Flotrack's Best of 2011 - Most Inspirational of the Year
(Blog by Andrew Moroney)


           It’s early September and my Dad and I are waiting for the gun to sound and my brother to start his race. I’m wearing carpenter jeans, running shoes and a letterman’s jacket that is too big for me because it isn’t mine. My dad has a windbreaker and t shirt on, brown boots and jeans that are old and faded. I’m 14 but look like an 11 year old who looks like a 9 year old girl. My Dad is ageless because he has always been exactly this age in my memory.

            My brother, Todd, is wearing his Eastern Illinois University singlet and shorts that I make fun of him for wearing because they are so short, I can almost see his belly button through the leg openings. He is doing strides and my Dad is out of breath because of his excitement to watch him race. I keep looking at my Dad through my thick glasses wondering if he’ll yell as much as last time.

            A puff of white smoke pops out of the gun and a moment later the sound of the shot is heard. The crowd of runners is now surging forward like a wave of color and flesh and shoes and my Dad and I begin to run after them. “There he is!” I hear my Dad shout, and it’s easy to see Todd in the front of the pack. We always see him there because he is faster than anyone I know. “Come on, Todd,” I hear my Dad whisper, “Come on!” louder this time. “Alright, Todd, settle in. Now, keep digging.” He is beginning to get louder now, his arms pumping as his legs stay still. “Dig, Todd, dig!”. As they pass, we run to the mile mark. Minutes later, Todd comes through the mile faster than I can run half of that. “Looking good, Todd, you’re looking good,” my Dad reassures. “Now’s your chance, you gotta dig!”. My mind begins to wander as I think about my next race on the coming Wednesday. I’m not very fast, a little pudgy and I’d rather be drawing than running. But I have to do it since my parents did just buy my spikes and all I’ve done with them so far is use them to punch a hole into my wall. Accidentally. I’m already nervous for the Wednesday race, but while watching Todd run and listening to my Dad yell for him, my anxiety level surges to new heights.

            My Dad’s voice gets louder and louder as the race goes on. He is not shy with his support and doesn’t notice a single look the rest of the parents give him. He is beaming with excitement as Todd has a slight lead on the rest of the field. Now Todd is sprinting with 300 meters to go. Now 200. Now 100. Now, he wins and all I can do is follow behind my Dad as he rushes to meet Todd at the finish line. My out of shape, wearing work boots and barely overweight Dad is out sprinting me. Wednesday is going to be rough.

            It’s now a few days later and the feelings I have inside are: anxiety, having to go to the bathroom and more anxiety. I wonder if I can get out of this by stepping on my foot with my spikes, but I don’t have the courage to try it. So, reluctantly, I go to the line. Just before the starter yells “Go” (it was a small school and firearms weren’t a part of the budget), I look over to see my Dad with the same intensity that I saw when my brother was winning his race. “He won’t look like that for long,” I imagine as I picture myself stumbling through the cross country course like a new born deer. The gun sounds and, since I am at near anxiety attack, I don’t hear it. Everyone just starts running. After my mind realizes what’s happening, I start to “run”. Yes, “run”. My knees are coming up too high and I am kicking my calves, nearly tripping myself. I’m the kid people clap for and wonder if I joined the team because the band was too full.

            I approach the mile mark and hear the assistant coach yawn (not kidding) and say 6:41, 6:42, 6:43. “The girls were faster,” I think to myself and then trip over some bark. Suddenly, I hear, “Dig, Andrew, Dig! You’re alright, now just settle in!”. It’s my Dad, and he is loud. Louder than anyone else. I can hear him without seeing him and it’s because he’s yelling and running to the next viewing spot. “Dig, Andrew!” Keep digging!” and my stride begins to straighten. I’m beginning to feel my breath move slower and more confidently. I’m beginning to dig.

