TALENTS
Announcer: “Wearing hip #10, currently ranked #2 in Oregon and #3 in the United States with a seasonal best of 3:53.4, last year’s runner-up in this event, representing Jesuit, Junior SETH WETZEL!”
“Wearing hip #11, currently ranked #1 in Oregon and #2 in the United States with a seasonal best of 3:53.3, this year’s State Cross Country Champion AND COMMITTED TO RUN FOR THE UNIVERSITY OF OREGON DUCKS NEXT YEAR, representing Lake Oswego, Senior TRACY HOLLISTER!”
“Hip #12, out of Parkrose, Junior Ben Andrews.”
That’s me wearing hip #12, Ben Andrews. I’m ranked 11th out of the 12 runners in this race. I’ve just thrown up my breakfast. And my lunch. My chain-smoking doctor, who I’ve known since childhood has diagnosed me as having acid-reflux disorder; however, he’s never asked me if I have these episodes any other time than before track meets. I don’t. It’s nerves and today I have them as much as I ever have. I am empty. And weak.
For the first time today, I realized I’m not the only one. An hour ago, as I was standing over the toilet throwing up in the bathroom, I glanced to the stall next to me and someone else was doing the same, a little more violently than I was. From what I could see underneath the stall walls, this person appeared to be on his knees throwing up, a little more committed than I’d been. As I was leaving, I glanced again and saw that he was wearing a pair of Nike Skylon running shoes. The same as I was wearing. He was also wearing SportHill running tights, green with yellow piping. Just the tights I wanted, but my family couldn't afford.
On any other Saturday I would chalk this up to ordinary pre-race nerves, but today I recognize that I am petrified of competing against the best runners in Oregon. More than that, I’m scared to death to run against two of the best runners in the country. I am only focused on that 12th ranked runner. I have to beat him. My goal is to not finish last.
As always, my family is on hand to watch. My parents have never missed the opportunity to watch my brother, Matthew, and I compete in whatever sport we’re pursuing. They always make sure that both are on hand, attentive and cheering. I say opportunitybecause I hear many of my teammates say how lucky they are when their parents choose to show up. Mine are always there.
My dad, Ted, works in a can-manufacturing plant, long days and crummy working conditions making cans that will house fruit, tuna, and a variety of other foods. For him, it’s a job in the truest sense of the word. During the summer months, temperatures are regularly above 100 inside the plant. In the winter, it’s mid-30’s to mid-40’s. However, this job provides a luxury that many households don't have—insurance for the family and the ability for my mom to work less and be available to us boys before and after school. In our family, that makes it a dream job.
In his day, my dad was a natural runner. As a high school freshman in 1965, he was one of the top in Oregon. When the state meet came around, his coach left him off the varsity team and forced him to race only against other freshman. He declined. “You can have this uniform back,” he told his coach. “If I can’t run against the best, I don’t run.”
My mom, Cindy, works as a housecleaner and cleans the homes of neighborhood families, including a few of my classmates. A couple of the kids make me feel inferior with jokes and innuendoes, but I don't pay them too much mind. Last year she had a very short stint as a real estate agent. As an independent contractor with a big national firm, she was fired after she talked her only clients out of buying a home. They were newlyweds and she suggested that their money might be a little too tight and wouldn't it be fun to just enjoy the first year of marriage and all that it can offer? Her advice was to save up some money and test the market the following year. The office manager told her “You’re more suited for cleaning toilets, not selling the houses they are in.” So, after six weeks of hearing Calloway’s “I’m Going to Be Rich” as our family soundtrack, my mom was out of the real estate game and back to cleaning those toilets.
My brother, Matthew, is an 8th grader and three years my junior. He is the Boston Celtic’s Larry Bird reincarnated. An unabashed gym-rat, Matthew rigs the gym doors so we can get inside to play whenever we want, typically a few moments after the evening janitors leave for the night. A pure shooter, he is quick and can nearly touch the rim with his elbow. A couple of weeks ago, I rebounded for him while he hit ten 3-pointers in a row, moving around the arc, pretending he was coming off high picks. Afterward, he quipped that he wanted to shoot them four to five feet deeper, but knew my arms weren’t strong enough to pass the ball as hard as he likes to receive it. He didn't want to hurt my feelings. Puzzled, I asked why he wanted the ball passed so hard.
