a tribute to MLK

So, the secret is out – I’m white. Not vanilla, not cracker, or a combination of the two, like a vanilla wafer; I’m white. In an effort to understand my color, or excuse it, some say I’m pale. Please, keep the sun out of this. Listen, I’m white. Am I clear? No, just white.

Being who I am (Crayola Caucasian), I have a deep appreciation for Martin Luther King Jr. I admire his convictions, his charisma, his tan, his 40-inch vertical, his 10-inch horizontal, his ability to gather first graders on a fuzzy rug posthumously and not have it be weird. Everything.

Above all things, though, I appreciate his selflessness. Standing before those podiums, those prison bars, those riot shields, knowing his dream was more like a coma, as in one that wouldn’t be awoken until death, MLK kept delivering the same unshaken message to fans and dissenters alike: one love.

As King’s youth baseball coach might’ve said if he ever made the team, “There’s no ‘I’ in ‘MLK’.” And if there was, he’d be milk.

But King wasn’t white like milk. He was black. But not his heart ... ... his heart was gold. And his eyes were brown, his teeth white, his tongue pink, his grill platinum. And this, all this writing here, is gold.

Knowing this now, I came to treat Jan. 21 not just as any third Monday of January, but as a birthday, a celebration of all things black. Here is a rundown of my tribute:

MLK Day
2 a.m. to 11 a.m. -- Had a dream. I was this dragon poacher – back in dragon times – and had to slay the Big One for this princess, the Cruella DeVille of dragons. But, like, after smoking the creature out from it’s lair, it revealed itself as, like, my mom. Then I fell out of a helicopter. I had a dream.

Noon to 12:10 p.m. – Pulled up to Burger King. Was hungry for a Whopper, but after remembering my tribute to MLK Jr., his respect for cow-loving Gandhi and those brilliant Whopper-stopper ads, I went with a Whopper Jr. What did I do with the $1.50 saving? Well you’ll just have to ask the Diversity Forever Charity.

12:15 p.m. – Felt like vomiting. Whopper withdraw.

1 p.m. – Walked an old white woman across the street. She was in a hurry to cross it. Probably a racist. Or an undercover chicken. By the way, while I’m telling funny-ass jokes only found in grade-school libraries, did my dragon dream drag on?

1:30 p.m. – Questioned some kids for skipping school.

3:30 p.m. to 6 p.m. – Watched a marathon of “Martin.” I hate that show. Put on “Bad Boys 2.” Hate that movie. Turned on BET. Impaled my TV.

7 p.m. to 9 p.m. – Went to McDonalds with my buds Terrell, Jose, Yi and Pat, the androgynous one. We sat and discussed ways to eliminate white privilege over Whopper Jrs.

10 p.m. – Had a dream that all men were created equally well endowed, to, you know, save money on pills. The size-reducing ones. I had a dream.

Plunge this, Polar Bear

Plungers and one polar bear mascot poses for the inaugural Polar Bear Plunge Wildwood in February 2007.

When the New Jersey polar bear -- the species of half-naked, half-crazy humans -- sees its shadow shivering today, winter will be confused for summer for another four weeks.

In a ph-ph-phenomenon that neither physicians nor psychologists can explain, thousands will migrate to the shore in the next month, hang their coats on sand castles and plunge into the Atlantic Ocean, starting at 10 a.m. today in Wildwood and ending Feb. 23 in Seaside Heights, Ocean County.

"I haven't the slightest idea as to why they do it," said Dr. Robert Karlin, a Rutgers University psychology professor at the Livingston Campus. "I suppose it's just for fun."

Stan Cherim has grown numb trying to explain his winter dips.

Rather than say why he braves the icy water, the 78-year-old thrill seeker said he'd rather explain the rush of darting out.

"We're all aware of the fact that the water is near freezing," said Cherim, a Media, Pa., resident. "You try to prepare for it, but it's still freezing. "The comforting fact is that you don't have to stay in there long. You just have to submerge yourself."

Cherim doesn't shy from challenges, but rather seeks them. The retired chemistry professor ran a half marathon on the Great Wall of China in May 2006, finishing first in his age group.

Stan Cherim flexes his muscles at the Polar Bear Plunge Seaside Heights in 2006.

Cold in his future

While Cherim will stay dry during the second annual Polar Bear Plunge Wildwood today, he plans on diving -- his eighth time in 12 years -- at the 15th annual Polar Bear Plunge Seaside Heights on Feb. 23 alongside Hank Deal and other members of his local Hash House Harriers, the social "drinking club with a running problem."

No matter the site, a few factors remain constant: the chill, the wetness and the buzz.

"In a fun setting, it's a fun challenge and a personal challenge to go into water that cold," said Lynn Schindel, the communication manager for the Special Olympics New Jersey.

Along with plunging for pride, thousands of swimmers lend use of their extremities -- and the time it takes to raise the $100 minimum -- to support the Special Olympics. Last year, it received more than $1.6 million from the Seaside Heights plunge, Schindel said.

The money collected from the events helps out more than 16,000 Special Olymics athletes by providing free training and competitions year round, Schindel added.

