VCP from a different lens

How many times have I been to Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx? More than 100 times, easily, as a coach for the past 26 years and even as a collegiate runner back in the Dark Ages of the mid-1980s. But for all these times along Broadway in Riverdale, Saturday was the first time I was there as a parent, for the Manhattan Invitational high school meet -- watching the FDR Presidents cross country team, which features a gangly senior who happens to be my son. What a great experience for these Presidents, who have emerged as a strong team in Section 9 after years of mediocrity and irrelevance. Last year, they won their first-ever Mid-Hudson Athletic League (MHAL) cross country title in 2015, hopefully the first of many. Their young coach is fiery, enthusiastic and knowledgeable. He has made XC and track a cool thing to do at FDR, and the Presidents are pretty darn good. Of course, this is a biased opinion. You view things differently as a parent. But the trophies and banners are real, and naturally we are proud of this.

So yeah, it was weird being at Vanny alongside so many of my college coaching acquaintances, who were there recruiting. I suppose I should have been recruiting as well. I was wearing my Marist track hoodie, as usual. But really, my heart was not into recruiting. I was there to cheer on the green and gold of FDR. The boys did well but they were disappointed to not have done better. The 4km high school course at this meet can get clogged up quickly and early, and they weren’t accustomed to that. I’m sure they wish they could run the race over. My kid did fine; he’s the fifth or sixth man (depending on the day) on a pretty strong team. He had a nice finishing kick, passing about a dozen runners along that stretch of Broadway where I have lost my mind (and my voice) screaming at generations of Marist runners. He was bummed to have missed a medal by about two seconds, but so it goes. He and his buddies gathered for a pasta party the night before, they are gathering for a camp-out in the freezing fall darkness this coming weekend, they have run hundreds of miles together, and they are forming memories that will last a lifetime.

After the team’s race, I suppose I could have proceeded with some recruiting; there were several prospective student-athletes that I most certainly should have checked out in their respective races. I was worn out, mentally, cheering on the FDR boys. It almost felt weird and guilty to do my “job” when really my heart was more into being a neighbor and a parent. So I texted Chuck and said I was getting out of there. In a nostalgic mood, I drove over to East 239^th Street in the Bronx and passed by my grandmother’s house; she’s been gone for more than 30 years. I still remembered all the roads by heart, and the rattling sound of the elevated train on White Plains Road brought me back to my youth, visiting “Nonna Subway” for Sunday dinner every week. Then, I drove across the GW Bridge to New Jersey, to visit my mother, who is an old grandmother herself now. Time marches on. The more things change, the more they stay the same. A Saturday in the Bronx, at Vanny, same as it ever was, only now viewed from a different lens.