Dad was young; striking. He appeared to stand taller than his 6’2” frame with his skinny legs sticking out of those short white shorts. His socks were pulled up to his mid-shins and on his feet were the newest pair of Nike’s (one small perk of being a track coach). While fashion trends were never a priority, he seemed to hang on to the seventies with his large aviator sunglasses and full mustache. The mesh-backed ball cap sat more on the back of his head than on the top of it, pressing his thick, shaggy brown hair over his ears. Looking at the picture, I can smell the sunscreen: Sport, SPF 50. Dad was never at a track meet without sunscreen. His pale skin never tanned: it would burn and freckle, so he always lathered up, leaving small white gobs of sunscreen looming behind his ears or stuck in his strawberry blonde mustache. “Dad, rub that in,” I’d inform him with varying degrees of embarrassment over our twenty years of track meets together.
The most nostalgic part of the pictures from that day, is the video camera. Dad didn’t sit in the stands with all the other parents; he stood on the infield with our large VHS camcorder held on his right shoulder. He stood close enough to coach me, “Stay in your lane and keep your knees up,” but also at a far enough angle to be able to capture the whole event on tape. The size of the video camera shrunk over the years, but his enthusiasm for recording me run did not.
In the track and field world, the 400 meter dash is considered a sprinting event. Elite female athletes sprint a full lap around the track in 52 seconds or faster. Any athlete who has run this race knows that the last 100 meters is pure guts. The lactic acid builds up tightening the hamstrings and glutes. The runner’s stride shortens, her arms become tense and her head bobs as if begging the finish line to come closer. My dad would later describe it to me as though a bear jumps on the runner’s back.
There were no 52 second 400 times that day. Not on August 5, 1988. As I came around the final turn, just five years old, the big girls in my race long past, the crowd started clapping and the cheers grew louder. My would-be high school coach stood on the infield tip-toeing the inner edge of the track, whistling and circling his arm, “Go, Erica, Go!”
Above all the noise, I could hear the booming voice of my dad, coaching me along the way. “Keep pumping your arms. You’re doing great. Stay in your lane.” My knobby-kneed, white haired, sun-kissed self, was crisscrossing lanes, zigzagging my way to the finish line, and soaking in the applause. The look on my face was a distinct contrast from bear-on-the-back desperation. I was smiling; this was the admiration I had imagined while playing all those years on this very track.
“And here comes Coach Lynn’s daughter. Let’s bring her home!” The announcer encouraged, and the crowd grew louder.
“Great job!”
“Go Erica!”
“Almost there!”
Dad was the first to greet me at the finish line. He set the shoulder-sized camcorder down on the track and gave me a bear-sized hug. The kind only dads can give their little girls. A meet official pinned a medal onto my tank top, probably only because I was cute, or more, probably because I was the Coach’s Daughter. Regardless, I felt as though I had won.
Mom raced down the stands and along the fence to be near us at the finish line. While she stood outside the track, she made sure to get Dad and I in the right position so she could take our picture. It is the picture that all these years later I still proudly display. It is my all time favorite picture: me, on the track, with my dad standing right behind me. Beaming with pride.
*This is just an excerpt from a memoir I am writing about me and my dad.
XO, Coach D
Recent Comments