Freddogg Off The Chain

Ten O’clock on an early May morning 1986 inside my College Prep Problems of Democracy class at Cape Henlopen High School and there I was discussing gender equity issues as they related to Title 1X and sports.
I had always been an advocate for women’s rights and, in fact, had thrown away an assistant’s position on my track staff so George Pepper the girls coach could make the same salary dubbing myself “overpaid at any price.”
And I remember limitations in the distance events were different for women as administrative experts perceived a mile/two mile double as too strenuous for young and fit women runners paying no attention to fat male shot putters on punishment runs in the two mile for failure to break 30 feet.
I would argue the unpopular position that field hockey and women’s lacrosse do more to inhibit the athletic talent of young women with their abundance of safety rules and game stoppages than any gender inequities perpetrated and promulgated by men’s sports programs.
In fact, I will argue any stupid position I so choose, because my job is to foster discussion and thought and if that means “students come loose” once in awhile and have their securities shaken then so be it. I let them know I’m not married to any position, popular or otherwise, and it’s not that I vacillate, I’m just willing to have my mind changed by strong, well thought out and backed by documentation logical arguments.
And so I’m rolling and ranting and story telling in my usual style and I make the statemen: “See Marty Shue sitting there? She is one of the best distance runners in the state. She’s a Conference champion in cross country and second place finisher in the State Cross Country Meet. She is on her way to the Naval Academy where she plans to run the 1500-she would later be a college all American-but if she were a guy she would simply fall back to average.”
I knew Marty well and expected her to smile and go along with the joke but she wasn’t laughing being way too busy instantly and relentlessly hating me.
"In fact, I could pull a boy from this class who has never run a race, train him for two weeks and he would kick your butt Marty.” I panned the room then said, ”that boy is you Peters!”
John Peters a tall and blond surfer boy with no body fat did not hesitate to answer back. “F You Fredman!”
“Maybe so Johnny Boy but if you don’t do what I ask then your average of 47 will remain 47 so cancel the graduation parties at least your own.”
It was argued that I couldn’t do that, and of course I wouldn’t do that, but Peters grew uneasy correctly perceiving in me a bit of the crazy man.
My handlers took Peters to the boardwalk after school with instructions to get him up and back no matter how many times he stopped-a distance of two miles-and to report back in class as to his physical condition.
“It’s ridiculous, ”Fredman. “Once he stopped to throw up and he stopped again for a cigarette. And he just kept saying, ’F Fredman!”
Cut to show time period two on a Wednesday morning. Marty went straight to the locker room while the rest of the class escorted Peters and his high top chuck Taylor’s and surfer shorts to the track. The word had spread and the entire school was filing into the stadium, the biggest crowd outside of a bomb scare ever witnessed. Kids didn’t care about passes or threats of suspensions because this was a happening, a rare chance to have a bit of fun in school.
Peters warmed up by sitting on the grass and calling me names. Marty made a dramatic appearance on the track with pig tails and European running uniform, she looked young and fit and beautiful. The crowd cheered. Marty was focused like I’d never seen her before. Runners don’t draw this kind of attention and I thought it was a good thing to be recognized, for all students to be able to watch this gifted athlete bury Surfer Boy Johnnie, who I liked beyond words, no matter how many names he called me, after all, I started it.
“Listen John, it’s time for Fredman’s coaching pointers on how to win this race. Marty will go out the first half lap before settling into a pace she can handle for eight laps. Don’t go with her just hang back but no further than this.” I walked 8 meters away. “If you’re this close after four then cut the deficit in half on each succeeding lap. “If you’re on her shoulder on the bell lap just stay there until the final long straightaway then kick for home. Got it?”
“F you Fredman!”
The race started, Marty took off and Peters loped behind. I saw it instantly! Peters was a natural runner, a fluid glider with high back kick, extremely athletic and coordinated and I realized “I missed one” as this talent was soon to graduate.
The stands were filled with students chanting “Peters! Peters! And as he passed the lap one line he reached out and made a overhand double gesture like he was honking a pair of Model T air horns. “Peters! Peters!”
Cruising by on lap 2 his gestures went underhanded. I screamed at John and threatened to wrestle him off the track.
Marty was circling running sub six pace and Peters just stayed there looking totally comfortable.
Bell lap and down the backstretch they ran and I began to feel weird like no matter who won this race I would emerge a loser. I loved Marty and as boys coach had watched every race of her track career. And I was her teacher and a friend but what had I gotten us all into?
Coming off the turn Marty downshifted to kick mode. Peters had her set up. He just had all the slow twitch and fast twitch muscles, you could tell.
“Peters! Peters!” The crowd was hysterical!
And then Peters took the biggest dive since Sonny Liston in the second Clay fight. John hurled himself into the infield and rolled onto his back, limbs up in the air like a dog playing dead.
I walked over and stared down at him. “In the end when push came to shove through eight laps of self discovery you dialed in your talent but you are just too much the nice guy, you are the quintessential gentleman John, for to have beaten Marty in front of the school would have be wrong and just plain rude.”
“What the hell are you talking about Fredman! She broke my heart and I couldn’t run another step. Now will you please stop talking about my 47?”

Marty I’m happy to say is still my friend and opening up a running store in Annapolis. She is married with children.
I saw Peters last year getting out of a white work van down at the boardwalk. It was late fall and getting dark and the ocean was kicking. Peters, wearing a wet suit was rock hard muscle guy underneath. He grabbed a surfboard and without hesitation headed into the scary surf alone but at least it was dark with no moon.