This is the season of the lonely sport. It is called cross country. The glory and the glamour are on the gridiron. The guts are out on the course where the cross country meets are run.
Football players preform in front of thousands of frenzied, shrieking fans in plush stadiums.
They are outfitted with the best equipment plastic, rubber, and jersey can provide. Their every hangnail is ministered to by a battery of trainers, physicians, and surgeons. The football player gets the stats and the ink and the homecoming queen. The cross country runner gets leg cramps, seared lungs, and the dry heaves. Most cross country meets are about as well attended as a refrigerator auction in Siberia, or the commision of an act of hari-kari.