Koopsaw's Shadow Bobby laid on his back in the warm grass letting the sun warm his legs as he stretched them, first one, then the other, in preparation for the big race. This was it, the moment he had been preparing for all season, the state finals in the 100 yard low hurdles. He had qualified through the regionals and then the semifinals easily, setting a personal best in his elapsed time. His only worry was his arch nemesis from Duncan, Oklahoma. Smith and he had locked horns many times in both the low and high hurdles and more often than not, Smith had beaten him. But Bobby felt his chances were not only good today, they were great. He was in top shape and had just come off of his best race of the year. He turned over on his stomach and looked towards the buses lined up in the parking lot. They were all here, the best of the best. Except maybe one. Despite the fact that he and Smith were recognized as the two best in the state, there was one missing from the arena. Ol' Koopsaw, the Apache from Carnegie. Koopsaw had beaten them both every time he ran against them. Every race since junior high that Koopsaw showed up at, he won. Koopsaw ran barefooted, and his long strides and easy gait appeared effortless to anyone who ever saw him run. He ran as if the hurdles weren't even there. He just seemed to step over them not really leaping or striding across them, and he never missed a hurdle. After the race he would simply walk back to the grass infield and sit, watching all the others, in apparent boredom, just waiting for the other events to finish, collect his ribbon and head for the bus. The problem was, Koopsaw wouldn't attend school regularly. This point aggravated his coach to no end. Koopsaw never listened to him anyway, he didn't need to, for he had talent, he could run like a deer and that was a God-given gift, who could coach such a thing? Koopsaw may show up for a meet, or he may not. This was what all the other hurdlers hoped for while they waited their turn at their marks. But he sure could run. So here laid Bobby in the grass, the champion hurdler from Chickasha, hoping and praying that Koopsaw had failed to qualify for the 1957 state championship in the low hurdles. He looked over at Smith, who was already through stretching and was running in place, throwing his knees up to his chest in exaggerated movements. Smith caught his eye and shot him a look as if to say, "get ready for a whuppin', Bobby'. Bobby forgot about Koopsaw and threw himself easily up on his feet, removing his warm up jacket in one smooth simultaneous movement. They both began to pace anxiously as the time was drawing near for their race. Koopsaw was a sort of legend at the meets. He was like a ghost. He always merely walked up to the mark at the last possible moment, he never got down in a runner's starting position, he would just stand sideways to the line with his hands on his knees and await the gun. But once the gun went off, he was off the line instantly. He never distanced the field. He would just glide along with them until the last hurdle and then he would seem to reach another gear, a burst of speed that always found him at least 4 steps ahead of his nearest competitor. Bobby had thought he had him beat once, only to look down and see those bare feet move past him, small, dainty little feet, like a girl's, dusty, and without the thud, thud,thud his own feet made as he ran. Koopsaw's feet never made a sound, as if they didn't even touch the ground. His shadow was unmistakeable as it approached, his hair flying behind him as he ran. But, Koopsaw wasn't here, and Bobby moved up to his mark at the starting line. The runners shook their muscled thighs, shook out their arms, or maybe leaped up and down, waiting for the call to the line. "Runners to your mark!" came the call. Bobby went through his personal preparations, bent down on his knees, he put his right thumb down on the ground first, even with his shoulder, then his palm. Then he did the same with his left hand. He kicked each leg backwards, like a horse kicking at something, then he place them in the blocks. A bead of sweat ran down his nose. Smith was in his blocks too. Staring down at the ground, playing the race in his head, each step, "1-2-3, leap, 1-2-3, leap" all the way to the finish where he would lean forward at the tape and win the state championship. "On your mark!" Bobby's muscles started flinching. "Set!" Smith put his rear in the air, all his tension in those huge muscled thighs, each muscle poised for the start, anticipating the gun. Someone jumped the gun just before the race was to start and they had to go throught the whole process again. Bobby and Smith hadn't seen who it was in their preoccupation with their own start. For a moment, the shadow of Koopsaw flashed through both of their minds. "On your mark! Set!" The gun went off! Bobby was off like a shot. 1-2-3, leap, 1-2-3, leap. He was having the race of his life. He knew he was in front and he threw everything into each step. Smith was three lanes over and he too was right there with Bobby. They were neck and neck. Two more hurdles. They both ran with everything they had, thud, thud, thud, and then the leap. Bobby felt someone to his left coming up on him. A shadow approaching quickly and effortlessly. Smith felt it too, and he made the cardinal mistake of looking over to see who the shadow belonged to? Koopsaw? This momentary lapse of attention caused him to glance the last hurdle and as he came down awkwardly on his next step he cursed himself for having done so. Bobby didn't make this mistake. He did look down though, and saw two dusty, dainty feet moving past him. "NO!" He thought to himself instantly. He felt the tape at his thighs, a sure sign someone had crossed before him. He loped on out of his sprint and turned expecting to see Koopsaw there. But it was not the Apache. Instead, it was a skinny little fifteen year old from Carnegie, the same kid who in his haste had jumped the start. Disbelief came over Bobby's face. Smith was cursing as he moved past on his way to the infield to explain to his coach what had happened. Bobby watched as the barefooted winner moved towards the stands. He just could not believe this, he had run the best race of his life, his time bested his previous record, yet here he was, a second place, a red ribbon instead of a blue one. And yet, this kid had beaten him. He stole another look at the kid and saw him waving to someone in the stands, and there he saw Koopsaw waving back. He smiled a wry smile. Koopsaw had not beaten him after all, but his shadow had. |
Koopsaw's Shadow
© Michael Walkingstick - 2002
gathered from the net
"Running Bear" midi courtesy of élan michaels bead bar courtesy of Greasy Grass