On that February day, the water temperature fell to 28 degrees, she said. Wildwood's inaugural plunge, on the other hand, was more bearable as the air temperature reached a balmy 58 degrees.

"It will be much colder this year," Schindel promises.

A frigid mix

In the 13 years he has participated, Deal, 53, considers the jump in Point Pleasant, Ocean County, in February 2003, when 20 inches of show blanketed the Northeast, as the coldest and his most memorable. Water temperature was in the mid 20s, he said.

As a safety precaution, officials asked swimmers to keep their heads above water, Deal recalls.

"I drove that far," said the Brookhaven, Pa., resident. "I'm going all the way in. I'm not going up to my knees."

For Deal, Cherim and others, training is minimal -- as in nonexistent. No cold-shower marathons or ice cube baths. No Slurpee chugs or snow-angel exercises. Not even midnight streaking.

"I don't know anyone who trains for it," Cherim said. "You kind of grind your teeth and that's about all the training you do."

Safety precautions

Ambulances and diving crews have been present but luckily unused during both plunges, Schindel said.

Dr. Laurence DesRochers, chairman of emergency service at Community Medical Center in Toms River, Ocean County, says shock-induced emergencies such as hypothermia or cardiac arrest can mostly be avoided by checking your body before and during the plunge.

DesRochers discourages anyone with heart or lung problems, diabetes or high blood pressure to take the plunge.

Cherim figures an in-and-out approach would typically be best and just not for him.

"Some people plunge right in, but I tend to plunge a little slower because I don't want to get a heart attack," Cherim said. "I plunge slowly and get out."

Once out in the brisk open, Cherim said he rushes for cover, fetching his towel, robe and slippers before joining the crowd of spectators, his real source of warmth.

"I never had the luxury of warm showers, but there's plenty of people," he said, "so there's not a problem of staying warm after that point."

Lenape girls slighted, Minutemen top in nation

If you round the track fast enough, you'll end up in Madison Square Garden.

Maybe.

For Moira Cunningham, the dream of qualifying for the Millrose Games pushed her like no competitor could in the 4x800 last Saturday, motivating the Lenape senior to a 10-second win in 9:32.83 at the State Group 4 Relay Championships.

The time's a season-best, even tops in the state, but Cunningham, relay teammates Brianna Beddall, Caitlin Orr, Katie Duffey or for that matter, any girls' 4x800 team, won't be invited to the prestigious Millrose Games.

While a boys' 4x800 race will debut -- and even be a televised event -- on Feb. 1, a girls' race is not scheduled. And Lenape girls' coach Gerald Richardson still can't find a good explanation.

"It's unfair," Richardson said. "It's a disgrace for a meet of this caliber not to recognize and showcase both boys and girls at that level.

"It's unfortunate for the girls to be considered second-class athletes at this point."

The relay team learned of its omission on Monday, two days after helping Lenape win its first state relay championship in school history.

"They're obviously upset," Richardson said.

The two top boys' relays in New Jersey -- currently Hunterdon Central and Hillsboro -- will clash with the four fastest New York relays in the 4x800, one of 11 high-school races featured at the world-class meet.

With respect to Title IX, a federal law that prohibits, among other things, gender discrimination in school sports, Richardson said there should be a 12th race.

"They have a girls' 60, a girls' mile, a girls' 4x400," said Richardson, who doubles as the Willingboro boys' coach in the spring. "How hard is it to get a girls' 4x800? It's not going to add more than 10 minutes to the schedule."

Richardson said he spoke with meet officials this week.

"I don't know what to tell you," he said. "Everything is already in place."

Minute-made record

A national best is worth reviewing.

Fast forward to the last leg of the sprint medley, the 800, and you'll see the leader, Trenton Catholic's Rashawn Bailey, slipping to a couple South Jersey sharks, Washington Township junior Xavier Fraction and Absegami junior Ford Palmer.

Three laps complete with 200 meters to go, Fraction hears Washington Township boys' coach Rich Bostwick yell.

"He told me to make a decision," Fraction said, "so I just went."

Fraction capped dizzying performances by relay teammates Nick Krauss, Steve Morrone and Tim Carey with a personal-best 1:56 split, giving the Minutemen a time of 3:38.6, the win and something unbelievable.

"I didn't think it could be best in the nation," said Fraction, who still checked national database Milesplit.com the next day. "It said Washington Township was No.1."

Absegami finished second in the race in 3:40.23, good for fourth-fastest in the country according to the Web site.

Juniors Fraction and Carey, whom Bostwick considers "the most talented kid on the team" and is referred to by "Wonder Boy," both run cross country during the fall while Krauss plays football and Morrone soccer.

Unlike past years, Bostwick is treating this winter not as a warmup for outdoor track, but as a workout, grinding his runners into a shape able to compete at the indoor state championship.

"We're definitely going a lot harder than we did last year indoor," Fraction said. "I haven't heard anyone complain. Everyone's treating it like spring."

"At the New Balance Games today, Bostwick said the same group might run the sprint medley but will primarily focus on the 4x800, trying to capture one of the two qualifying spots at the Millrose Games.