            “Come on, Andrew! You’ve got a few guys ahead of you and you got to go after them! Dig!” he yells and yells and yells some more. Though he can see I’m in nearly last place, racing a kid I swear stopped and picked a flower for his Mom, he doesn’t care. My Dad is just as excited to watch me run back here where kids wear basketball shoes to run in as he is when my brother is winning his races. He yells because he is proud of me. He yells because he is proud of us. He yells, not for what we do, but for who we are. He yells for Todd and Andrew, not for seconds and places. He is teaching us that his support isn’t based on what we accomplish but on the fact that he simply loves and enjoys who we are. We are his and he is for us. I finish the race, beating just a couple other kids. My Dad tells me how proud he is of me and gives me a bottle of water and a squeeze on my shoulder.

It’s another September day nearly two decades later. I am 31 years old and now living near Seattle. I’m wearing a hoodie and jeans and I have just gotten back from lunch with friends from work. I’m opening an e mail about a cross country meet that will start off the 2011 season when my phone rings and I hear, “Andrew,” in a stumbling voice. It’s a phone number I don’t recognize but a voice I do. “Your Dad was in a motorcycle accident and he,” there is a slight pause and my world goes silent, “he died. I’m so sorry, bud.” There is nothing after these words. Everything has stopped. My mind and emotions retreat and pretend those words weren’t just spoken. “Are you sure?” I ask, not knowing what else to say. “I’m sure,” Mark says, “I’m so sorry.” The room spins and loses it’s color. Except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lighting above me, there isn’t a sound in the busy office. I hang up the phone and try to decide if I can walk.

The next five weeks have few memories beyond the visitation, the funeral and  genuinely caring words from close friends and family. I barely run, don’t do workouts and can’t sleep. My chest hurts with grief and I’ve lost focus on just about everything. I keep picking up the phone to call my Dad and tell him about my day and then realize I will never be able to do that again. Loss comes again and again as I remember what has actually happened. I don’t have a Dad anymore and no one prepares you for that reality.

Six weeks after the accident, on an early and sleepless morning, I decide to go for a run. I don’t want to run, but I also don’t want to lay in bed and remember the grief which has now overtaken. As I run in the cold fog, I round a corner and hear a faint voice over the song on my headphones. “Dig, Andrew,” the voice yells in the great distance, “Dig.” I’m surprised by the voice and dismiss it at first. I’m tired and imagining things. “Relax, you’re alright,” I hear again and begin to believe the voice. It’s his voice which I have been hoping to hear since that Thursday when he died. My eyes close as the tears form. “Keep going,” he says, getting clearer. “I’m here, you’ve got to just keep digging,” and I do. I keep digging.

It’s now December and my Dad has been gone for three months. Returning to normal is not in my language. Establishing a new normal is all I can hope for. But there is one time when I can hear my Dad more normally and clearly than any other, and that is when I run. I can hear him in the trees as I run through the trails, “Dig, Andrew, dig,” he says, his voice loud in my memory. I see him when I race, pumping his arms and moving through the crowd as I run toward a finish line. I hear the sound of his voice over the music on my headphones, the traffic on the streets, the wind, the people, the crowds. He is with me as I run and so I run even more just to hear him again.

            My Dad was planning to come to Seattle to watch the National Club Cross Country Championships on December 10th and I was excited to have him here. As the race approaches now, I find myself with a great range of emotions to deal with, from grief to excitement to nervousness and fear. But, the thought that takes over the most as I think about the race, is thinking about being in the middle…or end of the large field of talented runners and hearing my Dad over everyone else in the crowd yelling for his son. Hearing him yell with such joy in watching me, and knowing that how I race won’t change the swelling of pride that he would feel when I finish. I look forward to running down the final meters of the course and seeing my Dad peaking in and out of the crowd, pumping his arms and telling me to “Dig, Andrew, dig!”. Then, as I stand spent from the race, I anticipate his voice telling me, as he has in so many memories, that he is proud of me. And, just to hear those words again, I’ll begin planning my next race.

            See you out there, Dad.