Free One Good Punch by Rich Wallace

ready for more, and yet I’m putting myself in danger of missing out because sleazy little Joey doesn’t deserve what he’d get if I saved my own butt. Too bad. I’ve worked too hard. I want it too bad. I’ve got too much at stake this season. My last high school track season.
    I think back to another final season.
    Things were never quite as great for Syracuse after that championship run when Gerry McNamara was a freshman. And in his senior year, things hit a low point. They were only the ninth seed in the Big East Conference tournament, and it looked like his career was going to end on a sour note.
    But he nailed a last-second three-pointer in the first round to beat Cincinnati by one, then hit another to force overtime in the quarterfinals against Connecticut. Syracuse won that game, too. Connecticut was ranked number one in the nation at that point.
    In the semis, Syracuse came from fifteen points behind to upset Georgetown—with the fans at Madison Square Garden chanting, “GER-ry, GER-ry” through the entire game. Then they beat Pitt in the final. Needless to say, McNamara was named the tournament’s MVP. And again, everybody in Scranton felt like they were a part of it.
    They lost in the first round of the NCAA tournament the following week. But McNamara had cemented his legend. We’ll be talking about him around here forever.
    My heart is pumping hard, and I feel the sweat turning cold on my face. I feel the heat in my legs and the hard, steady pumping of my lungs. I taste Mr. Onager’s stew, but I also hear his words again, and they are at least as chilling as the wind:
I never recovered as an athlete, you get me? I took that one good punch, and it finished me.
    Here’s a race where I quit on myself. District track championships last spring, seeded section of the 800 meters. I’m seeded sixth, but I’ve been coming on strong lately, and my coach tells me I can win. What I have to do is take it out hard and rob the favorite of his kick. Make sure he has nothing left for the final straightaway.
    So I go out fast for the first lap, coming through in fifty-eight seconds with him right on my butt. I lead through the first turn of the second lap, still pushing hard and feeling good. But I hit the backstretch and my mind starts taking over, telling me to ease up a bit so I’ll be able to finish fast.
    Exactly what my coach told me not to do.
When it hurts the most, start pushing harder,
he said. Do I listen? No. I try to relax, but I realize what pain I’m in. Three guys rush by me as we go into the final turn. That little rest I took is doing me no good at all; I’m tying up and dying. But I know I have it in me to stay with them, to fight back past them and win the race. But I don’t. I give up. I finish fourth and tell myself I did the best I possibly could. But deep inside, I know better.
    A car goes by and shakes me out of my daydream. I clench my fists and take a step toward home, then stop again and turn. No more quitting.
One good punch, and it finished me.
    I could take a thousand hard punches. I look back up the hill, shut my eyes for a second, and start running as fast as I can.
    I’m dying by the time I reach Capouse, but I fight through it and battle my way up to Wyoming, churning my arms and my legs. One mouthful of puke comes up, and I spit it out hard, never breaking stride, cursing at myself to keep moving, to run even harder, to never quit on myself again!
    Keep it coming, I’ll just get stronger. Knock me down, and I’ll get right back up. Take away the things I desire, but the desire itself won’t go away.
    Getting in trouble—and trying to get out of it—has one thing in common with giving up in a race. You can try to rationalize your way out of it, but the truth comes back to get you. You at least have to be honest with yourself.
    Even if you decide to screw the system.

Three East Students Expelled Following Weekend Drug Bust

    By TUCKER HAMMOND
Observer
Staff