Don't sleep on East

Eastern coach John Shea is concerned with only his team -- both past and present.

When Shea loaded his 4x800 with talented sophomore Barry Bethea, seniors Steven Greer, Michael Ali and Joseph Steffney last Saturday, he wasn't aiming to qualify for the Millrose Games as much as he was targeting a school record.

The relay finished third in the Group 4 race in a South Jersey-best 8:21.47, but considerably short of the Vikings' 2002 record of 8:18.78.

The record will take another shot today at the New Balance Games and it's likely to fall on the fast track at the New York City Armory.

Shea said his current cast could also break the team's 2001 sprint-medley record of 3:39.9.

Lenape again

Lenape scored in all eight relays it competed in, but only one literally rose to the occasion.

The tandem of senior Lindsay Walsh and junior Danielle Ward high-jumped for a combined height of 10-8, good for a school record and a fraction of an inch shy of tying the state record.

But success like that doesn't arrive without sweat, blood and the occasional eye crust.

Both girls meet up with their boy counterparts, coach Richardson and jumping coach Mike Pascuzzo at 6 a.m. twice a week to get some jumps in.

"They enjoy it immensely," Richardson said. "They're students of the sport.They know how far the bar is. They're so dedicated to the event."

Camden's 4x200 team let viewers know who was tops in the nation after winning the Hispanic Games race.

Broken record

Cue the adage: Records are made to be broken.

A 1:42.21 in the girls' 4x200 elevated the Camden relay to the national throne Jan. 5, and a 1:40.2 by Dallas Skyline, Texas., brought them back down last Saturday.

But Camden still had reason to celebrate last Saturday, edging both Roxbury (27 points) and Seneca (26) to win the State Group 3 Relay Championships with 28 points.

Jamie Jones and Miriam Boyd, both members of the aforementioned 4x200, helped Camden win the 4x200 (1:48.74) and the 4x400 (4:06.98).

when i was editor

When cleaning out my Temple in/outbox last week, I keyed on one e-mail sent to my former staff of Temple Living reporters, affectionally referred to as Livers. While I never wrote an e-mail I didn't like (Time ensured this), I take stock in one that offered no story ideas, but instead a story.

Sent Nov. 26 2006:

" In place of story ideas this week, let me tell you about –
and hopefully inspire you with – a gritty story about rocker
Bruce Springsteen and his defining hit “Born to Run”:

Born in the punching-bag state of New Jersey, Springsteen rose from the faceless scene and carried his workmanlike, inferior complex onstage, and later into the studio. In 1972, Springsteen, then 23, would spend only three weeks
producing his raw debut album, “Greetings from Asbury Park,” a commercial flop.

A year later, he designated two months into the production of his next bust, “The Wild, The Innocent, The E-Street Shuffle.”

With Columbia Records losing faith, patience and money with each album, Springsteen was one bad album away from being cast out into the ocean of obscurity. Although critics loved his work and realized his creativity, much of his work was dismissed as rushed, sloppy and verbose.

Like a jobless graduate approaching the end of his student- loan grace period, Springsteen awoke to the reality of the situation, drenched in desperation and staring at the crossroads of his career. He transmuted his anxiety into something else. For him, this was creative energy.

“The highways jammed with broken heroes on a last-chance power drive.”

These lines and others were composed in the studio during the production of his masterpiece album, “Born to Run.” Springsteen brought his nine-man band into the studio, but left his wing-it attitude behind. He also brought a sleeping
bag.

For the next nine months, Springsteen and the E-Street Band would pull all-nighters rehearsing the same eight songs. And on one of these songs, the title track, he would spend an exorbitant length of time layering and finessing melodies – overdubbing as many as 12 separate guitar melodies – until it was just right. Good was no longer good enough.

The sessions became so tedious, a band member left.

One more time.

After four unsuccessful months of tinkering, Springsteen hauled his equipment into another studio and began again.

One more time.

Columbia Records started to feel the pinch of the mounting studio fees and pressed Springsteen to move on.

Yet again, one more time. And it still wasn’t right.

Six months of tweaking in all, Springsteen finally had 4 minutes and 30 seconds of something he could be proud of. And fans reaffirmed this in ’75, the release year, by making “Born to Run” his then- best-selling album.

He and his family continue to live off, among other things, the royalties derived from his 6-month quest for perfection.

I’ll pause and let you guys situate yourselves off the edge of your seats.

Fan or not, everybody can take note of the price of excellence. And if your hatred for Springsteen is that intense, just remember that Michelangelo spent four years painting the Sistine Chapel. That’s dedication.

