Guts!

    Tuesday, an autumn afternoon, the shadows are long along the tree line, the timing clock reads 11:36 as the 25th runner crosses the blue mat finish line in a field along the 4 lane highway.
   The runner a 7th grader, took off at the sound of the gun with about a hundred other boys, 7th and 8th graders. The crack of the starting pistol started  the stampede, and very quickly the leaders, began widening the gap between them and the pack, and between them and the boys who would not even see the back of the leaders shirt again. The boys at the back.
   From the very beginning the gap between the lead boys and the boys at the back gets wider and wider. As the stampede moves out of sight, the spectators surge across the course to intercept the leaders as they come back through the field toward the finish line.
 "Where's the mile mark?" parents ask each other.
Parents and coaches are shouting at their runners.
 "You're 18th, move up, come on now!"
 "Use the downhill!"
"Good job! You can do it!"
" Keep going! Half way!"
The leaders and the first big packs move past, sweating, huffing and puffing, grunting to move forward, one foot in front of the other. As they move, so do the spectators, hurrying to be at the finish line to see who wins, who places and who shows.
   The boys at the back are just now coming into sight as most of the spectators move away. Suffering just the same as those in front, putting out just as much effort as the 1st place, 10th place, 25th place boys. They are not fast, they too are putting one foot in front of the other. They are runners.
   Then, at the finish line the clock reads 9:56 and the pounding of rubber soles on sod fills the air above the shouts of encouragement from the spectators crowding the line.
"Don't let him take you!"
 "Go, go, use your arms!"
 "Almost there!"
"Come on! Sprint!"
   Then, the last big pack is through the finish line, the clock reads 12:46. The crowd on the line disperses to find their runners, they walk across the course.
    But the clock is still timing, waiting for the boys in the back.
"Clear the course, runners still coming in!" shouts the official down the field.
 Yes, they are, the last ones. The boys in back. They are running. Running hard. Their faces are not smiling, they are not slackers, nor are they slacking, they are runners. They will finish. Get out of the way. They will cross in their time. They will not have a DNF (Did Not Finish) by their name, they will have a time. Their time. Some of us realize they are coming. We clap and shout encouragement.
   These last of the pack runners, the 3rd to last, the 2nd to last, the next to last and the very last are not to be pitied. They are to be admired, encouraged and not forgotten. Each one is part of a team, and each one has done their best.
   Iconic runner Steve Prefontaine said, "A lot of people run a race to see who's fastest. I run to see who has the most guts."
  On that Tuesday afternoon, a lot of kids, 7th and 8th grade boys and girls, showed us that they all had guts.
First,  25th or last, they had the guts to finish what they started.
 I like that.
 I like cross country running.
 Guts.
Peace, my friends.