“Dave, buddy, you gotta get those knees up.”

The ambitious freshmen (ambitious because this was a tempo run and he was chasing varsity) looked exhausted. He had been running fast, and his terrible form was beginning to tax him. He didn’t bend his knees, like he was sweeping the sidewalk with his feet.

He smiled bashfully and did as he was told. Meanwhile, one of my cheekier seniors turned to me with a knowing look. He appreciated the irony of the situation.

“Do as I say, not as I do,” I added, mostly for the senior’s benefit. I, too, had grasped the irony of my criticisms.

I have heard several times that I run with a jogger’s form– in slow motion. I take small, strangely energy-efficient steps like Cliff Young. And, while I don’t sweep my feet like brooms, I don’t lift my knees as high as good form dictates.

Dave managed to finish the workout with varsity– for the first time ever. His form improved briefly, and then he returned to sweeping duty. I didn’t bother to correct him the second time. form, after all, isn’t everything.

One of the funnest parts of being a coach is organizing the “just for fun” days for our athletes. Most of these guys and girls run hard through the season, and they need a break every once in a while. it’s nice to offer them one.

In this spirit, the coaches work together to stage a yearly “fun run”. We split the runners up into teams for a scavenger hunt. The scavenger hunt calls for things that can easily be acquired on a run around town: a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup, a WaWa stirrer, ice from the skatium, etc. At special stations, runners have to work as a team to complete the challenge.

The kids really got into this year’s fun run. They dressed up for the challenge with all the pageantry of mardi-gras celebrators; one team wrapped themselves in caution tape, another dressed up like ninjas (even the guys in black spandex), and so on. These teams, mostly comprised of people who wouldn’t associate with each other in class or sit together at lunch, were united in foolishness.

And it was great to see. Bonding exercises do wonders for a cross country team. Each athlete naturally associates with their speed group (after all, they spend so much time together), but we want to promote a team mentality. Things like the fun run work wonders to this end. After all, these aren’t college runners; we can’t count on them bonding over strong drink.

I had expected the fun run to be a bittersweet experience; it’s not too long ago that my teammates were painting my face while I pulled on knee-high red socks. But there was no nostalgia in me as I ran my bubble-blowing station. I found myself deeply pleased to watch the kids have so much fun. The spirit of the fun run lives on.

Last week, we voted on team captains. I had said even before the results came out that I won’t be disappointed if I’m not a captain this year. I will protect my team regardless of whether or not coach acknowledges it with captainhood.

After all, the office of a senior is a highly esteemed one around campus. To the freshmen, a senior is the master of this scary, highly-insulated new world. To the junior, a senior is about to pass into the next, much scarier world; they are soldiers headed off to war, and one salutes them with a draft card in the other hand.

On the team, being a senior means providing guidance. Even when one doesn’t have the superficial title of “captain,” it is one’s duty as an older student to look out for the new guys. And it is everyone’s duty to keep us moving in the same direction: forward. No matter how much pain we feel, no matter what abuse life rains upon our heads, we must always be moving forward. One doesn’t learn that at the concession of a vote. One learns that on the roads, running one’s heart out day after day.

Still, I am glad to be captain.

My head coach, W, called for a meeting yesterday. He had heard the word “unfair” being thrown around a lot by the team, and he was getting sick of it.

So we filed into the dungeonous underbelly of our track-and-field house to anticipate his tirade. He began by asking if anyone on the team was an English Major. I raised my hand. “Tim,” he said, “will you please tell us all what this word means?” He wrote out F-A-I-R on our little chalkboard.

“It means giving everyone an equal opportunity at what they want.” I had said it before I thought about it, but I rolled it around in my head a bit and nodded. It seemed like a satisfactory definition.

Coach W loved it. Turns out it was exactly the definition he was looking for. What he had brought us together to say was that, being able students at a fairly expensive school, we had already been given many opportunities in life. Those who were born without opportunity– those in disadvantaged neighborhoods, those born with terminal illnesses, those born without all of their faculties– are the only ones with the right to talk about what’s unfair.

My teammates and I are indeed privileged. That can’t be said enough. And it’s easy in an insulated white suburb (because Bethlehem is really more suburb than city) to lose perspective on just how bad life can be.

Coach W did a good job of explaining such a pertinent point. But there was a dangerous thread of logic in his argument: he said that we can’t say something’s unfair as long as someone in this world lives a worse life than ours. Essentially, we can’t complain when he does treat us unfairly.

It reminded me of all the times as a child when I perceived unequal treatment amongst my brothers. “That’s not fair,” I would say. My parents liked to use the classic “Life’s not fair” response. But that doesn’t excuse treating people equally. The fact that life isn’t fair should be incentive to try and make it as fair to as many people as you can. Starting with your children, your neighbors, your team.

And that is why, if I end up being a coach, I won’t try to silence my team by making them feel guilty for the advantages that they were given by God/Luck/Fate. I will merely perform my duty to them, part of which is to make sure they’re treated equally.

Someday I hope to be a coach. I’m going for my certification in Secondary Education, and I think that coaching a high school team would be a great addition to my experience as a runner (in addition to my own future training, of course). I’ve been lucky enough to have some great coaches in the past, who really made a difference in who I am as an athlete.

On the other hand, I have a head coach right now who represents just about everything that I do not want to be if I ever lead a group of runners. For now, let’s call him Coach W.

Coach W., who has a long history of dastardly deeds against the distance squad, was in the mood to further aggrieve us yesterday. When I returned from my run, I found out that there was a list of people who wouldn’t be competing in this weekend’s meet. It mainly consisted of the slow distance runners. At the top of the list was my name.

I would usually be fine with this. As a slower runner, there are a lot of meets for which I do not qualify. But this meet has no time requirements. It doesn’t have any extra costs associated with entering extra people. And we have plenty of space on the bus, which will be taking us to a school that’s almost next door.

The distance squad met with Coach W. to ask for his reasons in excluding our slower members. He quickly confirmed for us what we already knew: that he was trying to prevent the embarassment we provide. He wanted to look like he trained only elite athletes in a Division 3 school.

Now, I understand how important reputation is to a coach. After all, Coach W.’s employers frown upon losing seasons. What infuriates me about his actions is that in order to look like a good coach, he’s willing to be a bad one.

After all, I think that what makes a coach great is the improvement that he can coax out of his athletes. It is not how fast his team is at the end of the season. After all, should a coach get credit for the talent of his athletes, which pre-exists his leadership?

I will never understand Coach W.’s views on coaching, and on running in general (as you will probably see throughout the year). The only gratitude I will ever have toward him is for showing me exactly what I never want to be when I myself am coach.