So hopefully the next time I assign you a story, you’ll remember not to wait until the next to last day to work on it. Give yourself days to write it, and by that I don’t mean research; I mean the actual writing process. Take your time
to write it because it’s your name up there. "

Super Bowl

All photos courtesy of Chris LaChall. Pub. Dec. 14 in SJ Scene.
The bouncer won't budge, standing between you and a bevy of clubgoers inside the low-lit alley. He checks your style and then your I.D. before shifting sideways to let you through.
If it wasn't clear before, it's strikingly so now: Bowling is no longer just fun and games, but much more at some alleys.
In the last three years, area bar owners have modernized, perhaps even glamorized, a pastime dating back to the Flintstones, setting up luminous bowling lanes in luxurious lounges throughout Philadelphia.
In the last three months, that trend has extended into South Jersey with the opening of Pinsetters Bar & Bowl, allowing "Guys' Night Out" to be bridge-toll free and to start a little earlier. Yabba dabba doo!
Whether they come to the Pennsauken center for the booze, food or rental shoes, bar-restaurant manager Shawn Reilly said its patrons are usually bowled over.
"When they walk in the doors they don't know what to expect," said Reilly, 25, of Philadelphia. "They're in a state of shock that this place got renovated from what it was to what it is now."
As unbelievable as converting a seven-10 split, new owner Mark Platzer spent four months converting the modest Maple Bowl into a palace of pins and pizazz.
Wanting to put a spin on the typical bar scene, the Haddonfield resident flew to Las Vegas to attend a bowling expo in the spring.
"I don't want it to be the traditional bowling alley," Platzer, 45, said. "I want people to enjoy the atmosphere if they don't bowl."
Cinnaminson resident and casual bowler Harry Aydin doesn't want the traditional bowling alley either.
While the modern -- if not new-age -- furniture may intimidate some, when compared to the bare, old-school alleys frequented by the more serious, league-bowling types, it's disarming for Aydin.
"My arm will hurt the next day," Aydin, 28, said, "but at least this atmosphere is nice. If you bowl 140 or 90 it doesn't matter. It's about having a good time."

In a dim setting spared from black lights and disco balls, 34 neon-trimmed lanes each lead to, yes, 10 pins, and to several overhanging projection TVs.
Its new second-floor VIP lounge, usually reserved for bachelor and bachelorette and corporate parties, has a separate bar and overlooks its 10 reserved lanes.
Bowling's look has certainly changed, but so has people's outlook on the sport, said Kannon, an on-air personality at Wired 96.5.
"Dorky is the new cool," said Kannon, 30, an admitted avid bowler from Philadelphia. "I think bowling used to be dorky, but there's a new trend in bowling where it's cool now."
"It's like that nightclub environment, but there's something to do," said Beverly Wojciechowski, 24, of Philadelphia. "There's that competition, a bit of fun, a bit of excitement. It's more than just coming to hang out."
Jason Freeman notices Pinsetters' overhaul more than anyone.
Freeman, who's worked as the head mechanic for the alley for the last two years, said he notices a change in the crowd dynamic.
"We're losing a lot of league bowlers because of the lighting and all that, but the partiers are really picking up," said Freeman, 19, of Maple Shade.
Pinsetters, at 7111 Maple Ave. in Pennsauken, opens its doors to only those 18 or older after 8 p.m. and to legal drinkers after 10 p.m.
Once in, its typical 21- to 45-year-old clientele usually heads for its restaurant or its bar, said Reilly -- and he doesn't mean snack bar.

Offering more than just pizza and burgers, Pinsetters' menu includes penne pasta, strip steak and crab cakes, all on the higher end of a $7 to $19.50 price range.
The full bar boasts a wide selection of martinis ($8), speciality drinks ($7), and a weekday happy hour from 4 to 7 p.m.
An additional "In The Biz" happy hour, falling between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. on Sunday through Thursday, aims to appeal to the area bartenders and servers who just get done work.
"Usually when a business closes, their staff goes somewhere else," Reilly said.
And business is coming from all directions.
"A place like this doesn't really exist around here," Reilly said. "We're trying to open up a martini bar with a bowling alley. That's what we're doing. It's something to break up the monotony of just sitting on a barstool."
Once suffering from a dearth of decent bowling alleys, Philadelphia has changed lanes, now offering three upscale venues to chose from: Strikes Bowling Lounge in University City, Lucky Strike Lane in Center City and North Bowl in Northern Liberties.
While Strikes was the first boutique bowling center to roll onto the city's scene in January 2005, Lucky Strike is known as the nation's first "bowling lounge," setting up shop in Hollywood and infusing some of that sushi-eating, cocktail-sipping culture in each of its 15 other locations across the country.
Philadelphia's Lucky Strike is no different, casting a club ambience throughout its three tiers while offering a profusion of plasma TVs, plush sofas, top-shelf liquors, and well-done entrees, not to mention its lanes.
Like Lucky Strike, Pinsetters enforces a mild dress code that prohibits sandals and sleeveless shirts.

The Ugly Dog

Courtesy of Scott Anderson/Courier-Post. Pub Dec. 14 in South Jersey.

