TRACK AND FIELD
The class games were notable that spring merely because they
brought into sudden prominence a new and promising candidate in the
shot-putting event, one Peter Burley, ’07, of Blackwater, Colo. To be
sure, Pete didn’t break any records, nor did he come out first, but he
contributed one point to the scant sum of the freshman class total by
taking third place with a put of thirty-nine feet, four and one-half
inches. Pete’s appearance in athletic circles was a surprise to the
college at large, and those who remembered his prowess at football
and took his size and apparent strength into consideration jumped
to the conclusion that here was a “dark horse” that was going to
carry everything before him and break the college record into minute
particles. Personally, Pete viewed his participation as a good joke,
but he wasn’t quite certain whom the joke was on.
It was evident that he had it in him to become a first-rate man at
the weights, and Kernahan viewed his “find” with much satisfaction.
Erskine had for two years past been rather weak in that line of
athletics, and Billy had visions of developing the big Westerner into
a phenomenal shot-putter and hammer-thrower; though, for the present,
at least, he said nothing to Pete about the hammer, for fear the latter
would mutiny. Pete had had only three days of practise under Billy’s
instruction prior to the class games, but in that time he had mastered
one or two of the principal points and had thereby added seven feet to
his best performance of Monday.
Billy was more than satisfied, the rival shot men, who had viewed
Pete’s appearance among them at first with amused indifference, were
worried, and Pete was-- But truly it is hard to say what Pete was. The
whole thing was something of a joke to him, and possibly mild amusement
was his principal sensation, although he was probably glad to be able
to please the trainer, who had taken a good deal of trouble with him,
and to add a point to the tally of his class.
But after the class games amusement gave place to surprise and dismay,
for Billy informed him that the spring meeting would take place a week
later, and that by diligent practise meanwhile he ought to be able to
add another two feet to his record. Pete had been laboring under the
impression that his troubles were over with the class games, and he
promptly rebelled. But rebellion didn’t work with Billy; he was used
to it. He had a method of getting his own way in things that was a
marvel of quiet effectiveness; and so Pete concluded when, on the next
Monday, he was once more out on the field “tossing the cannon ball,” as
he sarcastically called it.
All that week, up to the very morning of the spring track meeting, he
stood daily in the seven-foot circle and practised with the shot, while
Kernahan patiently coached him. Pete had the height, build and strength
for the work, but it was the hardest kind of a task for him to grasp
the subtleties of the hop and the change of feet. I am inclined to
think that Billy’s oft-repeated explanations went for little, and that
in the end--but this was not until he had been at practise for almost a
month--he learned the tricks himself by constant experimenting.
The actual putting was very soon mastered, but for weeks Pete’s best
efforts were spoiled because he either overstepped the ring or left
himself too far from the front of it. But when the spring meeting came
he climbed to second place, Monroe alone keeping ahead of him. The
latter’s best put was forty-three feet ten inches, and Pete’s forty-one
feet three inches.
Monroe seemed to Pete to view the latter’s efforts as beneath notice,
and Pete resented that from the first. As was to be expected by any
one knowing Pete, Monroe’s attitude was accepted as a challenge, and
Pete vowed he would beat the college crack if he had to work all night
to do it. From that time on Billy found no necessity for pleading; Pete
was always on hand when half past four came around, and none was more
earnest than he, none worked so hard. Pete had found his interest.
Meanwhile Allan had done fairly well in both meets. In the class games
he had entered for the two miles and the mile, had won the first by a
bare yard from Rindgely and in the latter had finished third behind
Hooker and Harris. At Billy’s advice he relinquished the mile event
thereafter and became a two-miler pure and simple. As Billy pointed
out, either Rindgely or Hooker--and possibly Harris, who was coming on
fast--was capable of beating Robinson at the mile, and it was better
for Allan to put all efforts into the two miles, in which, so far as
was known, Robinson at present excelled. Allan had hard luck at the
spring meeting, getting away badly in the first place and taking a
tumble in the next to the last lap that put him out of the race so
far as the places were concerned. Conroy staggered in ten yards ahead
of Rindgely, Harris securing third place, and Allan finishing a poor
fourth.
By this time the training table was started, and Pete, much to his
delight, temporarily deserted the freshman club table up-stairs and
moved to the first-floor front room, where Allan, Rindgely, Hooker,
Harris, Conroy, Stearns, Thatcher, Poor, Leroy, Monroe, Long, and
several others whose names we have not heard, were congregated under
the vigilant eyes of Billy Kernahan. I don’t think Pete was properly
impressed with the honor conferred upon him by his admission to the
training table, but he was glad to be with Allan again and rather
enjoyed the novelty of having his meals arranged for him. If it had not
been that training required the relinquishment of his beloved corn-cob
pipe, I think Pete in those days would have been perfectly happy.
Meanwhile, at another training table farther around the bend of Elm
Street, Hal was one of the stars of the freshman nine. Of the quartet,
Tommy only was not head over ears in athletics, but the fact didn’t
trouble him a scrap. He had all he could do--and a trifle more--and
was laboring, besides, under the harmless delusion that the college’s
success on diamond, track, and river depended largely upon his
supervision and advice. Whenever he had time, which wasn’t very often,
he delighted to stand beside the lime-marked ring and offer gems of
instruction in the art of putting the shot to Pete. And Pete, who was
miserable without companionship, stood it smilingly for the sake of
Tommy’s presence. In the evenings Tommy frequently found a moment or
two in which to look up Allan or Hal and give them the benefit of his
advice regarding playing second base or running the two miles. But
those young gentlemen exhibited a strange and lamentable impatience,
and Tommy quite often left their presence under compulsion or just
ahead of a flying boot.
Meanwhile the spring vacation came and went. Of the quartet, Hal and
Tommy went home, and Allan and Pete stayed at college, Allan from
motives of economy and Pete because nothing better offered.
After recess baseball held the boards and the varsity team was half-way
through its schedule by the first week in May, and had but two defeats
behind it. On the track the candidates were put through their paces
six days a week. Erskine was almost sure of victories in the sprints,
equally certain of defeats in the middle distances, expected to win the
mile, was in grave doubt as to the two miles, and hoped to share the
hurdles with her opponent. In the field events, the high jump alone was
certain to yield a first to the Purple. The pole vault, broad jump, and
both weight events were of doubtful outcome. As Tommy figured it out
in the columns of “his” paper about this time, Erskine had a chance of
winning by seven points. But as second and third places were almost
impossible to apportion with any accuracy, this forecast was not of
much value. The dual games with Robinson came on May 28th. A fortnight
before that Allan’s work was stretched over six days, as follows:
Monday, a two-mile run at an easy pace.
Tuesday, a fast mile, followed by an easy three-quarters.
Wednesday, a hard, fast mile.
Thursday, two miles and a half in easy time.
Friday, a mile and a half at medium speed.
Saturday, a time trial over the two miles.
This was hard work and lots of it, but Allan’s physical condition
could scarcely have been bettered, and never, from the beginning of
outdoor practise until the big event was over with, did he go “fine”
for a moment. Twelve days before the meet Allan had his last trial, and
when, still running strongly, he crossed the finish line, Billy’s watch
clicked at 9:53⅝.
Billy smiled cheerfully enough, but down in his heart he was
disappointed. He had expected better things.