Other

The Highjumper

 The needle-thin spikes of your cleats pierce the asphalt, crunching and tapping against the cement beneath as you near the highjump pit that’s situated along the West end of the football field, behind the white uprights. Howling March winds slice through your papery, slick jersey as the dark, billowing clouds hang low, creeping northeast.

You and Vermont go through stretching routines in the pungent, freshly-cut grass as starter’s pistols test-fire with cracks in the distance. Outside the quarter mile track, aluminum stands elevate the parents with their overstuffed coolers while the half-milers and pole-vaulters and discus throwers tighten their spikes with plastic keys and tape the arches of their feet.

“Hey roomie,” Vermont says. “Why are you still trying to be on this team?” And his face reddens and bounces from fits of high-pitched cackles and snorts unfitting his impressive stature and handsomeness. “Why haven’t you given up yet?”--

Your left knee burns while walking away.    

“Seriously, man,” Vermont says, “I’m not up for this cold weather. This ain’t like California. This is making me think they can keep my full-ride. My parents can pay for this and I can stay inside where it’s warm, man. You know?”

Intercom speakers pop with static and a warbled voice begins, “The Men’s high jump will immediately follow the women’s at approximately 10:20.”

High jumpers congregate in the grass behind the blacktopped semicircle, filtering in quietly from the stands, wearing bright colored wind breakers with broad stripes and carrying their duffle bags. A late-twenties, 6’7” Czechoslovakian with a crew cut, named Strevnor, sits in the grass, riffling through his bag.

Vermont grabs the tape measure wheel out of his bag to triangulate the marks and you hold the tape’s end carefully for him near the inside of the left standard’s support column.

Vermont sticks some athletic tape on the blacktop to mark the triangle’s short leg that’s parallel to the crossbar. “Do you think it’ll rain?” he asks.

A tall brunette in a deliciously-understated blue fleece and jeans walks between the rows in the stands. “I’m gonna be getting some tonight, son,” Vermont exclaims. “You see that over there?” Sarah had met up with Vermont after practice the last couple weeks. Vermont had introduced you once. Even from the upper rows, her beauty glows by all she has and the way she moves.

“Don’t be obvious, man.”

You look down at the athletic tape stuck to the blacktop. She was a guitarist and a vocalist that played at the Union Station bar near campus.

“I got her in the system. After I wrap this bitch up, I’m gonna get with that.” Vermont sinks the shank of his nailed tennis ball into the soil as you release the end of the tape measure wheel.

“You know, Roomie, you’re an all right looking guy--no homo!--no homo, dude!” Vermont recoils, mockingly, “But if you want to get laid, you gotta buy another pair of shorts. I mean seriously, dude, are those from high school.” He scratches his face--

The stabbing pain in your knee surfaces and won’t go away with the next couple steps. The ground is soft as your nail-impaled tennis ball sinks into the soil, marking your approach.

Coach Jack walks over. He’s a big guy, a former collegiate shot-putter, with a graying mustache who walks with a wobbly gait due to a recent back surgery. His hand rests on Vermont’s shoulder. “How we feeling today?”

“Good coach,” Vermont says.

“Now remember, Vermont, if you hit the bar on your way over, you have to get off the mats before it falls or the jump doesn’t count. Understand? We don’t want a repeat of Florida State.”