varsity boys in the back of the box. They will not place in the top twenty, but they know that in order to do their part they must pass as many Mustangs and Warriors as possible. The collective tension is high. 

	I don’t bother offering the boys additional advice. They know what they need to do, and any words from me at this point are just noise. The starting pistol barks and they set off, skimming over the grass. The smaller Bulldogs cheer wildly and race to the 1/2 mile marker. They are not exactly sure why this race is so intense, but they sense it is important to the older boys and that is enough to activate their loyalty.

	Their shouts rise to a volcanic level as Ronan passes the marker for the second time, running with the leaders. It is Ronan, two Warriors, and two Mustangs. I check my timer. 5:25. I am a little worried that he is pushing too hard, not saving anything for the second mile. Xavier clocks in at 5:45 on the nose, running strong. William is a few seconds behind him. Their faces are red but their form is still excellent. This is encouraging, since form is the first thing to go when a runner is out of steam. Arms flail, heads bob, and a tired athlete’s energy is wasted when it is needed most.

	At the start of loop four, the throng of spectators shifts to the finish area. We wait, watching the time. At exactly 11:00, I hear a shout from the trees where Valentina and Corrine are looking out for the leaders. Two figures emerge from the grove and sprint all out for the finish. It is Ronan, fighting like a madman, chest by chest with the lead Warrior runner. The Bulldogs explode; everyone is screaming and leaping up and down. Even Jonathan has come alive; he has pushed his mask down over his chin and is yelling “Go, Go, Go!” like a tiny, demented vampire.

	In the end, Ronan enters the chute second at 11:20, just behind his Warrior competitor. However, it is a massive PR for him. I know Ronan has seen his time because he is smiling. He reaches out and silently fist bumps the first place finisher as both gasp for air at the end of the chute. Xavier is next, then two Mustangs and three more Warriors, then William, then a ruck of other runners. The final tally for the varsity boys’ race is Warriors 18, Mustangs 25, Bulldogs 38. 

	I check my watch: 11am. It feels like we’ve been at the Icebreaker for about ten hours, but in fact it has only been two and a half. At last, things are beginning to wind down. The teams pack up their tents and empty their coolers. The DJ loads his gear and the churro vendors close their windows. The race site looks like a football stadium after a big game, but we make sure that our kids pick up their trash. 

	Bob announces a brief awards ceremony where individual ribbons and team trophies will be distributed. In an unfortunate incident, an overzealous mother snatches the final results sheet from Bob before he can hand it to the race official. After a brief, intense scuffle, the official emerges victorious, race report in hand. Bob glows happily in his pink shirt like some kind of giant Christmas elf as he bestows the honors. There is even more cheering.

	Some of the Bulldogs ride home with their parents, but most elect to board the buses so they can be with their friends. We don masks and pack the students into alternating seats, because it is still 2020, and the bus crawls toward the highway. I breathe a deep sigh of relief. I am dehydrated, sweaty, sticky, out of steam. And weirdly, happy.

“Coach Starr?” asks a small voice from the seat behind me. Even on the bus, my new assistant has maneuvered to be nearby. 
“Yes, Eleanor?”
Her brow furrows. “You look a little tired.”
“I am a little tired, Eleanor.”
“But it was a good day, right?”
“Yes indeed. It was an excellent day.”
There is a thoughtful silence.
“Well, did we win?” she asks finally, as though realizing for the first time that this may be an important question. Like most of the smaller Bulldogs, Eleanor has a rather shaky concept of the scoring. 
“We came in third overall,” I reply, “Which is very, very good.” 
Eleanor beams, pride radiating from her little face. 
“Coach Starr?”
“Yes, Eleanor?” 
“This was fun.”
“I am glad.” 
There is another, longer interlude. 
“Coach Starr?”
“Yes, Eleanor?”
“I’m glad my parents forced me to try cross country.” 