His response: “In college and the NBA, they will come harder, and I am preparing for that now.” Remember, he’s 13.
Just as I’m finishing my warm-up, my family passes by heading to seats near the start/finish line. They all give me a hug and high-fives. My dad pulls me aside and with a rare and quiet seriousness says, “Ben, you’re as good as any of these guys. I have told you that I was one of the best and you know what? You have more talent than I had. My regret is that I never leaned into my God-given gift. I’m excited to see what God does through you today, go show ‘em what you’ve got.”
Lean into my God-given gift? I think back to the night before, when my coach, Tom Dearborn, called my hotel room around 8:45 and asked how I was feeling.
“I’m a little nervous,” I said.
“Meet me in the lobby in 10 minutes.”
I raced down to the lobby, excited to hear Dearborn’s pep-talk as he isn’t a rah-rah guy. We took a 30-minute walk around downtown Eugene but there was no pep-talk to be had. We didn’t talk about running. We didn't talk about anything, really, just stuff. It did calm my nerves and when we parted in the lobby, he said “just lean into what you have. Tomorrow is just another race.”
When I got to my room, I placed my Chapstick in the nightstand and came across a book. It was a Bible. My first thought was of all the rooms in this hotel, I’m the one who has a Bible? This has to be a sign that God is on my side. Something urged me to open it. I grew up with a belief in God, but never had I an urge like I did at this moment. With tomorrow’s race, I was feeling anxious, alone, and a little scared. As I opened the Bible, it fell to 1 Corinthians 9:25-27, which read:
Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. Therefore I do not run like someone running aimlessly; I do not fight like a boxer beating the air. No, I strike a blow to my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize. After I read those verses for a third time, I dog-eared the page to read it again in the morning, then made a collect call home. It was nice to talk with my mom, dad, and brother. Before I hung up, my dad said “Ben, we’ll see you tomorrow. We’re praying for you.” My brother shouted, “you’ve got this” and my mom offered, “I love you, goodnight!”
At that moment, I knew the race the next day would be anything but just another race. The next morning, I reached for my Chapstick and grabbed the Bible again to re-read the verse. This time I opened to the first page and found a pamphlet and realized I wasn’t the only one in the hotel who had a Bible. The pamphlet talked about Gideons International, which had been placing Bibles in hotel rooms since 1908. I didn’t feel as special as the night before, but I told myself, I’m the one who listened to the urge to open the Bible. And I’m the one who opened it to that verse.
As I’m finishing up my last stride down the backstretch, I hear the announcer say: “That rounds out the field for the 1,500-meter run.”
The starter beckons me to the starting line with a stern “Hey hip #12, we’re waiting for you! Move it!”
From 50 meters out, my run back to the starting line turns into a slow jog and then a walk. I begin to scan the crowd in Hayward Field’s east grandstand. I then lock in on my competitors, watching each one engaged in last-minute pre-race rituals. Some look to the sky while their lips form inaudible pep-talks or prayers. Others jump up and down or slap the fronts of their legs, calling for the blood to course as they remove their final pieces of warm-up clothing. It is at that moment that I see Seth Wetzel staring down the track. He is staring at me. What is he looking at? Why is he looking in my direction? He is the #2 runner in Oregon and the #3 runner in the United States. My legs get weak as I realize he is staring me down. As he bends over to remove his Green SportHill running tights, the green pair with yellow piping, I realize he is the guy who was throwing up. Is he nervous, too?
I make my way to the starting line, take my place beside Wetzel and Hollister, and look down at the track. Then at my shoes and then my bare legs. I whisper to myself: Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training.
The announcer summons the crowd “Quiet for the start…”
Bang!
Announcer: “They’re off! Ladies and gentleman, this race could determine who is the fastest high school miler in the country!”
