It was no surprise when I awoke to a gloomy day. What a time for the weather report to be right! A steady drizzle coated the windshield on the way to school. Beside me on the seat lay half-dozen coat hangers, draped with clothes for any eventuality – most for protection from different levels of precipitation

This is the first time the Hockomock Championship has been held on a Friday, changed due to

P-Sats being held on Saturday. It has been held on school days before. Tuesday used to be the day. So, I knew athletes would be just as prepared as on Saturday, maybe even a little more awake. But, the date and time would affect the turnout of fans – the weather even more so.

Captain Stephanie McNamara came to Phys. Ed. Class second period. Normally the class would have gone outside to play tennis. Today the weather wouldn't let us. Steph chose the personal fitness option of weight room and stretching. We didn't talk much about the weather or the impending meet. Most of importance had already been said – and even though it is only her second year of cross country, Steph has a pretty good grasp on what needs to be done in mental preparation, physical preparation and special weather preparation such as today's.

I didn't see much of the rest of the team during the day, so they were unaware of the behind the scenes second-guessing about the weather. The rain and temperature wouldn't be a problem, but reports were predicting the “potential for mid afternoon thunderstorms and high winds.” That wouldn't be good! It would be a shame to travel all the way over to Borderland Park just to be turned around and sent home. As one AD remarked, “It isn't a bad thing to err on the side of caution.” The unavailability of Borderland over the next few days helped make the decision to go ahead as planned, but with one eye always on the sky. In most cases, on the day of a meet the bus would drop us off and leave. Instead, arrangements were made to have the bus stay – a dry haven in what would most likely be a very wet day.

The teams rushed to get ready after school, the tent loaded onto the bus; one quick head count and we were rolling by 2:05. Everyone took their normal seats, boys in the back, girls in the front, coach McGrail behind the driver, Coach Estey at shotgun. One reassuring glance to DJ and Marrah in the seat behind me told me we were ready to go.

I handed the team their written marching orders for the day. This is a big deviation from standard operating procedure and they looked at me quizzically, read a little, then one by one the expression of understanding filled their faces. It was a short note, just one page. It contained a few things I wanted them to know about, including my mental approach to dealing with the weather.

I've never minded adverse weather conditions. Snow, sleet, rain, high wind or sizzling hot weather – it doesn't matter. The conditions are the same for every athlete. In fact, I consider poor weather an advantage, because not everyone knows how to face adversity. If you can, it delivers a psychological edge. I always feel we can.

The handout also included thoughts about them – things I don't tell them often enough. I won't go into detail. In a nutshell, I'm proud of my athletes, the way they prepare, the way they compete and the way they represent our town.

Each had their own reaction, some reading it more than once, a few saying “Thank You.” My own hope was that it could put their mind at ease, a state where they could deliver their best without worrying over ramifications. Shannon Swanson is a first-year XC senior – a talented distance runner who worked hard all summer in preparation. She developed mono two weeks into the season and just recently gained clearance to compete. I was sitting her out of this meet, feeling that too much too soon wouldn't be in her best interest. After some thought I handed her a sheet even though she wasn't competing – because she's such a valued part of her team. I can imagine how the words “give it your best” must have stuck hard in her mind. Her day will come.

The remainder of the ride was the usual dichotomy of light-hearted conversations and focused introspection – I tend to fall into the latter category. I noticed that today, Steph did also.

We eschewed the usual drop-off point, instead pulling around to the far side of the parking lot. It was better to stay on the bus a little longer, covering some of the technical aspects of the next hour from this warm, dry environment. With only 45 minutes until the race, there wasn't much time for the girls' team to relax. I told them when to be ready, where to meet, and a final instruction to “not make me worry like last year”. You see, if I can't find ten red uniforms ten minutes before the race I begin to picture them missing the start. I've seen it happen to teams at states, but not to us. Last year they cut it just a bit too close.

With the captain in charge I went about the other tasks a coach faces. The long walk across the field to the finish line was unproductive. Athlete numbers hadn't arrived. I headed back to our area to critique the job the boys' team did raising the tent. It was athletic taped to a picnic table just in case the wind picked up. In my typically enigmatic manner I informed coach McGrail that it was a good effort, but by placing one corner leg in a pile of horse dung it only garnered a “needs improvement” rating.

Time passes quickly before the meet. I met up with the team as they started their warm-up, having a quick chuckle with the girls over the “official Jenna Banks caution tape” blocking a shortcut on the last turn. Most of the time was spent with other coaches remarking about how nice the weather was. About this I'm not joking. Although there might be slippery spots and puddles to avoid, the temperature was perfect. It wasn't really raining, but moisture hung suspended in the air. It would indeed be a great day to run!

