The Size of the Dog

The 800-metre race is possibly the most intense competition in track and field. Part sprint, part endurance race, this distance taxes the body, bone, lungs, and the will every step of the way. This is really true in the last 400 metre lap when you body is running on empty, and especially in the last 200 metre sprint to the tape when you often have nothing left but the will to win.

I had trained for track virtually my entire school career, and now as a college senior, I was on the verge of being selected for the Canadian National Olympic Track Team. I needed just one more win at regional level to cement my place at the national Olympic Trials.

I had started racing at age 10 in an annual Girl Guide competition, easily leaving the field behind in a 200-metre race. My father, who was a former university decathlete, took me under his wing and started to coach me on weekends. As I grew, these practice sessions became twice weekly, four times a week, and eventually six days a week to hone my conditioning to perfection.  Dad allowed me Sunday off, initially to go to church, and then simply to rest and recover to do it all again the next day.

Dad had always emphasized the character-building aspect of sport, and how the discipline and the will to win was so vital to every aspect of life. “Tess,” (his nickname for me as Theresa) he would say, “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog,” in reference to the importance of the will to win. He mentioned fairness and integrity from time to time as well, mostly in the context of not letting my “head get too big,” as I continued to win races at district, city, and county level.

We had a pre-race routine. Dad would ask,

“What are your legs?” I would reply, “Steel springs.”  

He would go on, “What are the springs going to do?” My response was always, “Propel me down the track.”  

The routine would finish with the last question, “Now what are YOU going to do Tess?” “I am going to win.”

We would end the routine with a high-five, and Dad’s shout “Go get it” (meaning the gold medal of course).

By the time I turned 16, I was invited to the provincial trials. I just missed making the Nova Scotia Provincial Track Team by two-hundredths of a second against Amy Johnson, a track star at Halifax Senior High. Amy was a year older, and easily a head taller than I was at the time. I think that I had surprised her with how close our finish had been. I anticipated some sort of acknowledgement from her and raised my hand for a high-five beyond the finish line. What I received was a curt “Too bad runt,” as she walked over to join the other members of the newly formed Provincial Track Team.

I was heartbroken, as I had really internalized the positive self-talk. I did not think it possible that I would lose, but many of the other girls were three or four inches taller than me, and I just could not keep pace with the best runners in that group. Dad met me in the parking lot after the trial and asks, “Did you get it?” I shake my head, biting back tears. “Don’t worry Tess,” he says, remember it’s not the size of the dog that counts.”

At age 17, I had had a growth spurt and at five feet nine and one-half inches, I towered over most of the other girls. The added height (i.e. leg length) and muscle paid dividends. I won every race in my final year of high school at Annapolis Valley High and won a scholarship to Arcadia University, (just an hour from home), when I graduated in late June.  I was happy with this opportunity as it kept my parents out of my hair yet allowed me to go home for Mom’s cooking whenever I wanted. My parents would even come to track meets on the weekends if their schedules permitted.

By September of that year, I was a freshman at Arcadia University, my parents’ alma mater. I allowed myself a bit of indulgence in the party scene to make new friends, but more than anything else, I trained every day. Despite this effort I had so-so results, often finishing in the top five, and occasionally bringing home a bronze medal. My Dad never lost faith in me, and he continued with the positive self-talk at every opportunity, sprinkling in little tidbits on the importance of integrity in victory and kindness in defeat.

When the term ended in May, I started a dream summer job at the Kentville Agricultural Research Station which allowed sufficient time to train before or after work. Unfortunately, not aspect of this wonderful summer worked in our favour as my Dad, who was only 46, contracted COVID-19. He died in hospital in Halifax, surrounded by medical staff in personal protective equipment – and without our being able to say a proper good-bye. It goes without saying that I was a hot mess emotionally throughout August and September without my coach and biggest fan.

I started my sophomore season slowly, still in a bit of a funk over Dad. I began to talk through “our routine” by myself in the corridors of changing rooms before each race.

“What are your legs?” “Steel springs.”

“What are THEY going to do?” Propel me down the track.”

“What are YOU going to do Tess?” Now I added, “I am going to win Dad.”

As I entered the starting blocks I would say “Go get it!” to myself. When I placed in the Top Three, which was often now, I would point to the sky, and whisper “Thanks Dad.” I was now described as “promising sophomore” in the university sports brochures which were handed out before every meet.

In my junior year I finished first or second in every race. In one meet, I tied the Atlantic University Athletic Union record for the 800 metres. This time my photo was published in the Halifax Chronicle with the description “Rising Track Star” under the photo.