As the gun goes off, I sprint to the lead. My race plan is simple; take the lead for the first lap and have my family hear our name--Andrews—over the stadium loudspeakers. Then, settle in and race for a finish one place better than last.
The crowd of 8,500 begins to clap rhythmically as is the tradition at Hayward Field, the track-and-field stadium situated on the campus of the University of Oregon, sometimes called the Carnegie Hall of Track and Field. Some of the best in the world have competed here. Names like Carl Lewis, Michael Johnson, Jim Ryun, Henry Rono, Alberto Salazar, Frank Shorter, Bill Rodgers, Mary Decker Slaney, Bill Dellinger and Nike co-founders Bill Bowerman and Phil Knight. Not to mention, Oregon’s hero, Steve Prefontaine.
As we come around the bend on the first lap, the announcer summons the crowd: “Ladies and Gentlemen, Ben Andrews of Parkrose leads two of the best in the nation, Seth Wetzel and Tracy Hollister.”
I look up into the bleachers just about 20 meters past the starting line where my parents and brother always sit, and I immediately spot them. They are all cheering. Loudly. They stand out. I briefly wonder: how do I see them? How do I hear them in this massive stadium? Inside I’m screaming: Hey guys, did you hear it? They said our name. Everyone heard it!
“Andrews!”
As my mind begins to focus on finishing 11th place—one place better than last—a fleeting thought comes to my mind. I wonder if I can do it again. I answer the call and with that, the race is on to finish the second of four laps in first place.
A fist from behind plows into my right kidney and I stumble slightly; it certainly makes me realize that I’m not in this race alone. I push the pace a bit so that I can’t hear anyone behind me; if I can do that, I won’t get tripped, and everyone can hear our name again over the loudspeaker.
This goes on for the next lap…and the one after it. I push the pace; I don’t hear anyone. I relax. Then I hear people come up on me again and push again. Two more times, 8,500 people hear, “Ben Andrews of Parkrose is your leader!”
The bell rings to signify the last lap. In my head, I hear what feels like the winds of a tornado bringing me into final focus. One more lap. I tell myself: you’ve got this. I recite the verse I’d opened to: Ben, make your legs your slave.
Everything outside my immediate focus goes black. I am surrounded by silence except for the sounds of my breath and my heartbeat. As we head down the backstretch for the last time, I glance to the figure on my right to see who it is. It’s the first time I’ve seen any of my competitors the entire race. I can’t make him out as he’s just beyond my peripheral vision. But that glance to my right yielded a glimpse of Hayward’s famed east grandstands. I see thousands of people begin to stand as I, along with everyone else in the race, strive for another gear. Still in the lead, I realize I’m creating a stadium wave. I don't hear anything expect my breathing and the beating of my heart.
The energy of the crowd allows me to dig a little deeper—and I say to myself: Make your legs your slave.
With half a lap to go, I hear Wendy Ray, one of the world’s best Track & Field announcers, enthusiastically say “We’ve got a race! Andrews, Wetzel, Hollister—here they come!”
I don’t hear anything else. It’s as though Ray is talking to me, giving me insight as to who’s around me. I think to myself, this is a race with three people. I’m going to get a medal. I could get third against two of the best in the nation.
Then I think: I can win. I will win!
My thoughts switch to Billy Mills and the movie Running Brave, which I’d worn out from watching so many times on videotape. Billy Mills, an Oglala Lakota Indian, won gold in the 10,000-meter race at the 1964 Tokyo Olympics, becoming the only person from the Western Hemisphere to ever to do so in this event. His 1964 victory is still considered one of the greatest Olympic upsets ever, because he was a virtual unknown going into it.
With 75 meters to go, the three of us are even, then I begin to gain a slight edge. With 50 meters to go, my lead has grown to two strides. As I glance to my right, I see thousands of people stand as I dig deep.
My lead is now three strides.
I think oh my goodness; I’m going to be in the newspaper!
Forty meters.
My legs start to tighten, and I can feel my lead fading.
Thirty meters.
