I will admit that I was afraid of the floor.
I had seen more than one “man” go down and go out on a stretcher writhing in pain and bleeding profusely from the floor’s teeth. Unfortunately for me, I was soon to be their Captain. I would lead the team once we emerged from the cold winter months… and therefore I could not show fear.
I had other problems as well, that I had only recently come to realize. They knew who I was. They even knew my name.
I had been content in the anonymity provided by my role as the anchor leg. They never called out my name on the loudspeakers as I finished with the tape across my chest. The Armory’s sound system would boom the school’s name … loud enough to be heard above the roar of the crowd.
No sporting venue ever captured the roar of the crowd and magnified it the way the 102nd Engineer’s Armory did. Not the Garden for the Knicks, and not the “Bronx Zoo” when the Yankees played. The Armory was this giant facility of exposed metal struts, concrete brick, and a slick wooden Armory floor. For New York City PSAL Championship events, the balcony that ran completely around the building was crowded with the colorful school colors of high school students from all five boroughs…. athletes, their girl friends, and a host of spectators. Each section staked out with bright school banners and alive with sweat suits and boom boxes. And when the crowd roared … with little or nothing to absorb the sound, the Armory caught that roar and pumped it up like a massive kettle drum. The roar was fully complimented by thousands of fists reaching over the guard rails to pound the metal sides like a drum section gone completely insane.
You did not want to be the athlete in front who was being rapidly overtaken from behind when the crowd roared…because then they were roaring at you.
In contrast, if you were the inspiration for this cacophony… no music ever sounded as sweet.
The roar drowned out the pounding footsteps as they drew closer until you saw or felt your adversary pulling alongside you. The roar changed octaves if he passed you and became a harmony of screams if you could actually make it competitive … instead of allowing the roar to freeze the blood in your muscles. The harmony of sound became a hot white noise at that point that accompanied you both to the finish … finally exploding into a climax of sound vibrations that either rewarded your struggle or crushed your soul under its boot.
My beloved sprint relays were the greatest catalyst for setting off this conflagration of sound. It was fall of 1969 and, as always, the Indoor High School Track and Field Season in New York City was in full swing at the Armory. The weapons of war on display here and there throughout the facility were evidence that the National Guard in upper Manhattan actually did use the facility from time to time… but we knew the real deal. This was our home. This is where we came to showcase our skills and our imagined claims of dominance in a world that would otherwise try to ignore us… or deny us entry.
That year, Sheepshead Bay had a massive sprinter named Mike Sands… who ran the 100 yard dash and the 220. Fortunately they did not have anyone to run with him so they typically had no relay and they could not win City Champs. The dual for City Champs was solely (and routinely) between Brooklyn Tech and Boys High. The two Brooklyn Schools were among the very few all boys schools in New York City, and the PSAL (Public Schools Athletic League) had not progressed to the point of holding events for the girls yet. Both schools, therefore, had its pick of athletes and depth in Track and Field events that the other schools could not match.
Boys High was the undisputed king of the sprint events. The school, nestled in the heart of the Bedford Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn, boasted an almost entirely Black enrollment. They also had an outstanding track coach and a well disciplined program that provided perhaps the only hope of a college education for many of the students. They were the PSAL elite, that showed up in dress red and black stretch sweats, shaven heads and towels around their necks … tucked into their sweat suit tops. They warmed up together with almost militaristic precision and a superior, regal demeanor.
We were the smart kids from Brooklyn Tech. We had long distance champions like Julio Piazza and Shot Put experts like Desmond Smith. In fact, we competed in every event and competed well… such that we did not need to necessarily win the events. Just by placing in the top three in almost every event… we became the odds-on mathematical favorite. But we were the smart kids in a school that was mostly White-Italian and Asian. There was no way that we should have been a threat to Boys High in the sprints.
Except that year… we were.