Karen Quigley had mixed emotions when learning her part-Chinese crested, part-chihuahua mutt was crowned the "World's Ugliest Dog" in June.
It wasn't because her bug-eyed baby was receiving the biggest backhanded petting known to the dog world; Quigley knew Elwood's ego was bigger.
The honor just wasn't in her manuscript.
"What am I going to do now?" the Sewell resident asked.
Before leaving for the annual World's Ugliest Dog Contest in Petaluma, Calif., Quigley spent nine months producing and self-financing her debut children's book, "Everyone Loves Elwood," a true story originally based on the dog's second-place finish in the 2006 ugliest mutt category.
"The story was about him not winning," Quigley said. "Not winning."
The bespeckled dog with the funny tongue lapped up a tidal wave of media requests, appearing on "The Today Show," CNN, "The View," and countless other programs before returning home with Quigley to a project previously estimated as 90 percent complete.
With the help of longtime friend and professional writer Loren Spiotta-DiMare, Quigley tweaked, appended and updated the rough draft without changing its message: Beauty may be in the eye of the leash holder, but acceptance comes from within.
Just don't expect Elwood to turn into a swan.
"He is what he is," said Quigley said. "He knows he's very handsome."

By way of his owner, the 2-year-old dog -- whose tongue wags more than his curly tail -- lends his celebrity to help support a number of animal charities, often drawing comparisons to Yoda of "Star Wars" fame for his pointy ears, to E.T. for his bug eyes, and to anyone sporting a white mohawk.
"I think he was always proud of who he was," Quigley said. "I think now he just gets a lot more attention because of it."
But Elwood didn't always receive so much attention.
Before Quigley gave him a final home, Elwood passed through two other owners: a breeder who was going to euthanize the unwanted, 4-week-old pup and then a woman who took in more animals than she could provide for.
Two days after taking in Elwood, one of Quigley's eight dogs, the proud owner got her first sense of public reaction when she carried the 6-pound canine into a Sprint store.
"What is that?" the onlookers asked.
Of all those squinting, only a little boy "didn't look at Elwood like he was a creature from outer space" and approached the dog.
"He laid the most tender kiss on this little dog's head," said Quigley, who sometimes even holds the pocket pooch while washing dishes.
"That was my first inkling that kids responded to him way different than adults," she said.
Although she recognized an audience existed for Elwood early on, Quigley only considered self-publishing a children's book in the midst of her first meeting with Spiotta-DiMare.
Quigley tried to push the pen over to Spiotta-DiMare, who, in turn, pushed it right back.
"You write it," Spiotta-DiMare told her. "You've lived his story. You write it and I'll mentor you through it."
Quigley chronicled the duo's journey into fame, but, to fully capture this pug's mug, she knew it would require either thousands of words or some pictures worth them.
So Quigley spent two months auditioning more than a dozen artists, enduring Martian-like exaggerations of Elwood and doubting the book's release. Then she called Kay Klotzbach, an art professor at Camden County College and a fellow Greyhound Friend of New Jersey.
Klotzbach, who was featured in the Courier-Post for her Greyhound art exhibit, was hesitant to commit initially as she had never illustrated a children's book before, but had to after seeing Elwood online.
"I thought he was the most interesting dog I've ever seen," said Klotzbach, a Lindenwold resident. "To be honest, I didn't think he was ugly. I thought he was cute, in an E.T. kind-of-way."
From May to August, Klotzbach spent time snapping shots of Elwood, sketching a storyboard and two to three preliminary drawings for each of the book's 17 illustrations.
Klotzbach got to know her subject as well as one could, right down to his chronic shaking and phantom body noises, and still can't quite understand Elwood.
"Dogs have standardized features. Some have bigger eyes, bigger ears, but there's no dog that looks like Elwood," Klotzbach said. "That's what made him so entertaining to draw."
Quigley said it was these quirks, along with his disarming charm, that made Elwood not only a crowd favorite, but the judges' top dog too.
And as it turned out, Quigley said Elwood couldn't have written the script better himself.
"Had he won (the first time), the book might be a little different," she said. "This is the way it was supposed to be."

The first printing of "Everyone Loves Elwood" -- about 5,000 copies -- arrived at Quigley's home on Dec. 7 and can be ordered through the Web site www.everyoneloveselwood.com or throughout Elwood's local book tour. The 40-page, hardcover book retails for $15 before shipping or tax with a portion of the proceeds benefiting charities of homeless and abused animals.
Quigley may have an additional loan to pay off, a 10-year-old car and eight dogs that need to go out, but she's already written her storybook ending.
"Whatever happens with it I'm so glad we did it," she said. "Even if I have this just for myself and I have to go back and work part-time jobs at Wal-Mart or Wawa to pay off the loan, I'm just so happy with it."