I remember to pump my arms as I hear Billy Mills saying when your legs are tired, talk to your arms. Your legs have to do what your arms do. The body is the greatest pendulum ever created.
Twenty meters.
I’m pumping my arms and I regain my lead.
Ten meters.
As we close in on the finish line, my lead still intact, I can’t wait another moment.
With five meters to go I celebrate, raising my arms and pumping my fists. As I cross the line, I glance to my right, and I see Seth Wetzel’s yellow jersey. I immediately realize he is still the second-best miler in Oregon.
But Ben Andrews is #1.
I let out a satisfying breath of air as I look for my family and stand tall over the former #1 and still #2 Oregon runners, one gasping and the other stretched out on the track.
I spot my family and we exchange exuberant smiles, more fist-pumping, and shouts of joy. Then a man races up to me with two cameras around his neck and one in his hands: “Who are you?”
I respond with “Who are you?”
“I’m Steve Gibbons and I’m with the Oregonian newspaper. Where did you come from?!”
I laugh. “I’m Ben Andrews; I’ve been here all along. Where’ve you been?”
He smiles. “Great race, kid; that was a fun one to watch. I got some great pictures of you.”
“Thanks,” I respond sheepishly.
Together we hear the announcer say: “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a photo finish in the boys 1500-meter run. We will review the film and get you the results momentarily. Stay tuned!”
My initial thought is no way. There is no way. I won that! I know I won.
“You got it. You had him by a stride, maybe two,” the photographer says, shaking his head.
“How do you take pictures when people are moving?” I ask, my curiosity suddenly piqued.
As he starts to explain, someone lightly grabs my arm from behind. I turn, seeing a man who appears to be in his 60s with warm blue eyes. “What’s your name, son?” he asks.
“It depends; who are you?” I say as I smile back.
He grins and with a boyish laugh says: “Bill Dellinger. I’m the track coach at the University of Oregon. That was one hell of a race to watch.”
“I’m Ben Andrews. That race was a lot of fun!”
“Great race. What is your best time?”
“4:14.”
“No, what is your best time in the 1,500?”
“4:14.”
“Your best time is 4:14 seconds?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You just ran 4:00.”
“What?”
“Today, in this race, you just ran 4:00.”
I want to jump back, and then up and down and scream. “You’ve gotta be kidding me; I ran four minutes?” But instead, I try to sound cool. “Are you serious?”
“Are you serious?” he responds with a crooked grin.
On the scoreboard, a time is posted; 3rd place shows 4:00.73. First and second places have yet to be posted.
“Whoa, I really did run 14 seconds faster; thanks for telling me,” I say.
“I’m going to check this out,” Bill says, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Check what out?”
“If you improved 14 seconds today, I’ll offer you a full-ride scholarship to run track at the University of Oregon.”
“Thank you, but I’m a basketball player,” I say.
Coach Bill takes a step towards me and places a hand on my shoulder, looking me in the eye: “You might have woken up this morning a basketball player, but you’re going to bed tonight as a runner. Great race. I look forward to being in touch with you.”
I watch him walk away. And turn around to see the times for first and second place:
4:00.25 for first place
4:00.26 for second place.
I’m going to bed tonight as a runner I say to myself.
The next five minutes seems like an eternity.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, after reviewing the film from the Boys’ 1,500-meter run, first and second place were separated by just one one-hundredth of a second. Seth Wetzel of Jesuit is your winner. Ben Andrews of Parkrose finished second.”
I re-read the time next to my name: Andrews 4:00.26. I look up to the heavens and say a quiet thank You.
Standing next to Coach Dearborn, who’d made it to the infield, and Steve Gibbons of the Oregonian, I say, “Well, who would’ve thought we’d have even finished second? In a sense, first or second, we won!”
I set out to accomplish a goal and I accomplished it; I didn’t finish last. And everybody had heard Andrews over the loudspeaker. I learned an incredible lesson that day. Sometimes in life achieving your goal is better than winning. Competing against yourself can be far more rewarding than competing against others. And wouldn't you know it? A few months later, that letter arrived in the mail. I opened it up and inside found an offer to attend the University of Oregon, for free. I would be a member of the famed University of Oregon Track and Field team.
