Some fourteen years ago I used to walk down this road carrying my school and sports bags, determined and driven to reach my physical and athletic potential. I had arrived late in the semester because I was out on some wild adventure in Montana, where I saw no mountains, just a barren, cold landscape. Barren, yet still beautiful; Billings I thought was nice. There was a farmers market going on that one time in the streets, and there was a lady dressed in ancient clothing.
Every afternoon without complaint I walked to the track. I liked what I was doing, I looked forward to it. At the track I met a lot of my friends. We trained hard and shared a lot of laughs. The track and the baseball park, although not state of the art, were great places. And the gym — can’t forget about the gym. It seemed we all loved going there.
I was fifteen.
Whenever I think about the passage of time like that, I get a little dizzy and sentimental. I’m one of those sentimental types.
For that year or nine months, I trained under Mr. P, old Mr. P. He spotted me in the office one day and it might have been the same day mom was enrolling me for classes. The principal almost didn’t accept me, because it was so late in after school started. But one look at my grades changed his mind.
Old Mr. P was sitting there, and I don’t much remember the conversation, but he asked me if I had any interest in coming by the track and train for running and tennis. Mr. P loved tennis and chess. He would give me books to read on chess. I still haven’t read them, but I still have them somewhere in my home library.
Old Mr. P was a good man, he’s been dead for years now. I still want to see his tombstone, I never got a chance to actually see his name carved into stone, nor was I at his funeral. I was out on some other wild adventure, I suppose. Maybe I was walking the streets of Louisville, Kentucky when he passed. He taught me a lot of things, he respected me and always sought to bring out the best in me. He believed in me. He was my mentor. Like my own personal Mr. Miyagi. He was a living book of wisdom, and when I heeded his guidance, things always went well for me.
I always wished I’d cross paths with more people like him and maybe my life would have turned out better. But in my meditations, I realized how fortunate I was to have met him at such an early age.
That was a really good year for me, training in front of a beautiful mountain view. Walking the track brought me memories of the thoughts I used to have during those times and the drills old Mr. P had me do. Under his tutelage, I performed my best. I felt good and I had the right person guiding me. It wasn’t just the physical training I was undergoing; it was also things he would say to slow my roll. He taught me about patience and about progress plans. He taught me that those who quickly rise to the peak fall just as fast.
Old Mr. P was like a second father to me, but he’s dead now just like my old man. I remember these things because I owe these people a debt of gratitude and a chance to look at me from the heavens as I manifest all the good they saw in me. I owe it to the dead I love and the living I love, but I also owe it to myself.
I retrace my steps, as I revisit those old important places. I go back to where it all began before I can move forward. My friends and a lot of people I loved are no longer here, but there is still some hope as long as I have some life left in me. Some ember, some spark.
I was a sprinter and a karate man once. Was I any good? Only others may say, but I could have been better if my dark mind never got in the way. The gym is closed now, pigeons fly everywhere, the mosquitoes try to get me and a woman does a strange dance close by to old Mr. P’s beloved tennis court. There is a girl from here, a world class table tennis player. I trained next to her maybe a few times at the gym long ago. She puts this old, abandoned town on the map. How remarkable. I wish her well and I wish her continued success.
My other old trainer walks by, he says hello and tells me to go for a sprint again as I look at the lanes and stand on six, remembering the good old days. I admire that he’s stuck to this place, this track, for so many years and he hasn’t aged a minute. He was a good trainer too, but none could replace old Mr. P to me.
I walk towards the tennis court, and I place my hand on the cyclone fence. I stare at it for a long time and think: How many years did old Mr. P spend here teaching? And I remember the drills, the crouch, the hand positions, the running from side to side and the bouncing tennis balls. I smell the guava trees next to the track and it is surreal, like it all happened yesterday.
There are no nets on the court — who coaches now? And what happened to the guys that played handball?