When I saw a truck enter the field, I headed back to the finish line.

I found myself surrounded by coaches who had taken my cue, figuring that if I was walking across the field it was for a good reason. But, it wasn't. The race numbers weren't there yet! All I could offer was a weak, “Sorry, false start. Its not Rick”

For the next ten minutes time stood still, the watched pot being the entry road. Small talk grew into medium sized pockets of complaint, finally morphing into a large chorus of coaches insisting that the race start on time whether the numbers were there or not. Before races coaches are just as on-edge as their athletes. They are just better at hiding it. But when a minor snafu like late race numbers appears, they can be just as irritable as the greenest rookie. They've choreographed the warm-up to a specific starting time and don't want to see the preparation undone. Just minutes before the scheduled start, George King continued to insist that we wait. The sudden appearance of Rick quelled the revolt.

I expected the handing out of numbers to resemble the Filenes's wedding dress sale. Instead, each coach waited turn. With numbers in hand I did a double-time march back to the tent, water flying off the back of my heels. The last vestige of dry fabric on my sneakers was gone. Thankfully, the girls were dutifully there, each immersed in their final preparations. The next two minutes resembled an unrehearsed fire drill, numbers quickly being affixed to the front of uniforms, some by athletes who had never before gone through this ritual. I heard a first and final call to the starting line, rounded the girls into a circle, and said a few last words before handing them over to Stephanie for her motivational speech.

This is one of those few moments in a meet when a pleasant peace comes over me. Watching my team jog to the starting line of the league championship, apprehension slips away. It feels like it is supposed to. A group of runners have bonded, sweat, ached, cried, laughed, shared stories about school – or boyfriends, and met for pizza nights. They've made a commitment to each other, one that is neither easy nor offers guarantees of success. That commitment has brought them to this place and time, eager for the chance to prove that it was all worth it.

They've confronted many doubts on the trip here, but at this moment my own set of doubts slips away. I'm certain that today they will show to me the best they have, proving their mettle to the league, and most importantly - to themselves. That is the history of the league championship.

Unfortunately my euphoric feeling never lasts long because a lot more transpires before the gun. Steph gets called to the official “drawing of chute numbers”. We get dead center on the line. Great if you get out quickly, bad if you're slow off the line - especially here where the dash across the field bottlenecks onto a narrow road. My runners that need to get out fast can, so we're happy with the draw.

The amount of time athletes are on the line seems interminable to parents. To the coaches and athletes is doesn't feel that long. Athletes are busy finding their spots, looking around at the other teams to see where their logical competition is standing, making the mental image of how to match up and challenge that small set of runners that defines their own set of abilities. I offer an awkward mix of high fives and good lucks to all of my runners. As I turn and head to my own starting spot 100 meters away, I shoot a loud “Let's go North” over my left shoulder.

Headed across the field I nod to a few coaches and parents as if to say, “The time is finally here.” I double-check to make sure my watch is set to chrono and reset to zero.

Every few steps I glance back to look at the runners, making sure the gun isn't fired before I'm ready. I stop partway down the road, the furthest I can get and still see the starter.

The tension is back! As his rand rises, my finger drops instinctively to the stopwatch. Everything is suddenly still. The parents around me are silent. Even from this distance I see the runners lean collectively forward, poised to respond to the gun. All hold their breath.

The gun fires, and everything seems to unfold instantly. The smoke raises into the gloom, bodies are in motion, I depress the start button and only then do you hear the report of the gun. This is another of my favorite parts of the day. A stream of athletes hurdling across the field. A wave of colors - blue, black, green, purple and of course red.

I turn my back to the runners and move down the path further, hoping for a vantage point beyond the spot where they start to separate. First the lead truck goes bounding past me, then the runners. There's no surprise among the first three – each in a position relative to their league ranking. Undefeated Jenna Davidner is pushing a fast early pace, a mild surprise to me considering her strategy during our dual meet where she sat back and let Steph do the first mile work. Not one step back is once-beaten Alyse Rocco, jaw set firmly eyes burning a hole in the back of Davidner's black uniform. Steph is a few steps back in third place. The contrast was evident, face almost placid, Steph maintaining contact while running as effortlessly as possible. Without raising my voice I encouraged her with my honest assessment, “Great job, right where you want to be. Stay smooth.”

After the gap to the next pack, things were really tight.