“Wearing hip #11, currently ranked #1 in Oregon and #2 in the United States with a seasonal best of 3:53.3, this year’s State Cross Country Champion AND COMMITTED TO RUN FOR THE UNIVERSITY OF OREGON DUCKS NEXT YEAR, representing Lake Oswego, Senior TRACY HOLLISTER!”
“Hip #12, out of Parkrose, Junior Ben Andrews.”
That’s me wearing hip #12, Ben Andrews. I’m ranked 11th out of the 12 runners in this race. I’ve just thrown up my breakfast. And my lunch. My chain-smoking doctor, who I’ve known since childhood has diagnosed me as having acid-reflux disorder; however, he’s never asked me if I have these episodes any other time than before track meets. I don’t. It’s nerves and today I have them as much as I ever have. I am empty. And weak.
For the first time today, I realized I’m not the only one. An hour ago, as I was standing over the toilet throwing up in the bathroom, I glanced to the stall next to me and someone else was doing the same, a little more violently than I was. From what I could see underneath the stall walls, this person appeared to be on his knees throwing up, a little more committed than I’d been. As I was leaving, I glanced again and saw that he was wearing a pair of Nike Skylon running shoes. The same as I was wearing. He was also wearing SportHill running tights, green with yellow piping. Just the tights I wanted, but my family couldn't afford.
On any other Saturday I would chalk this up to ordinary pre-race nerves, but today I recognize that I am petrified of competing against the best runners in Oregon. More than that, I’m scared to death to run against two of the best runners in the country. I am only focused on that 12th ranked runner. I have to beat him. My goal is to not finish last.
As always, my family is on hand to watch. My parents have never missed the opportunity to watch my brother, Matthew, and I compete in whatever sport we’re pursuing. They always make sure that both are on hand, attentive and cheering. I say opportunitybecause I hear many of my teammates say how lucky they are when their parents choose to show up. Mine are always there.
My dad, Ted, works in a can-manufacturing plant, long days and crummy working conditions making cans that will house fruit, tuna, and a variety of other foods. For him, it’s a job in the truest sense of the word. During the summer months, temperatures are regularly above 100 inside the plant. In the winter, it’s mid-30’s to mid-40’s. However, this job provides a luxury that many households don't have—insurance for the family and the ability for my mom to work less and be available to us boys before and after school. In our family, that makes it a dream job.
In his day, my dad was a natural runner. As a high school freshman in 1965, he was one of the top in Oregon. When the state meet came around, his coach left him off the varsity team and forced him to race only against other freshman. He declined. “You can have this uniform back,” he told his coach. “If I can’t run against the best, I don’t run.”
My mom, Cindy, works as a housecleaner and cleans the homes of neighborhood families, including a few of my classmates. A couple of the kids make me feel inferior with jokes and innuendoes, but I don't pay them too much mind. Last year she had a very short stint as a real estate agent. As an independent contractor with a big national firm, she was fired after she talked her only clients out of buying a home. They were newlyweds and she suggested that their money might be a little too tight and wouldn't it be fun to just enjoy the first year of marriage and all that it can offer? Her advice was to save up some money and test the market the following year. The office manager told her “You’re more suited for cleaning toilets, not selling the houses they are in.” So, after six weeks of hearing Calloway’s “I’m Going to Be Rich” as our family soundtrack, my mom was out of the real estate game and back to cleaning those toilets.
My brother, Matthew, is an 8th grader and three years my junior. He is the Boston Celtic’s Larry Bird reincarnated. An unabashed gym-rat, Matthew rigs the gym doors so we can get inside to play whenever we want, typically a few moments after the evening janitors leave for the night. A pure shooter, he is quick and can nearly touch the rim with his elbow. A couple of weeks ago, I rebounded for him while he hit ten 3-pointers in a row, moving around the arc, pretending he was coming off high picks. Afterward, he quipped that he wanted to shoot them four to five feet deeper, but knew my arms weren’t strong enough to pass the ball as hard as he likes to receive it. He didn't want to hurt my feelings. Puzzled, I asked why he wanted the ball passed so hard.
