Tradition,
Class
and Pride: In Loving Memory of Coach Ron Jorgenson
I first met Ron Jorgenson in the late summer of 1973, a few days before I began high school. I had come out for Cross Country on a dare from a grade school classmate with only the vaguest notions of what I was in for. On that hot, humid morning Coach lead me on a 3.1 mile run. By the time we turned the last corner and surged toward the finish, with Ron picking up the pace but still keeping me close, my childhood was somewhere on the pavement behind me. By the time I graduated, with eight seasons in Track and Cross Country, a 1975 team State Championship in Cross Country and over 3,000 miles of training behind me, Ron had become one of the most important people in my life. 30 years later, with 25 years of coaching and two State Championships for my own teams behind me, I realize that Ron's influence has passed through me to hundreds of young men, and through them, will be passed to thousands more.
Ron had been teaching Physical Education, serving as athletic director and coaching Cross Country, Soccer and Track and Field at St. Louis Preparatory Seminary North in Florissant for three years before I met him. My first impressions were of his physical presence. He was a big man: tall, wide shouldered, with a broad face and prominent, chiseled features. His blond hair and mustache completed the picture. With a name like Jorgenson it was easy to see him as some mythic, Nordic hero. I'm sure I was frightened of him at first. But that wasn't my deepest response. From that first day we ran together, I saw grace in the way in the way he carried himself and humor and compassion in his countenance. And from that first day we ran together, his hand was a gentle, loving and guiding presence in my life.
He was remarkably light and quick on his feet for a man of his size, even soundless when he ran. I remember some of the first words of instruction he offered about running: "Land on the forefoot, not on the ball of the foot, not on the heel, and not flat-footed. Just behind the ball and slightly to the outside. Then down on the heel, back to the forefoot and off." I remember thinking this was crazy: too precise a directive. How could you have that much control? How could you learn to do this if it didn't come naturally? But watching him run you could see he had mastered it. He kept saying it and kept watching us. Eventually, we did learn. And I've never forgotten how to teach it.
He was a Shot Put and Discus man in college. When I first saw him throw the discus it took my breath away. First, a moment of humble, focused, motionless concentration in the circle. Then, a slow-motion twist into the spin and pivot, a startlingly smooth acceleration and, an instant later, the controlled explosion of release. I remember the disc spinning away, climbing, spinning flat and true as if it would carry over the school building and onto St. Catherine Street a quarter-mile away. Much of what Ron was in body and soul is captured for me in that image: silence, discipline, and control balanced against speed, power and exuberance. Perhaps that is what "graceful" is meant to convey.
When he laughed, the same forces were there: something irrepressible bursting out, something else, restrained and controlled, holding it in. His whole frame shook in the muffled struggle. The team captain my freshman year was a lanky and circumspect intellectual with great competitive drive and a biting wit. Many times I watched them catch each other with subtle, barbed comments tossed back and forth. Sometimes just the arch of a brow was enough to set them off: first one shaking in silent laughter, then the other. It was clear to me even then that he and Ron were friends. That really caught me as a young boy: this man in a position of authority had offered his friendship to a student. The respect between them was as obvious as the humor.
Ron was loved by many for a thousand reasons, but among his closest friends, his alternately wry and outlandish sense of humor may be missed most of all. And it wasn't limited to witty banter. He once dropped a colleague to the track with an outrageous joke. For ten minutes, his assistant coach-- a close friend-- was incapacitated with laughter. Ron stood over him, impassively, as if nothing had happened, which made the whole thing even funnier for his victim. What I love most about this story is that Ron was by nature and habit of mind as far from the crude character of the joke as he could be. He knew well in advance that this unexpected arrow would hit the target.
Nevertheless, Ron was a "stoic." In fact, when the word came from his lips in one of those early coaching speeches about the nature of Cross Country running, it was the first time I ever heard the word with a real sense of what it meant. In fact, my whole vocabulary of formerly abstract virtues like "courage" and "perseverance" became visceral, lived realities because of who Ron was. For him, "stoicism" was an irreducible word. It had to be understood from the inside. Being a stoic meant a host of things you might expect to hear from a Cross Country coach: not complaining, accepting pain, enduring interminable workouts, fighting off fear, sobs and excuses. In Ron's view of running you never quit; you ran every step of every run, including every jog unless injured--and even then you had better be relentlessly cross examining yourself to make sure you weren't actually quitting on the inside. He believed we had to learn to persevere in this life, to develop courage if we were ever to come to respect ourselves. His workouts did frighten me at times. I dreaded, even hated them on occasion, but I ran them. And I have bragged about finishing them to my team and my family ever since.