I thought that my role as the anchor leg in the 440 and 880 relays gave me a cloak of invisibility. On occasion I would join the “horses” for a stacked mile relay as well, just to keep them guessing. We wore previously used, shiny white uniforms with blue lettering that was deadly dull and baggy… beside the sleek elegance of the Boys High outfits. They were just out of our league.
Except… that we had routinely challenged them in the 880 and mile relays this year like we never had before. We had a couple of up and coming sophomores and juniors who were suddenly turning in champion class performances. And I had been spotted winning the Junior Varsity II Cross Country championships during the X-Country season, (something that no sprinter was supposed to do.) I had also been identified as “the guy from Tech who ran down Goodie” in an earlier meet that season. Goodie was one of the untouchable stars from the Boys High roster. One simply did not run down Goodie. The crowd had roared.
So I had come to realize now, after hearing gossip and information relayed by my teammates… that not only was I recognized as Tech’s Anchor Leg… but they knew me by name.
So… here I was… in the 880-relay finals… running the anchor leg for Brooklyn Tech once again… in the New York City PSAL Indoor Track and Field City Championship event in 1969. My senior year. I would graduate in June 1970. We had handily won our earlier heat that morning… just as Boys High had won theirs. (Goodie was running the mile relay this time… so no showdown would ensue.) De Witt Clinton of the Bronx was the other featured player in the mix. They would go on to win national titles in the following years… but they were just part of the drama that day. I hadn’t paid much attention to the other three qualifying schools.
The drama also had a villain in the story as previously mentioned. This was a monster of fiendish proportions and capable of wreaking unimaginable havoc.
The Armory floor!
The Armory did not have a banked composite track to run on… or the raised, tongue and groove platforms we had for the Millrose Games at Madison Square Garden. We ran on a flat, old and extensively used, hardwood floor. The same floor used by the National Guard for their exercises and readiness activities. I had personally seen a runner from Lafayette High School fall on that hungry floor and drive a long, wicked splinter deep into his leg. There was blood everywhere.
Had that been a solitary incident… I might have convinced myself that it was a fluke, but I had heard about a few other similar accidents. The fact was … that if you went down… the floor would get you. The polished wooden surface was designed for jeeps and tanks and small anti-aircraft equipment. It was not designed for high school athletes in short pants and it had no “give” to help absorb the impact of a fall. The penalty for slipping or tripping, meant you lost the race… and the floor might also decide to eat you if you happened to catch a weakened area with a toothy splinter waiting for you.
The Armory had grown animalistic qualities over the years. Its roar seemed to reverberate throughout the bowels of Manhattan Island, and it had sharp and wicked fangs if you were not very careful.
I was afraid of the floor… but my team was counting on me.
Unlike the outdoor 880-relay pre-race positioning… in the Armory, the teams stay together, separated into rows behind the lead off runners at the starting line. There is tape on the floor to give the runners some traction for their spikeless running shoes since there are no starting blocks in the Armory.
I could feel the tension in the athletes all around me. I had already learned that taller and bigger did not necessarily mean faster, so I was unimpressed by the athletes themselves… most of whom I did not know. I knew only their school uniforms and I was lined up beside Boys High on my left who had the inside position (there were no lanes) … with De Witt Clinton on my right … and the others on the other side of them.
The practiced PSAL officials had been doing this for a long time. It all happened very quickly.
The Armory’s roar seemed to fade so that you could hear the competing disco tunes of a few persistent boom boxes off in the distance. A fat man in baggy clothes and a blue wind breaker yelled, “Set,” and the lead runners came up from their starting positions as if they had all been pulled by unseen puppeteer’s strings. (From my position three rows back I had not heard the command, “Runners take your mark.” He had apparently spoken softly to them, and waited until they were settled and ready.) They were now all braced and coiled to explode with their backs almost parallel with the hungry floor.
The starter’s pistol cracked loudly and unleashed the savage roar of the Armory.
I had the unique view of watching the runners race way from us in a desperate effort to reach the curve first. It was almost impossible to tell who was winning until they curved to the left around the track. Each man carried the baton once around the tight slippery track to complete their 220 yard portion of the 880-relay.
