Track and Field State Championships by Amy Cotter

We all recall that time you won

javelin at districts, spot number one.

No one came close to that fantastic throw.

You would move on to state with room to grow.

Then came an athlete, versatile and strong.

The first time throwing jav, she thought she threw it wrong.

A new school record was set by her that day,

as you watched with fear of defeat, but did not say.

She, at districts, qualified for state as well.

A one two finish, a Pacer spell.

You two will then train together

to help improve the skills of each other.

Instead, you watched as rumors spread.

Ones you knew were not true of this girl, but you helped thread.

I watched this all unfold.

I was training for state in discus when I was told.

This new girl, according to the rumor,

was someone that should be in the television show “The Tudors”.

They said that was the only way she got to go to state.

She got around and played dirty to improve her rate.

I always wondered if you ever think back to

when this all occurred, between her and you.

Probably not since on that day, at Hayward Field

she took state champ when you took yield.

Rumors can only take a person so far.

Talent needs to be molded and practiced to par.

Hopefully you learned a lesson from back then:

that to succeed, you need to notice when.

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Poem of the Day: To an Athlete Dying Young

BY A. E. HOUSMAN

The time you won your town the race

We chaired you through the market-place;

Man and boy stood cheering by,

And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,

Shoulder-high we bring you home,

And set you at your threshold down,

Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away

From fields where glory does not stay,

And early though the laurel grows

It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut

Cannot see the record cut,

And silence sounds no worse than cheers

After earth has stopped the ears.

Now you will not swell the rout

Of lads that wore their honours out,

Runners whom renown outran

And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,

The fleet foot on the sill of shade,

And hold to the low lintel up

The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head

Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,

And find unwithered on its curls

The garland briefer than a girl’s.