The Beginning

In August, two weeks before he was to start the 8th grade of Junior High, they put him in a cage. It was made of chromed steel, hard plastic and stiff cow hide. The hard plastic shell fit around his hips like a vise, made tight by Velcro straps. Long steel strips went from the plastic base up his chest and back, meeting in a mesh of steel under his chin which was supported by a padded leather chin rest.
While he was wearing his cage, he was unable to lift his arms above his chest. Each time he tried, his shoulders and upper arms would bang into the steel bars. He could not turn his head and if he wanted to look at something or someone that wasn’t directly in front of him, had to move his entire body to the left or right. The doctor told him that he had to wear the cage at all times, except in the shower for the first six months. Getting a full night’s sleep was impossible, and the only sleep he did get was when he was flat on his back. Any other position caused the metal bars to dig into his body.
He learned to eat by bringing the fork, spoon or cup high to his mouth and trying to lean forward. Even then, he would spill something almost every time. The food or liquid dribbling down the front of his shirt and on the chin guard which he had to clean after every meal. For two weeks, his only physical activity was the occasional walk. There was no more baseball, biking, running, hiking and nothing that would use up the endless supply of nervous energy flowing through his veins. The cage removed his legs.
Finally, the day he had been dreading for weeks came, the first day of school. Down the street he walked. At first, unnoticed. Then gradually, he saw out of the corner of his eye, other kids in his school pointing at him. He walked straight to the classroom without stopping by his locker or talking to anybody.
In the classroom, the teacher barely acknowledged him as she went through her lesson plan. Sitting down was awkward and very painful. First he had to fall into his seat. Then, the straps and steel bars dug into his hips and lower back. When the teacher called out his name, several of the students laughed out loud and he heard a whispered “tin man” behind him.
For the next six months, every day was a repeat of the first. Like and endless looping nightmare, never changing, never ending. He lost every friend he thought he had. Prevented from taking gym class, he spent that hour in the library.
The one day that was different was when on the way home from school, a bully pushed him down to the ground from behind. He pancaked on the ground, skinning his hands, knees and nose. He surprised the bully by slowly getting up and punching him in the nose. The bully punched him in the chest, hitting one of the metal bars. That was the end of the fight, except for the usual by the bully and his friends that “I’m going to get you later.” Nothing ever came of it, but, he would sometimes wish for more confrontations, at least someone would be talking to him.
Unannounced, his mother took him back to the doctor where he was prodded and asked where his back hurt and to do some stretching exercises. At the end of the exam the doctor turned to his Mother and said “he can take the brace off for one hour a day, starting tomorrow.” His Mother and the doctor spent another 10 minutes talking, but he didn’t hear a word.
That Friday night, he was unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time and for once, it wasn’t because of the brace. He couldn’t decide when or how he would use his one hour of freedom. He knew that during the week, he would use it for gym class. Finally, the sun came up. His father made his decision for him about his morning. “You need to mow the lawn, wash out the garage and wash the car before you do anything.”
By the time he finished his chores, it was past 2. He went inside his room and took off the cage. Feeling the loss of the 10 pounds of chrome and leather, he felt light and fast and clean. He put on his sneakers and went out. “Where are you going” his Mother asked. “Out” he said. “When are you coming back?” “In an hour” he responded as he closed the door.
The air felt damp and heavy. The fog was rolling over the hills from Pacifica. He knew there was the sun behind the clouds and the fog. He could feel the warmth, even if he couldn’t see it. He started walking down the street. Faster and faster, until he was running with hard, painful breaths. His body wanted to stop, to make the pain in his legs and chest go away, but, he ignored that. Running to the top of a hill, he paused to look around, back towards the airport and his neighborhood. Then he turned around and ran back home.
Sunday, after he got back from Mass, he ran again. He wanted to go to the library. To get some books on famous runners, but, he would have to wait. In those days, there was no internet, no Amazon, no Barnes & Noble. Nothing to quench the thirst of instant gratification. He had to wait and for him, waiting was a slow death.
Monday came and in his hands were his gym sweats. New, too big because they hadn’t been washed yet. He went to gym class with a smile on his face. After changing, he handed his cage to the Coach in his glassed in office. The cage wouldn’t fit in a regular locker. The Coach looked at the cage and then at him. He said nothing.
In class, he played basketball on an outdoor asphalt court. He didn’t shoot one basket, but was content to run as fast as he could up and down the court. Once, he stole the ball from one of the better players, passed it to another for an easy layup. The player turned and yelled, “good pass.” He smiled and said nothing. It was the first friendly words he had heard from somebody his own age in months. When he retrieved the cage, the Coach asked, “you have to wear this every day?” “Yes, I can only take it off for one hour a day.” The Coach nodded and said nothing.
The rest of winter passed in this way. He was still alone, but he was left alone. Still the freak, the robot, the tin man that wasn’t spoken to, but, now was harassed either. In mid February, he saw a notice posted on the locker room wall. “Tryouts for track, February 21.” He ran as much as he could in gym and on the weekend before the try out.
It was so cold the day of the tryout that he could see his breath every time he exhaled. Huge clouds of steam seemed to float over the grassy and muddy field. The Track Coach was a tall, thin man with glasses, wearing leather shoes with three stripes on the sides. He’d never seen shoes like that close up, only in books or in the old track and field magazines he read in the library. He only had his sneakers.
The Coach pointed to several boys before getting to him and then said, “you boys will be running two laps. Let’s see how you do.” He lined up on a painted chalk line in the grass with the rest of the boys. The Coach yelled “go!” and pushed the button on his stop watch. He felt dizzy as he sprinted around the turn with the other boys, out of breath after only 20 or 30 yards, but he hung on. It hurt, but he kept going.
One by one, one of the boys would slow and he would pass on the left. Still, there were two boys in front of him when they passed the Coach for the second lap. The Coach yelled out their split times as they passed, his face red and excited. On the back stretch, he sprinted and it hurt so bad, he had block spots in his eyes. Each breath burned his throat and chest. Still, he made himself keep going. Flying around the last turn, he finished 10 yards in front of the other runners.
Bent over, holding his knees as he tried to get some air in his lungs and not throw up, he
heard the Coach say “track isn’t like baseball or football, the clock doesn’t care what kind of
shoes you wear, if you are popular or if you wear a back brace. It only matters how fast you run.
Son, you are some fast runner. You will be running the 880 and maybe the mile. Get yourself
some spikes and we’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, and call me Bob, never call me Coach.”
The way home that day, was the easiest he had made since he had been sentenced to the
cage. He was about halfway home when he heard, “hey wait up!” It was a short guy with dark
hair he had seen at the tryouts and around the school named Mike. “So, what event are you
running? I’m doing the quarter mile.”