As they emerged from the first straight-away and into the turn, I could see that Boy’s High was once again in the zone and comfortably floating over the floor in first place, followed by DeWitt Clinton and some other school in orange and green! Brooklyn Tech junior Larry Young had not reached the curve in good position and was just behind the third place team… resolved to try to pass him on the curve rather than waiting for the second straight-away.
The Armory began its roar, loudly punctuated with the barking sound of fists pounding on the outside of the balcony walls as the teams began to lengthen the distance between them on the back straight-away.
I knew I was screaming for Larry, because my brain had told my mouth to do so… but I could not hear my own voice against the kettle drum echoes of the Armory’s roar.
The second row of athletes had been swiftly moved up to their positions as soon as the lead runners had cleared the “track.” Now they were repositioning themselves according to the order of the runners who were now leaning into the second and final curve of their race. Boy’s High had the inside position, followed by DeWitt Clinton, followed by Sheepshead Bay… followed by Brooklyn Tech! We were still in fourth place.
Sheepshead Bay! Something suddenly woke up inside of me and I looked around. The giant athlete standing beside me was none other than Mike Sands. He had already won the individual 220 yard event and was now going to anchor the 880 event for Sheepshead Bay. I hadn’t even realized that he was there. (If the floor don’t get me… ole Mike surely will.)
Mike politely moved me aside as he stepped in front of me. His team was in third place.
Our famed Coach Zarowin was fond of stacking that second leg. In this case, sophomore Keith Bailey was our secret weapon. Keith had already broken all school records for the 60 and the 100 yard dash events and was without question the fastest man we had in the short, pure speed sprints. He did not have quite the stamina to maintain that same speed in the 220, but he was slowly working up to it.
The blind baton pass between Larry and Keith was silky smooth and Keith took off after the lead runners. A deafening explosion of sound erupted from the balcony and as they “hit” the curve I could see that Keith had already passed Sheepshead Bay and was rapidly eating up the distance between us and DeWitt Clinton.
I lost sight of the action for a moment as our final two rows were again re-positioned. The third leg had now been brought to the active track positions and our final anchor legs were left alone now with a clear and unfettered view of the Armory floor.
People were going insane. Keith had overtaken and passed the De Witt Clinton runner on the back straight-away and was now step for step behind Boy’s High on the last curve before the baton pass. I could hear nothing but the Armory roaring and pounding in my ears.
I did, however, have the presence of mind to reposition myself once again in the second spot behind the Boy’s High runner and in front of Mike and the guy from De Witt Clinton.
Our third runner was senior class-mate Tyrone Blackmon, a 440 yard specialist who had developed new found speed. He did not have the flash of Keith or me, but unlike our time “splits” … the back portions of his races were just as fast the front portions. Today, however, Tyrone was pumped. Tyrone came from the same neighborhood as most of the Boy’s High athletes… many were his friends. He knew the capabilities of the powerful third leg of the Boy’s High team and he had something to prove.
I could tell by the sudden animation of the Boy’s High anchor leg standing beside me… that this is where they were expecting to shut down the event. They had placed their fastest man in the third position and his job was to open up such a devastating lead … that the rest of the field would be completely and hopelessly defeated. He was expecting to be half way down the track before the second place runner (me) even got the baton.
Instead… his elation turned to cries of frustration and encouragement as Tyrone and the Boy’s High runner fought neck and neck throughout the race. They had literally run away from the rest of the field…opening a wide gap in between them and De Witt Clinton… who was now literally running alone with Sheepshead Bay lost amidst the remaining two teams.
Our final row of anchor legs had been moved into position to watch the oncoming runners. The Boy’s High anchor leg turned to me and clasped hands with me, wishing me good luck. (He actually said, “Good luck Harp!” which made a memorable moment that much more unforgettable.) Then he turned and moved a few steps ahead and out of the pack to allow his incoming team-mate to cut through the line of waiting runners. Boy’s High was still in the lead, but this was nowhere close to the lead that they had expected.
