One of my favorite past times while running with my boys that I coach, is telling stories about the exploits of glory and fame from my own super funky fast youth. Now I come from the generation of parachute pants, black Trans-Ams, and big hair, which means we wore Dolphin running shorts, candy striped singlets with matching tube socks. It was not our greatest moment in running fashion. Thank God Nike came to their senses and created the more eye-pleasing Dry-Fit running gear I now enjoy. Which brings us to today's blog topic, Tumbleweed.
As anyone who grew up in the late 70's and 80's can attest, white men wore afros. Now your average white, anglo-saxon, protestant male had to go to a hair salon and pay ridiculous amounts of hard earned cold cash to add some chemical curl to their head. I, on other hand, was born with a bushy head of red-orange nappy curl, that naturally could be picked out into an afro. Therefore, during my 8th grade year, one of my basketball team mates bestowed upon my original nickname, Cousin Tumbleweed. By the time my sophomore year rolled around, my dubious moniker had been downsized to a more manageable Tumbleweed. Even today, over 30 years after the first utterance of this follicle label, I will be out running and some guy from the decade of Prince, Michael Jackson and Duran-Duran will shout out their window from their speeding Japanese made mini-van, "Tumbleweed!!!"
Now during this time period at my high school Alma Mater, Tulare Union High School, our track coach was one tiny, spark plug of a Baptist preacher of the name of Jerome Milton. Rather than the win one for the Gipper or profane laced football analogy, our well groomed, tie and vest, and shiny winged-tipped loafer wearing Coach Milton would fire us up with his version of a track revival sermon. Complete with plenty of "holla backs." It was if Jake and Elwood were giving us the divine message that we were meant to run faster, throw farther and jump higher than any other hormonal fueled adolescents that we came into contact with on the track. We were on a mission from God.
Never short on words and quick to call his athletes to step up to the challenge that faced them for that particular day, he would make sure he had our attention by calling us by name in front of our whole team and for me, as our top mile and 2 mile runner that meant calling me out by no other name than that of Tumbleweed. However, in his rapid fire oral firestorm just before our league championship my sophomore year, he jumbled up the syllables and blurted out "Weed-Tumble, we are counting on you in the two!" Although we had had several conversations before this moment, it was the first time he had called me out and to make the whole moment totally awkward, he got my identity wrong. "Weed-tumble? Who was Weed-tumble? Wait, he means me! Crap, now everyone knows that coach expects me to step up the challenge and deliver big time." I was given a mission. Maybe not from God, but a mission none the less.
Long story short, I ran nearly a minute pr in the next to last race of our league championship with a 10:15 two mile, helping put our varsity team in position to capture a league title. However, in the last race, we were unable to pull out the team victory, but nothing could beat jogging up to Coach Milton after that race and hear him exhort. "Well done Weed-tumble, well done."
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