Yet there was something deeper and unexpected implied in the word "stoic" for Ron, something he communicated in posture and glance as much as in word. He was a man acquainted with suffering. He expected life to be hard, even brutal at times. Harsh realities didn't surprise him and he held no illusions about them. I know there were painful chapters in his childhood, perhaps much more painful than any of us guessed. Whatever the events of his early life, he had somehow thoroughly absorbed the first Nobel Truth of Buddhism: "Life is difficult." But this truth had not made him a cynic. It made him instead into a person determined to face the world and all of its demons—inside and out—with quiet dignity. We were expected to do the same.
And so Ron had lots of rules. Sometimes they seemed harsh and utterly inflexible: "Always be on time." "Never miss a practice." "Observe every detail of every routine no matter how minor." But ultimately, every one of his rules was really about discipline, honor and respect and those, of course, were non-negotiable.
One of Ron's assistant coaches tells the story of an elite Track athlete Ron coached one year who seemed a lock to win the District in his event and might have even contended for a high medal at State. He had already missed one practice, however, and in Ron's book even one missed practice meant an athlete could not compete in the next meet. The next meet in this case was District and the athlete was late for practice. The assistant coach remembers sweating nervously in the locker room, looking up at the clock again and again hoping the kid would show, wondering if Ron knew what the stakes were, whether he would be willing to be flexible. Ron went on with the pre practice routines saying nothing. Then at some point, when his internal clock told him the line had been crossed, he looked up and flatly announced: "That's too bad about so and so." Those of us who loved him laugh about this story now, measuring our own greedy, shallow standards against his.
The rules I remember most of all, though, were about character and values. "Our teams always stay together in tight packs before and after a race." "Never return an insult no matter what anyone says to you." "never hot-dog a finish and never hit the dirt, either." "Shake your competitor's hand." "And always, always have CLASS. " We never had any doubt that he lived that message himself.
15 years ago I heard the story of his first marathon. He had "hit the wall," as so many runners do, at 20 miles or so and it looked as if he would never finish. Somehow, he kept going. The pain made him oblivious to everything but his resolve not to quit. When at last he crossed the finish line, friends and relatives had to wrestle him to the ground to convince him that the race was over.
The last race began for Ron in the fall of 2000. Prep Seminary had closed and Ron had gotten a Phys Ed., Track and Cross Country job with a public school district. The adjustment to a new context was frustrating and difficult for him, but he endured. It took him a few years to begin to establish a tradition, to communicate what he meant by "class" and to teach his athletes that genuine pride in your accomplishments must never come at the expense of virtue. He endured in sowing those seeds and in time, they took root. On a perfect fall weekend during the 2000 Cross Country season, his team at Ladue Senior High captured the Championship at the prestigious Hancock Invitational. After many years of building a program with few runners and little success, Ron had again found a group of young people willing to make his vision for achievement and character a reality. They looked so familiar. I hear he had nicknames for all of them. His team captain was a young man Ron obviously loved and admired. I could tell by the way Ron talked about him that he was a friend.
The evening of that victory, Ron had an aneurysm. He spent the rest of that season in the hospital slowly recovering, with his wife, Diane, and their three children Kate, Eric and Karen devotedly caring for him. At the end of the season, with Ron still in the hospital, his team captured a fourth place trophy at the State meet. The team left the awards stand with tears in their eyes, carrying the trophy they would later present to their coach in person. Though 25 years their senior, I felt like one of them that day.
After some very positive signs in late November and December, Ron suffered another series of strokes. He spent his last few weeks peacefully, at home with his family. His last race ended on Christmas Day. I never had an opportunity to see Ron much in his role as husband and father, but from the conversations I shared with his family during his illness and afterward, I could tell he had been wonderful at both.
Several seasons ago, searching for a way to capture for incoming freshmen what Cross Country at our school was supposed to be all about, I found myself thinking of Ron. The words that came to mind were "Tradition, Class and Pride." My athletes latched on to them right away. "TCP" they call it now as if it were one virtue. It is of course, a whole host of virtues, but every one of them was embodied by one man: Ronald W. Jorgenson.
Thank you, coach. May your legacy endure for as long as there are young people ready to run and perfect fall days for racing.