His response: “In college and the NBA, they will come harder, and I am preparing for that now.” Remember, he’s 13.
Just as I’m finishing my warm-up, my family passes by heading to seats near the start/finish line. They all give me a hug and high-fives. My dad pulls me aside and with a rare and quiet seriousness says, “Ben, you’re as good as any of these guys. I have told you that I was one of the best and you know what? You have more talent than I had. My regret is that I never leaned into my God-given gift. I’m excited to see what God does through you today, go show ‘em what you’ve got.”
Lean into my God-given gift? I think back to the night before, when my coach, Tom Dearborn, called my hotel room around 8:45 and asked how I was feeling.
“I’m a little nervous,” I said.
“Meet me in the lobby in 10 minutes.”
I raced down to the lobby, excited to hear Dearborn’s pep-talk as he isn’t a rah-rah guy. We took a 30-minute walk around downtown Eugene but there was no pep-talk to be had. We didn’t talk about running. We didn't talk about anything, really, just stuff. It did calm my nerves and when we parted in the lobby, he said “just lean into what you have. Tomorrow is just another race.”
When I got to my room, I placed my Chapstick in the nightstand and came across a book. It was a Bible. My first thought was of all the rooms in this hotel, I’m the one who has a Bible? This has to be a sign that God is on my side. Something urged me to open it. I grew up with a belief in God, but never had I an urge like I did at this moment. With tomorrow’s race, I was feeling anxious, alone, and a little scared. As I opened the Bible, it fell to 1 Corinthians 9:25-27, which read:
Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. Therefore I do not run like someone running aimlessly; I do not fight like a boxer beating the air. No, I strike a blow to my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize. After I read those verses for a third time, I dog-eared the page to read it again in the morning, then made a collect call home. It was nice to talk with my mom, dad, and brother. Before I hung up, my dad said “Ben, we’ll see you tomorrow. We’re praying for you.” My brother shouted, “you’ve got this” and my mom offered, “I love you, goodnight!”
At that moment, I knew the race the next day would be anything but just another race. The next morning, I reached for my Chapstick and grabbed the Bible again to re-read the verse. This time I opened to the first page and found a pamphlet and realized I wasn’t the only one in the hotel who had a Bible. The pamphlet talked about Gideons International, which had been placing Bibles in hotel rooms since 1908. I didn’t feel as special as the night before, but I told myself, I’m the one who listened to the urge to open the Bible. And I’m the one who opened it to that verse.
As I’m finishing up my last stride down the backstretch, I hear the announcer say: “That rounds out the field for the 1,500-meter run.”
The starter beckons me to the starting line with a stern “Hey hip #12, we’re waiting for you! Move it!”
From 50 meters out, my run back to the starting line turns into a slow jog and then a walk. I begin to scan the crowd in Hayward Field’s east grandstand. I then lock in on my competitors, watching each one engaged in last-minute pre-race rituals. Some look to the sky while their lips form inaudible pep-talks or prayers. Others jump up and down or slap the fronts of their legs, calling for the blood to course as they remove their final pieces of warm-up clothing. It is at that moment that I see Seth Wetzel staring down the track. He is staring at me. What is he looking at? Why is he looking in my direction? He is the #2 runner in Oregon and the #3 runner in the United States. My legs get weak as I realize he is staring me down. As he bends over to remove his Green SportHill running tights, the green pair with yellow piping, I realize he is the guy who was throwing up. Is he nervous, too?
I make my way to the starting line, take my place beside Wetzel and Hollister, and look down at the track. Then at my shoes and then my bare legs. I whisper to myself: Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training.
The announcer summons the crowd “Quiet for the start…”
Bang!
Announcer: “They’re off! Ladies and gentleman, this race could determine who is the fastest high school miler in the country!”
As the gun goes off, I sprint to the lead. My race plan is simple; take the lead for the first lap and have my family hear our name--Andrews—over the stadium loudspeakers. Then, settle in and race for a finish one place better than last.