Gardner outruns sophomore slump

Knock, knock.
The principal of Eastern High School enters the classroom, then, in the next moment, pardons sophomore English Gardner, whisking her to the hallway.
Somebody's in trouble, her classmates think. They're not the only ones.
"Are you ready for your sophomore slump?," the principal jokingly asks the track phenom.
Gardner laughs, but - as she has done for all matters concerning track - answers seriously.
"Some people have slumps," Gardner says, "but I don't believe in them."
Perhaps the 15-year-old sprinter doesn't acknowledge the possibility of a slump because it would require her to realize last year's success, something she's been trained to forget.
"What she did last year doesn't really mean anything this year," coach Sonny Anderson said. "We're almost pretending last year didn't exist. We're starting all over again."
That sure is a lot of pretending.
So, just to play along, Gardner didn't double up at the indoor Group 4 Championship in the 55-meter dash (7.10) and the 400 (56.44).
That wasn't her who took first in the Eastern Championships' 55-meter dash. Gardner didn't claim another two all-group championships during the spring in the 100 and 200 (24.04) nor was she anywhere near the winning of the 100 (11.62) at the Meet of Champions.
The truth is that such accomplishments can't be erased from record books or memory.
"I don't really pay attention to what I've done," Gardner said. "If I do good or do bad, I just brush it off and move ahead."
Her competition won't soon forget the freshman who monopolized the headlines and the medals - and both her and her coach know it.
"She's got the target on her back," Anderson said. "People are going to be looking to come get her ... She doesn't fear anybody. But we also respect people so with that respect, we must continue to work hard."
There are some numbers, though, that Gardner cannot let go of.
Gardner said her mother, Monica, battled breast cancer last winter and at its worst, reached a Stage 3.5 out of four, a 20- to 30-percent chance of survival.
With added perspective, winter track - a season that is already seen as a mere warmup for the spring - became even less relevant for Gardner.
But her mother told her to never give up, to continue the fight no matter how bad the times are.
Gardner said she carried her mother's image and words to every starting line until she no longer had to; wearing a hat, Monica Gardner cheered from the stands at the Group 4 Championship, well on her way to recovery.
"Every time I ran, I ran out of her," Gardner said. "She was my motivation. She's pushed me, strived me and told me to not stop running."
Gardner kept running, extending her track season into early August with the Willingboro Track Club.
In that stretch she bettered every personal mark, running a 23.62 in the 200, an 11.6 in the 100, and lastly, at the Nike Outdoor Nationals, a 54.0 in the 400, an incredible time for someone with little experience in the event.
"I was in the slowest heat. I got third overall and knocked out six or seven people in the fastest heat," she said. "I had to work. I had to use all my resources to gut it out."
After competing in the National Junior Olympics in August, Gardner was in shutdown mode, hibernating until team practice resumed in December.
"We did crutches today [last Friday] in practice and it still hurts," she said with a laugh.
Gardner said she doesn't have the time - or height - to learn hurdles, not when she's busy perfecting her sprinting form, trying to stave off a sophomore slump, the spinning second hand and the second coming.
"There might be another English Gardner that pops out somewhere and do the same thing I did," she said. "You never know."

With Feeling: Oh, the rush

When focusing is a feat and inspiration is scarce, when a zodiac's worth of signs all point you over the cliff and you realize emo writing is lamer than a popsicle stick; when your metaphors no longer add up and you find yourself playing centerfield for Darren Dalton's Fifth Dimenson; when you're lost in a run-on sentence and can't find the brakes, when you forget that writing in the second person is condescending and lazy, you begin to fidget in your skin, wondering ...

I gave a speech today, my first to an audience larger than two conjoined Olive Garden tables. I first walked to the stage while pocketing the tattered one-page speech and brushing by a team of blushing girls – mostly minors – each carrying tin back to their seats. I know this because I was checking them out.

Wearing a tie and some shoe polish, but no jacket since that seems like the smug thing to do, I hurdled the four steps leading to the stage with two lunges – a modern-day record

The heart was working time-and-a-half, for sure, and veins bulged in ways that warranted Speedos. Remembering that now was now and this was this, I turned to face the naked crowd and felt for something in my pocket. I unfurled my speech and went blank.
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The previous presenter read a poem. He wore a jacket, maybe two, and rhymed in verse, telling of all the achievements the girls’ Team of the Year had done. The crickets loved it.

Even though the poem didn’t cure any cancer, it was still admirable if just for the overwhelming risk involved. The presenter, lost in his limerick, couldn’t feel the drift of clammy silence brought on by his race/pace/girl/world/shoelace rhyme scheme.

Not long after sitting back down with the mortals, the poet left the banquet for the comfort of home, probably telling his loved ones of his success. With proper care, the jacket never shrinks.

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The goal never was to become a public speaker; it just came with the writing job. So rather than pretend to be a master orator, equipped with a deep, projected voice and sprinklers for eyes, I just stared nails into the podium and concentrated on not stuttering.

You’d have trouble overblowing my speech impediment. Unnoticeable to some and unbearable to others, my stutter was first uttered before the braces or acne. I was fat and five, my earliest recollection, and had an insatiable thirst for “j-j-j-juice.” (My inability to say the word fluidly didn’t stop me from being a juicaholic. Apple juice, Juicy Juice, Caprisun – it didn’t matter. I'd lap up spills from punctured Caprisuns faster than any Labrador. It got to the point where I didn’t care if it was real juice or just some orange drink shit, like Sunny D. I was a mess, but I divert ...).

It was about three years later – after countless sessions of tongue rolling, cassette listening, cassette recording, wall staring and me numerating the differences between soldiers and shoulders and thieves and phfffffs – when I found ways to hide the stutter.

One way was to become a mute. With "Edward Sissorhands" receiving good ratings, that idea sounded fine until remembering the daily role call, the pledge of allegiance and the weight of class participation, all stuff that matters when you're eight.

