If Johanna is my North Star, my son Jackson is the world I rotate about. For me, nothing in life is profoundly as meaningful as being a father, and I am blessed daily to have a son such as mine.
Because Jackson takes after his mother, he has many fine qualities, not least of which his intelligence and wit. But he did get one thing from his old man: his legs. More specifically, his ability to run. Think Forrest Gump and you won’t be far off!
Kidding aside, God imbued a gift in Jackson and those legs of his, which we discovered his 7th grade year. In the most unlikely turn of fate, our son qualified for the 1600m (the mile) in the Mississippi high school track & field state championship. He wasn’t supposed to be there, you see. But improbable as it was, our son was competing for the coveted state title. As a 7th grader. At 13.
In the month leading up to state, runners must qualify through a series of races, with each race cutting the field by half. Coming into the super regional, our son was seeded last, 8 of 8. To qualify, he had to finish fourth or better. And to do that, he would need to cut at least 12 (!) seconds off his personal best. That just doesn’t happen overnight.
But it did that magical day in May! Everyone witnessed a moment that day, one few in attendance will forget. They saw the undaunted courage of a 13-year old boy willing his way past bigger, and stronger, and older runners, to close down the stretch in a photo finish...and earning a bid to the state championship! To borrow from Shakespeare, our son caught his moment at its crest. A crest he continues to ride.
That evening, I wrote this poem for my son. It’s delivered to you as written for him: unedited by intention. I needed to capture that moment in real time forever.
“The Runner”
He steps to the line Composure is sure His spikes are set His will is pure. The gun is raised Glint in his eye “On your mark” A breathless sigh. Muscles taut Focus true Energy pulses Then on cue… A crack in the air A resonant ring Then eight sinewed bodies As shot from a sling. Break from the line Kinetic the force As stallions lurch forward Setting their course. A rumble the earth A shutter the field As Vulcan himself His hammer did yield. Our Runner locks in His pace is set A metronome keeping A timed duet. Heart pounding faster Lungs starting to burn His face feels the sun When making the turn. Sweat trickles down Tasting of salt His body he knows Is nearing its fault. But he presses on Our Runner he does Vaguely he hears The crowd abuzz. Ahead in the distance Rings the bell lap Our Runner stares down An impossible gap. Now is the time He marshals his strength Our Runner he kicks His stride it takes length. As a thoroughbred makes Its homestretch run Our Runner takes flight Arrow fleet from the Sun! With undaunted courage Unbridled belief He wills his spent legs To forego relief. And harder they pound A locomotive full steam Churning its pistons To ear-splitting scream. “Go!” “Go!” “Go!” Is heard from the stands “Push it!” Push it!” “Push it!” Fans clapping their hands. Our Runner reels in His fleet-footed prey An outside move Lane two of the clay. Each, step by step Other, matching stride No oxygen left Only courage and pride. The finish line nears But seems ever away As each pounding step Keeps the other at bay. Two become one A streak dashing past Time seems to slow With clock ticking fast. Then as if pushed By the just Hand of God Our Runner breaks free Chest forward and broad. A flash at the line Photo finish behold Our Runner collapses And takes home the gold! ... Then a guttural burst Splits open the sky A barbaric Yawp One proud father lets fly!
I enjoy so much all of Derek’s poems. Always looking for the next one. Not only do I relate to many, but his explanation before the poem sets the stage and draws you. Thank you and keep writing.