The crowd of 8,500 begins to clap rhythmically as is the tradition at Hayward Field, the track-and-field stadium situated on the campus of the University of Oregon, sometimes called the Carnegie Hall of Track and Field. Some of the best in the world have competed here. Names like Carl Lewis, Michael Johnson, Jim Ryun, Henry Rono, Alberto Salazar, Frank Shorter, Bill Rodgers, Mary Decker Slaney, Bill Dellinger and Nike co-founders Bill Bowerman and Phil Knight. Not to mention, Oregon’s hero, Steve Prefontaine.
As we come around the bend on the first lap, the announcer summons the crowd: “Ladies and Gentlemen, Ben Andrews of Parkrose leads two of the best in the nation, Seth Wetzel and Tracy Hollister.”
I look up into the bleachers just about 20 meters past the starting line where my parents and brother always sit, and I immediately spot them. They are all cheering. Loudly. They stand out. I briefly wonder: how do I see them? How do I hear them in this massive stadium? Inside I’m screaming: Hey guys, did you hear it? They said our name. Everyone heard it!
“Andrews!”
As my mind begins to focus on finishing 11th place—one place better than last—a fleeting thought comes to my mind. I wonder if I can do it again. I answer the call and with that, the race is on to finish the second of four laps in first place.
A fist from behind plows into my right kidney and I stumble slightly; it certainly makes me realize that I’m not in this race alone. I push the pace a bit so that I can’t hear anyone behind me; if I can do that, I won’t get tripped, and everyone can hear our name again over the loudspeaker.
This goes on for the next lap…and the one after it. I push the pace; I don’t hear anyone. I relax. Then I hear people come up on me again and push again. Two more times, 8,500 people hear, “Ben Andrews of Parkrose is your leader!”
The bell rings to signify the last lap. In my head, I hear what feels like the winds of a tornado bringing me into final focus. One more lap. I tell myself: you’ve got this. I recite the verse I’d opened to: Ben, make your legs your slave.
Everything outside my immediate focus goes black. I am surrounded by silence except for the sounds of my breath and my heartbeat. As we head down the backstretch for the last time, I glance to the figure on my right to see who it is. It’s the first time I’ve seen any of my competitors the entire race. I can’t make him out as he’s just beyond my peripheral vision. But that glance to my right yielded a glimpse of Hayward’s famed east grandstands. I see thousands of people begin to stand as I, along with everyone else in the race, strive for another gear. Still in the lead, I realize I’m creating a stadium wave. I don't hear anything expect my breathing and the beating of my heart.
The energy of the crowd allows me to dig a little deeper—and I say to myself: Make your legs your slave.
With half a lap to go, I hear Wendy Ray, one of the world’s best Track & Field announcers, enthusiastically say “We’ve got a race! Andrews, Wetzel, Hollister—here they come!”
I don’t hear anything else. It’s as though Ray is talking to me, giving me insight as to who’s around me. I think to myself, this is a race with three people. I’m going to get a medal. I could get third against two of the best in the nation.
Then I think: I can win. I will win!
My thoughts switch to Billy Mills and the movie Running Brave, which I’d worn out from watching so many times on videotape. Billy Mills, an Oglala Lakota Indian, won gold in the 10,000-meter race at the 1964 Tokyo Olympics, becoming the only person from the Western Hemisphere to ever to do so in this event. His 1964 victory is still considered one of the greatest Olympic upsets ever, because he was a virtual unknown going into it.
With 75 meters to go, the three of us are even, then I begin to gain a slight edge. With 50 meters to go, my lead has grown to two strides. As I glance to my right, I see thousands of people stand as I dig deep.
My lead is now three strides.
I think oh my goodness; I’m going to be in the newspaper!
Forty meters.
My legs start to tighten, and I can feel my lead fading.
Thirty meters.
I remember to pump my arms as I hear Billy Mills saying when your legs are tired, talk to your arms. Your legs have to do what your arms do. The body is the greatest pendulum ever created.