The other was to start every sentence with a magic word, one that fitted every occasion and was easy to pronounce. That word was "For." It's an impossible word to stutter, really. Like a boulder on a hill, the thought rolled off my tongue given that extra push, that cascading momentum, that "For". The only downside was sounding like an idiot.

As if channeling Yoda, a Shakespeare character or some golfer, I'd lower my waving, bloodless arm and announce to the class "For I have to go to the bafffoom, please" to the sound of a hundred merry trumpets. It didn't help matters that puffy, purple silk shirts -- only made from the finest silkworm ass in China -- filled my closet. Don't get me wrong: people loved it -- only just five centuries ago.

Maybe I'll get back to the point of all this later.

McDonnell challenges Sheehan's sprint

Photo courtesy of John Dye


EVESHAM - Instead of taking a lifeguard test in Wildwood last spring, Camden Catholic senior Kevin McDonnell competed in the 3200 of the Parochial A state championship, finishing fourth and eight seconds behind then-junior Mike Sheehan of Holy Cross.
All the lifeguard stands in Wildwood were full when McDonnell tried applying again, but he was undeterred, earning a whistle at Wildwood Crest this summer.
That’s not the inspirational part of this story.
While basking in the sun, McDonnell logged mileage on both land and water, developing muscle in his upper body and a mentality as dark as a tan.
“Every time I go out in a race I just want to hurt really badly,” McDonnell said. “That’s what I like to do.”
McDonnell did just that Saturday in the 3,200-long Cherokee Challenge against, among others seniors, Sheehan.
McDonnell got out fast but was dogged throughout by Sheehan and the specter of his killer kick.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” McDonnell said. “I had to turn my head every five seconds to see where he was.”
With Sheehan 10 meters in his wake for the last 800, McDonnell kept his form and his lead, winning by five seconds in 9:45.
Camden Catholic coach Dennis Quinn said his lifeguard experience saved him from being overtaken
“I think that really helped him out as far as finishing out a race because he never [finished as] good as he did today,” Quinn said.
The time was the fastest for the course being altered in 2004.
Meet director Chris Callinan said the new course slows a runner about six seconds with the addition a hill, a change Haddonfield sophomore Boo Vitez doesn’t mind.
“I love hills,” Vitez said. “All 107lbs of me gets up all those hills pretty easy.”
It was the rest Vitez had to adjust to.
An admitted “distance guy” with a limited kick, Vitez said he avoided a footrace with speedsters teammate Colin Baker and Shawnee’s David Forward in the sophomore race by going out unusually fast early.
“If it goes out slow and we’re all together I know they can all outkick me,” said Vitez, who ran a personal-best 4:36 in the 1600 last spring.
Vitez shot out from the pack with the sound of the gun, rounding the first 800 meters in 2:19.
But he was not alone.
Baker, a childhood friend, was on his heels and Forward lurked near but Vitez did not relent, dropping Baker on the looming hill and keeping Forward at leg’s reach en route to victory and history.
“Getting out hard took a lot out of their legs I guess,” said Vitez, who ran a 9:56, the best time ever ran by a sophomore in the race’s 12-year history with or without the hill.”
Moments before nabbing a new record, Vitez lost one to Triton’s Robert Rawls.
Rawls, a lanky freshman who placed fifth in the meet’s middle school race last year, took a summer’s worth of training – and the words of coach Kevin Pumphrey – with him to the starting line of the freshman race.
“My coach told me to stay calm and if someone goes out like a nut don’t chase him,” Rawls, 14, said.
Rawls kept close enough to the nutty frontrunner to surge past him before the one-mile mark. Then he passed Vitez’s freshman record of 10:17, finishing in 10:09.
“I was a little disappointed but it’s alright,” Vitez said, laughing.
Ocean City junior Brett Johnson didn’t break any records but, more importantly, he also didn’t break anything else.
Recovering from a season-ending stress fracture last spring and, most recently, a golf ball-sized lump on his right leg incurred from slipping on the slick boardwalk at a quad-meet Tuesday, Johnson won the junior race comfortably in 9:53, seven seconds ahead of runner-up Haddon Heights’ Josh Black.
Johnson’s win, along with a fourth-place finish by teammate Ryan Birchmeier – another member of the running wounded – in the senior race, propelled the Red Raiders to their second straight team championship.
Although mostly known to gauge the individual than the team, the Challenge showed Red Raiders as real state contenders, Johnson said.
“Everybody is going to be skeptical of us,” he said. “They know Ryan is coming back from an injury and he’s running well. Everybody knows that I’m coming back from a stress fracture and they’re going to test that. I definitely think we have something to prove.”