******************************************************************************************
	After the Icebreaker, the season lurches on. There are training runs in the mud and rain. There is aggressive laundering of shorts and glitter hoodies. There are further dietary infractions, most notably one in which the varsity boys consume an entire Costco bag of Swedish Fish on the bus before their race. (This turns out not to be a great idea, resulting in some very poor times, a rather ugly mid-race barfing incident and a trip to the emergency room for “appendicitis”.) 

	There are countless, smaller obstacles. Insect bites are acquired. Ankles are twisted. Sunscreen is placed too close to eyes and tears flow, joining the intermittent flood of crying from injuries, hormones, and wounded pride. Yet from these low points, the Bulldogs rally without fail. Somehow they recover from every indignity, imagined or real, and show up the next day with renewed enthusiasm. By the end of the season the coaches and parents are exhausted but the kids are radiant.

	At our division meet, the boys’ varsity team and Valentina qualify for the state championship. The big meet will be held in Normal, Illinois. Our team spirit shirts finally arrive, long delayed by pandemic supply chain issues. They are neon orange with bright blue lettering. On the front there is a picture of a huge, rabid-looking bulldog. On the back the shirts say, “Run, Forest Pond, Run!!!” The kids wear these shirts to school every day. The state qualifiers get special hoodies with their last names on the back, which they will wear all winter. Parents will have to sneak into rooms at night just to gather these items for the wash. 

	On the Saturday morning of State, Valentina and the top seven varsity boys board a special bus. Thirty other Bulldogs have risen at what some affectionately term “the butt crack of dawn” to decorate. They have hand-lettered messages like “State Time!!” with pictures of stopwatches, and “Bull Doggin’ It!!” with blurry drawings that are supposed to be bulldogs but look more like squirrels. There is a special sign from Ellis with his trademark cheer in all caps: “BULLDOG DOMINATION!” The kids who didn’t qualify for State are every bit as excited as the ones who did.

	There is much cheering as the bus pulls out of the school parking lot, bound for Normal.

**************************************

	So, how did the Bulldogs do?

	Did they win?

	Did Valentina clinch the championship? Did Ronan finally beat his Warrior nemesis? Did a responsible adult find and remove the huge box of sour watermelon gummy worms from Xavier’s backpack in time to avert disaster?
	
	What about the kids who didn’t qualify for State, who may never qualify? Do they triumph in their personal battles? Does Eleanor learn better pacing? Does Jonathan ditch his ski hat? Can Freddy run an entire race with no cheating? Do Valentina and Corrine stay best friends?

	This particular year, the Bulldogs don’t win at State. Valentina places third, beaten by two eighth graders from western Illinois with even more freakish metabolic superpowers. Our varsity boys run their faces off for twelfth.

	The Warriors don’t win, either. As good as they are, their team is outclassed by the Green Stream Greyhounds, and Ironman Boston Coach must reckon with second place. We wind up talking after the awards ceremony and he turns out to be a really nice guy. His name is Ted and he runs a feral cat rescue group on the side, when he’s not doing athletic stuff or his teaching job. “See you at the Icebreaker next year,” he smiles as we board our bus for home. 

	On the level of personal development, we have some victories but also  some disappointments. Valentina and Corrine get even closer. Eleanor becomes a pacing ninja, and never again starts too fast. Ellis’s voice finally, blessedly changes. After the social media fallout from the Scooby Doo incident, we finally acquire smaller uniforms. But although Freddy does follow the course next time, he never beats fifteen minutes for his mile. The varsity boys repeat varying versions of the Swedish Fish/Gummy Worm Debacle every year. And while Jonathan ultimately pitches his ski hat, he still to this day refuses to part with the bat mask. I think it may go with him to high school.

	Did they win?

	I’m going to tell Eleanor that we all did.

******************************************************************************************

Epilogue

On October 15, 2022, the Bulldog boys’ team won the Illinois State 2A Championship. They trained hard, they worked together, and they ran extremely fast. They saved the gummy worms for after the race.

The competition was fierce. In Normal, they clinched the state title by a single point. That means that the difference was one runner passing one other, pushing through intense pain to give it a last, extra bit of effort.

We are so proud of them. And I know they would agree that every runner matters.