Twenty meters.
I’m pumping my arms and I regain my lead.
Ten meters.
As we close in on the finish line, my lead still intact, I can’t wait another moment.
With five meters to go I celebrate, raising my arms and pumping my fists. As I cross the line, I glance to my right, and I see Seth Wetzel’s yellow jersey. I immediately realize he is still the second-best miler in Oregon.
But Ben Andrews is #1.
I let out a satisfying breath of air as I look for my family and stand tall over the former #1 and still #2 Oregon runners, one gasping and the other stretched out on the track.
I spot my family and we exchange exuberant smiles, more fist-pumping, and shouts of joy. Then a man races up to me with two cameras around his neck and one in his hands: “Who are you?”
I respond with “Who are you?”
“I’m Steve Gibbons and I’m with the Oregonian newspaper. Where did you come from?!”
I laugh. “I’m Ben Andrews; I’ve been here all along. Where’ve you been?”
He smiles. “Great race, kid; that was a fun one to watch. I got some great pictures of you.”
“Thanks,” I respond sheepishly.
Together we hear the announcer say: “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a photo finish in the boys 1500-meter run. We will review the film and get you the results momentarily. Stay tuned!”
My initial thought is no way. There is no way. I won that! I know I won.
“You got it. You had him by a stride, maybe two,” the photographer says, shaking his head.
“How do you take pictures when people are moving?” I ask, my curiosity suddenly piqued.
As he starts to explain, someone lightly grabs my arm from behind. I turn, seeing a man who appears to be in his 60s with warm blue eyes. “What’s your name, son?” he asks.
“It depends; who are you?” I say as I smile back.
He grins and with a boyish laugh says: “Bill Dellinger. I’m the track coach at the University of Oregon. That was one hell of a race to watch.”
“I’m Ben Andrews. That race was a lot of fun!”
“Great race. What is your best time?”
“4:14.”
“No, what is your best time in the 1,500?”
“4:14.”
“Your best time is 4:14 seconds?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You just ran 4:00.”
“What?”
“Today, in this race, you just ran 4:00.”
I want to jump back, and then up and down and scream. “You’ve gotta be kidding me; I ran four minutes?” But instead, I try to sound cool. “Are you serious?”
“Are you serious?” he responds with a crooked grin.
On the scoreboard, a time is posted; 3rd place shows 4:00.73. First and second places have yet to be posted.
“Whoa, I really did run 14 seconds faster; thanks for telling me,” I say.
“I’m going to check this out,” Bill says, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Check what out?”
“If you improved 14 seconds today, I’ll offer you a full-ride scholarship to run track at the University of Oregon.”
“Thank you, but I’m a basketball player,” I say.
Coach Bill takes a step towards me and places a hand on my shoulder, looking me in the eye: “You might have woken up this morning a basketball player, but you’re going to bed tonight as a runner. Great race. I look forward to being in touch with you.”
I watch him walk away. And turn around to see the times for first and second place:
4:00.25 for first place
4:00.26 for second place.
I’m going to bed tonight as a runner I say to myself.
The next five minutes seems like an eternity.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, after reviewing the film from the Boys’ 1,500-meter run, first and second place were separated by just one one-hundredth of a second. Seth Wetzel of Jesuit is your winner. Ben Andrews of Parkrose finished second.”
I re-read the time next to my name: Andrews 4:00.26. I look up to the heavens and say a quiet thank You.
Standing next to Coach Dearborn, who’d made it to the infield, and Steve Gibbons of the Oregonian, I say, “Well, who would’ve thought we’d have even finished second? In a sense, first or second, we won!”
I set out to accomplish a goal and I accomplished it; I didn’t finish last. And everybody had heard Andrews over the loudspeaker. I learned an incredible lesson that day. Sometimes in life achieving your goal is better than winning. Competing against yourself can be far more rewarding than competing against others. And wouldn't you know it? A few months later, that letter arrived in the mail. I opened it up and inside found an offer to attend the University of Oregon, for free. I would be a member of the famed University of Oregon Track and Field team.