In late September two opportunities were presented to me. The first was a chance to help out a fellow colleague; the second, a shot to coach the cross-country team.

 

I seized them both.

 

Little did the runners know that I had just as much experience coaching as I did teaching – none. Luckily I ran a little cross country in high school, so I had some idea what a coach should do. (Which, believe it or not, does require more than telling them to just run faster!)

 

First, I told them to simply run faster. After they accomplished that, I referred to my Coaching Cross Country for Dummies book as to what to do next. It stated that, “As a coach, you must encourage them to run faster.” So I told them to run even faster. And so they did.

 

And just like that, I was on my way as a coach – albeit an interim coach (or as my runners would say, a “temporary” coach).

 

I can’t honestly say what prompted me to give up my afternoon naps for a chance to wreck my knees on 6-mile street runs with a group of sweat-soaked, sugar-high teenagers. Perhaps it was a desperate attempt for me to get into shape, or the duty in giving a friend one less thing to worry about. Maybe it was the fact that in high school, I despised all of my coaches and wanted to prove to myself that I wouldn’t be like them. I like to think it was a combination of the three.

 

Regardless, I quickly found myself surrounded by fifteen runners who were looking to me for guidance. It was my responsibility to turn them into even better athletes, to help them improve race times, pacing, speed, and strength.

 

It was I who had to register them for races, arrange bus schedules, and coordinate out-of-state trips. I was a coach. They needed me, I thought. But in those six weeks I came to a realization I could have never imagined: It was I who needed them.

 

All of them put an extra swagger in my step, a smile on my face. They even took me down a notch in my belt – an added bonus to the job.

 

I welcomed the last period bell. Not because I could go home for my afternoon nap (which was always a welcoming treat), but because I knew my runners would soon be walking through my classroom door ready for practice.

 

And for whatever unforeseen reason, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my afternoons than running with fifteen sweat-soaked, sugar-high teens.

 

In cross-country, you don’t run plays. You don’t have an offense or a defense, you just let them run. Mostly they ran against themselves – their own pain, their own inner voice. I was their biggest advocate, their biggest cheerleader. Whenever I could, I offered them my voice (usually from 100 yards away). I willingly gave them everything I had. And I would again in a four-minute mile.

 

And now the season is over. The last period bell rings, my students leave, and I am alone. I have my afternoon naps back. But after last season, maybe that’s not enough anymore.