Sea Isle City 10-miler = hard

The plan was drawn in the sand, marked in footprints left 25 years ago when Rocky Balboa capped the Rocky III montage by kicking sand in Apollo Creed’s face en route to winning the world’s most dramatic footrace on a beach ever.
I had hoped to reenact that scene during a scorcher Saturday at Sea Isle City, but instead of finishing a seashell-chuck away, I ran 10 unforgiving miles, all while not wearing knee-high striped tube socks.
Instead I stunk up the beach worse than a month-old horseshoe crab carcass.
To know just how bad I performed, you first need to meet my competition.
Some opted to forgo socks or sneakers, a smart decision if not for the 2.5 miles of boardwalk, the stretches of burning sand, the rigid shards of seashells and the surrounding stampede of feet.
It’s not unlike a beach setting to inspire men of all sizes to show off skin, but during a race dynamic, some things are better left tucked within ones’ XXXL shirt. There’s no excuse for people to get seasick while on the shore.
Some topless runners reminded me of moving coat racks and others seemed as if they just stepped off a Venice Beach leg press.
As for the women, they always remembered to say “Excuse me” when passing.
The race started 5:30 p.m. on the boardwalk at an ugly 94 degrees.
Unless positioned in the front or the back, you couldn’t spit anywhere near the start without getting slapped or punched. I don’t know how camels do it.
An estimated 1200 sweaty runners huddled within a narrow block of boardwalk and did their best not to touch each other while awaiting the starting horn. Some must’ve not heard it go off. These people were soon trampled.
Stuck near the back, I zigged and zagged my best past the crowd, fully prepared to get between any handholding couple.
The crowd disintegrated with each passing souvenir shop. Once off the first mile-stretch of boardwalk, runners fell victim to the small patches of soft sand – the antithesis of quicksand – including me.
I trudged through the dunes until reaching the shoreline, pocked with bucket-sized waterholes, some serving as moats to sandcastles, since stomped on by me.
We rounded the cone, allowing me to see everyone slower than me. I took little satisfaction in this fleeting fact, feeling fatigued and my legs.
At Mile 3, I clocked in at 22:35 and thought about ending it and writing about my 5K within a 10-miler.
But there was no escape, even mentally: my imagined “happy place” was the beach.
So I bit down on my lip, turned my baseball cap backward, grew some facial hair and tried to hide the fact of running like a little girl; that is until a couple girls passed me.
Now off the sand, I pulled over to the side and put the ‘walk’ in boardwalk and stretched out any hidden kinks while sucking more air than a Hoover.
The rest of the race involved more sand, more stops and my same goofy grimace. If knowing my time makes you feel better in a depraved, sadistic way, I finished in an unofficial 90:45.
Although a loser shouldn’t be giving any shout outs, I’d like to thank the dozens of volunteers who handed out water. It
I’ll hopefully find a race to rebound at this weekend. But until then, you can find me at the beach doing my best ostrich impression.

The First Step

The last time I had reason to run, not counting any rabid dogs or mistaken officers, was a little more than four years ago, when I starred on Washington Township's junior varsity track squad, lapping spectators at an alarmingly rate.

All eyes would be on me during the last 100 meters of the 3200 as I would "bring it all in" for the team, including the dust of my competition, allowing the freshmen to set up hurdles.

But I was also often the last person off the track in practice too, logging in an average 40 to 50 miles a week.

The hope of spiking, whether from a growth spurt or from some revolutionary time-shaving gear, kept me moving.

Now 22, I've torn down my height chart, forever at a generous 5'9, and boxed away all my consolatory medals - both of them.

The time away from running may not have done me well from the look of things, such as my extra affectionate love handles, but it has done worlds for my confidence.

In other words, I'm as convinced of being a faster, stronger runner as I am of being delusional. Forget about my foot speed, my endurance or what my watch says -- I'm just faster. Somehow, this is true.

Unfortunately, one can't win a race on confidence alone.

For the past month I've been training for Aug.4's Sea Isle City Island 10-miler, starting with a trial four-mile race on July 4 in Pitman.

With the temperature ideal and the course marked clearly, excuses were hard to find so I improvised and arrived late.

The first mile, the run in shame as I coined it, was aptly my slowest, setting the pace for a 30:16 finish, two seconds shy of my fastest uncle.

People estimated I was anywhere from two minutes to 15 minutes late, meaning I could've had the current course record if it weren't for that regrettable price-check on sunscreen during a Wawa pit stop.

The lotion should come in handy this weekend with the 10-mile course being one-quarter board walk, seven miles of sand and the rest beached jellyfish.

The starting time may be 5:30 p.m., but I'm not expecting to run in any five o'clock shadow.

Although it wouldn't be my first 10-mile race, it certainly looks to be more challenging than the cupcake course of Philadelphia's Broad Street Run, which I coasted in 68:28 in 2006.

I've examined the course more intently than a metal detector, crunched the numbers and devised a workout regimen meant to simulate the beach-running experience, thus giving me an edge over the expected field of about 1,200 runners.

While averaging about 20 miles a week of running, I worked in such exercises as the
"sand-castle hurdle", "the sand-box shuffle" and lastly, the "sand-castle stomp", all while spritzing saltwater in my eyes.

No excuses this time, so long as there is no chafing. Or sand in my shoes. Really, you could tie a kite on to me because I'll be flying Saturday.

Either that or I'll crash and burn. Still, nothing that a little sunscreen can't prevent.