The Track Team and a Chemistry Teacher

[May 20, 2025]  Shortly after our relocation to Abilene, Texas and joining the school’s track team, I actually had an epiphany. School wasn’t so bad, other than having to deal with local bullies who wanted to smack this Southern Boy around. Academics were not my thing, but thanks to Mr. Chaffee, my chemistry teacher, I began what would become a lifelong interest in how much better the world is through chemistry.  And he convinced me to join my school’s track team since I was “built like a runner.”  So, I joined.

Our High School track team was good. We won more track meets than we lost, and a number of my teammates went to the state to compete. I was a mediocre competitor, primarily because I thought natural talent was enough to pull off a win: wrong. But at one track meet, I’d done fairly well, at least so far.  While my teammates were saying good things to me, God thought I might get a swelled head from too much praise. So, I didn’t see the railroad tie bordering the edge of the broad jump pit, and while I was walking and talking with my friends, it leaped out at me.

One moment, I was up; the next second, I was struggling to keep my footing.  That didn’t work out well. Unfortunately, my brain decided the best way to break my fall was with my face, a way that might do the least damage. Down I went with arms and legs spreading out, attempting to regain my balance and keep from hitting my head.  The momentum of falling drilled my face into the grass, causing a weird array of small cuts and abrasions that quickly caused swelling and made my lips, nose, and eyes look like a large-mouthed bass. The grass may appear softer than concrete, but try falling on it sometime, and you’ll realize that a face sandpapered by grass is no picnic.

My chemistry teacher, Mr. Chaffee, was there in an instant; what a great guy. “This is going to sting,” he said, words that ring true through the ages. With a bottle of alcohol and my track uniform Jersey, he cleaned my face.   Yowwww.  In my spastic fall to the ground, I should have broken something, as I’d done in earlier years, but not this time. But I did have those “bee-sting” lips that Hollywood actresses like to show off. A buddy on my team called me “duck lips,” and I swung hard to take him down with a left hook. I missed. He laughed.

At home, my parents were preparing for guests coming over for dinner, a rare indulgence.  My Mom’s brother and family were coming over with their spoiled kids, my cousins. I wore a handkerchief up and over my nose like the train robbers do in cowboy movies, hoping no one would notice how pathetic I looked. You can never hide anything from your family. I spilled my guts about the track meet and hit the ground hard, Mr. Chaffee cleaning me up and not finishing my allotted track events. As my face began to heal and the swelling subsided, my lips looked like they’d been stabbed with an ice pick, full of those annoying little scabs.  That was not fun.

Looking back on that day, it reminds me of being suckered into believing that Hopalong Cassidy, the cowboy hero television show from the 1930s to the early 50s, could be beaten within an inch of his life and come out with minimal damage.  Of course, the beating was by a gang of cow thieves or bank robbers, one of them holding Hopalong down and the others whaling on him with their fists.  The next day, he would have a small band-aid on his face, and that was it. And it took me weeks to overcome the scrapes on my face.

Remembering that I’d grown up around men who were in combat during World War II and the Korean War, I should have heeded their advice to remain aware of my surroundings.  They would tell me, “Stay focused, stay alive.”  True enough, I should have had the ‘situational awareness’ to avoid tripping over a railroad tie.  I had ‘little kid awareness,’ which is not the same thing.  We’ve all been there when a young man is talking to a pretty girl while walking, and the guy walks into a utility pole or a parked car.  Maybe he considered an injured shoulder or hip an acceptable price in the presence of a good-looking girl.  Certainly, my fall was not the same thing, as there was no upside.

Another result of the fall was a scraped knee and both elbows.  There’s a life lesson here.  If you fall, try to fall near your chemistry teacher.  He’ll come running over to offer assistance, always have the right antiseptic on hand to use, and he’ll not laugh at you and humiliate you in front of the public.  I probably have run a million miles in track meets; even being the broad jumper, my coach had a habit of competing with me in the 200 and 500-yard races (today, measured in meters).  I’d not practiced these running events, and since talent was not enough, I usually finished a disappointing last. I was wheezing and coughing and feeling like my chest was about to cave in when I crossed the finish line.

This was the only fall I experienced in my entire short “career” as a jumper on my school’s track team.  In those days, the school nurse only diagnosed broken bones. Cuts and scrapes were to be dealt with at the individual level and the advice I got was “suck it up.”  Ah, great advice. I hated showering in the track field house so I put on my jeans and drove home. Everyone in my family got a chance to give me sage advice about what not to do with my minor injuries. Painfully, they stuck to my jeans and taking off my clothing was going to now be a screaming affair. More life lessons learned and learned the hard way.

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Please read my books:

1. “55 Rules for a Good Life,” on Amazon (link here).
2. “Our Longest Year in Iraq,” on Amazon (link here).