By my senior year I had won every one of my races at regional level, less one when I finished second. I like to think that I had “plausible deniability” then as I was fighting the flu, and I had thrown up five minutes before the race. My lungs were burning throughout the race, and as I entered the last lap, I lost my lead to Amy Johnson from Dalhousie University. As I had just thrown up my pre-race breakfast, I had exhausted my “fuel.” As she passed me I though I heard “Too bad runt,” but I was too burned out to care.

It all came down to the final race of the season – and my last race as a university athlete. I was billed as the favourite in this race. My mother was so proud, and I am sure that my father would have been as well.

“Bang,” the starter’s gun fires, and we are off! But it is a false start, and we are called back. “Damn it,” I had a great start and felt like my legs were like steel springs just begging to hurl me down the track. I look around for the culprit. Celeste LeBlanc, the freshman from St. Francis University, is waving at the crowd, acknowledging her error.

“Effin rookies,” I fume, and I notice that my temper is up. I hope that it is not visible to the other runners as my cheeks redden when embarrassed or angry. “Deep breaths, ladder style” I tell myself as I breathe in for four seconds, hold for two, and exhale for six knowing that this technique will eventually calm my breathing and lower my heart rate.

I return to my mark, taking care that my toes are behind the inch-wide white strip. “This is for you Dad,” I tell myself as I bend into my crouch. The gun fires and we are off.  I quickly establish a twenty-metre lead in the first 400 metres. My legs are feeling strong and my breath is coming easily.

As we round the track for the second 400-metres I hear laboured but steady breathing over my right shoulder. I dare not look back or I will break stride – and whoever it is will pass me.  The other runner puts on a burst of speed and attempts to pass, placing an “accidental elbow” into my ribs with a “Sorry runt” as she passes me. We are at the far end of the track where the track officials cannot see us.

There is not much I can do now but “suck it up” and run with every ounce of strength in my body. However, Amy’s elbow has thrown me off stride, and Celeste catches up and passes me. The other runners are still twenty to thirty metres back.

“I will not finish my last race in the bottom three.” I dig as deep as I ever have and somehow find the strength to continue.

At this point, I realize that I will have to settle for less than I had hoped, and tears sting my cheeks. There will be no Olympic Trial, but I will “do it for Dad” and go out with my head held high.  We are down to the last 50 metres and Amy is nearing the tape. The horn beeps as she passes the finish line, flashing the “V for Victory” sign. There is some sort of announcement on the Public Address system that I miss with the roar of the crowd. I am hyper-focused and pushing with every ounce of strength in my body. I notice that Amy has dropped her victorious arms and is making some sort of fuss ahead of us.

Fifteen metres to go and WTF – Celeste stumbles screaming in pain. Without thinking I grab her under her shoulders and literally drag her to the finish line – ensuring that her foot crosses first. 

The race is over. Celeste has won, as Amy was disqualified when a stadium camera on the far side of the track recoded her elbow to my ribs. I get on the podium to receive my silver medal, but no gold – and no Olympic Trial for me. 

“Sorry Dad, I did my best” I mumble as the tears start to cascade down my cheeks.

As I raise my head to wipe my eyes with my sleeve, I see Mom across the stadium fence – also in tears – but applauding me. As the sun breaks over the stadium roof, I have a shadowy vision of Dad with his arm around her – giving me the thumbs up.

Celeste reaches over and pulls me onto the top tier. “I don’t deserve this, “she says, “and I have three more years to win this honestly.”

The President of the Atlantic Universities Athletic Association starts toward the podium, accompanied by the Track Nova Scotia President, and a tall athletic looking woman in a jacket emblazoned with the crest of the Canadian Olympic Committee.

The announcer calls “First Celeste LeBlanc, second Theresa MacDonnell, third Holly Hounsell.” As the President places the silver medal around my neck, he leans in close to say, “I am going to take this exceptional case to the AUAA Board to ask for the award of a second gold medal.” The President of Track Nova Scotia shakes my hand and whispers “I ran with your Dad twenty-five years ago. I am so sorry for your loss dear.”

The tall lady shakes my hand, and leans in close to say,

“I never seen such bravery or integrity in the face of adversity on the track. I am holding a spot open for you at the Olympic Trials. We need people of your character. You are like a dog with a bone! Where did you ever learn to fight like that?”

Finally, I break down, this time from tears of happiness.

“My Dad “I reply, “he always told me that it’s not the size of the dog in the fight - but the size of the fight in the dog.”

“And obviously, the size of the heart as well,” she says squeezing me in a warm hug. As I lean into her hug, I catch a shadowy glimpse of Dad, standing beside Mom in the sun with tears in his eyes – applauding – and mouthing “You got it.”