He didn’t own a whistle. He didn’t wear a hat. He sloped along staring into the hazy blue sky in his striped oxford shirts, khaki slacks, and brown hiking boots. His long arm cradled a clipboard — a token to coaching conformity. He spoke to his young runners in pleasant, even tones — one-by-one — giving careful instructions. They nodded, staring into his wide, attentive eyes.

“Gather ’round,” he’d call out in faint southern tones of bass. But, he had little to say. They stretched in silence — visualizing next steps; enjoying deep belly breaths.

His leather brown face was gracefully creased: accustomed to grave contemplation and grinchlike redemption. With each sunset, he slowly circled the cinder track with a sweet smelling cigar. His bomber jacket ruffled in the crisp evening breeze as proud parents retrieved their beaming young athletes.

They would soon be king runners: masters in perpetual motion.