My body was aimed straight ahead while my head was turned to watch Tyrone as he pounded up to me. I had visually marked the spot on the floor that he needed to reach… that would signal the exact timing for me to take off. We had practiced this baton exchange for weeks.
The incoming Boy’s High runner flew by me. I ignored him… my mind focused entirely on Tyrone’s approach.
In the next second, when Tyrone reached the mark, I turned my head while my feet were already beginning their acceleration. As I turned my head I could see that the Boy’s High runner who had just passed the baton after completing his race had wearily stumbled in front of me. As I armed him aside I heard Tyrone shouting, “Stick” which meant that he was now in position and was wondering why my hand was not fully outstretched behind me so that he could firmly slap it down into my grip. I was supposed to be running. I was certainly not supposed to be entangled with the third leg runner from Boy’s High.
Instead of the smooth baton hand-off that we had practiced for what seemed like an eternity… I felt Tyrone literally collide into me… I felt him grasp my arm while simultaneously putting the baton in my hand… I felt us stumble together as he pushed me forward shouting, “Go... Go.” As I found my balance and adjusted the baton firmly in my hand I could feel a wall of noise buffeting me from all angles. I also heard further collisions and chaos behind me.
I ran.
I had lost several steps to Boy’s High and Mike Sands was gonna get me at any moment, but I was now in my place. My mental place.
Oddly enough, I never really liked getting the “stick” in front of the pack. I always felt like the rabbit in those cases. I would rather have a runner just ahead of me so that I could reel him in. It was an interesting mental paradigm in which I completely forgot about the mechanics of running… and simply accelerated. In such times I was convinced that I was actually running faster by closing the gap and overtaking the runner in front of me, than I would if I were simply supposed to run as fast as I can.
I reeled him in.
The Armory went berserk…. roaring its approval of me, screaming with displeasure at him.
He was already on the curve by the time I reached him but we dueled down the back straight-away and soon I had passed him by a step. The Armory was in frenzy. As we reached the final turn, I was ahead of him by a step or two, but on the outside. If I had cut to the inside position I would literally have cut him off. I could not have done it without a collision of some sort.
I didn’t think. I kept to just in front of his right shoulder…allowing him to hold the inner position. We came out of the final turn in a dead heat.
I had the wind and strength I’d always dreamed about in such contests. I was loose. There were no excuses as we flew toward the finish line. I could hear people screaming. Pounding. Roaring.
As we approached the tape I reflexively leaned as I strained my peripheral vision to assess my position. As I did… my opponent seemed to launch himself forward as if thrown by some invisible force. It was like something from a movie stunt double or at the height of a hard fought baseball game. He had literally dived across the finish line and into the waiting jaws of the hungry floor.
Mike Sands had never materialized as a factor and Sheepshead Bay did not place.
Boy’s High won the PSAL 880-Relay Indoor City Championship that day. Brooklyn Tech finished a close second. We also won the overall championship event. My reputation swelled and flourished in preparation for what would be an outstanding outdoor season.
But the Armory floor fed well that day.
The Boy’s High anchor leg was taken to the hospital with a deeply embedded splinter and abrasions on his chest and abdomen. Tyrone had also fallen after finally managing to grapple the baton into my hands, and emerged with a badly sprained wrist and bruises on both hands and forearms.
Later that day, another athlete had fallen and come up with a splinter in his thigh.
I later learned that the Armory understandably fell out of favor for many years… only to return in the l990s with a new and beautifully refurbished composite track. I am told it is one of the foremost indoor track facilities in the country these days.
I am quite sure it still roars… but it’s lost its teeth.
I wrote this several years ago, and never explained to anyone the true back story behind it. My Dad was a star track athlete in high school and I think my mother watched him run often enough. They did come and see me run once. In fairness, we lived in the Bronx and my track meets were all over the city. But this was the one event that they attended. Somewhere in that roar I could hear my mother call out... and my father smile.
Ed Harper
