Our Favorite Reality Show

On Sunday night, June 6th at 9:30 pm Kourt, Sam and I sat down on our living room couch to watch our favorite show. It wasn’t the Kardashian’s, but it was a reality show. The best kind of reality show based on guts, determination, talent, mentoring, drama, overcoming odds and simply the best of human qualities.

The beginning of Brandon’s summer had been delayed because his athletes, at Georgetown University, qualified for several national calibers meets. Kourt’s summer has been delayed with Master Classes and coaching tasks at Regis College while Sam is working full time and continuing to increase his own running.

On Sunday we were sitting down to watch the 10,000 meters at the USA Track & Field Junior Championships. Georgetown Freshman Jonathan Green was running.

The piece that made this race so special for Kourt, Sam and I was that we knew, through Brandon, the history of Jon’s accomplishments and his struggles with injury and illness. The fact that he was simply competing was a huge accomplishment in and of itself.

Jon had been a Two-time Foot Locker National qualifier, Two-time Massachusetts Division 1 All-State Cross Country Champion
, Two-time Massachusetts All-State Indoor Two-Mile Champion and course record holder at North Field Mountain and Gardner Municipal Golf Course, two storied Massachusetts cross country courses.

I remember distinctly how excited Brandon was when Jon committed to Georgetown. What Brandon talked about in regard to Jon were his toughness, mental attitude and work ethic. Jon clearly learned these traits from his parents and growing up working at the family hardware store.

Jon developed IT band problems in the middle of his senior year of high school causing his progression to be slowed and his training to be modified. He ran during the indoor senior season still winning an indoor 2-mile championship even when he had to take large chunk of time off.

As Brandon began to develop Jon’s training for his comeback he had to balance Jon’s incredible drive, his biomechanics that were causing issues and help keep Jon within himself while realizing that Georgetown’s goal was to develop him as a runner, student and person over the course of 4 or 5 years.

That ability to completely understand and empower a young athlete based on the athlete’s personal traits is a key to coaching.

Georgetown had to red-shirt Jon for his entire freshman year while the IT band problem slowly healed, only to be followed by an achille tendon issue and then mononucleosis.

During this time Brandon often said, “Dad, this kid is going to be good.”

As Jon began to heal in the spring Brandon was amazed by how quickly Jon was able to start running with the other runners on the team who had trained all year. As he slowly gave Jon more and more intense workouts, his belief in Jon only deepened.

Jon was able to qualify for the USAFT Junior National Championships by running an open 3,000-meter race in 8:29.  Though it was good enough to qualify it was not a time that lead anyone to think that Jon could possibly do well enough in the 10,000 meters, a race that he had never run, to qualify for the USATF World Championships.

A few week before the Nationals Brandon sent me a text outlining Jon’s 5 by mile workout. As we exchange texts about how good it was Brandon said, “This kid can win the 10,000.”

Sometimes you wonder if statements like this are simply a young coaches’ enthusiasm, yet I’ve know Brandon his whole life and statements like that always come with a deep sense that these types of accomplishments are attainable.

I don’t know what he told Jon but I do know that being patient, sticking to a plan and listening to coaching instruction during the race were key components.

With all this background information and a link to the live feed of the race Kourt, Sam and I were huddled on the couch and squinting to see the 6-inch screen.

Jon Green

It was 85 degrees and humid as the race started and the announcers focused on 3 other runners that they clearly felt would be the top finishers. We didn’t even know which runner was Jon because he was wearing a white Georgetown jersey (We were looking for the traditional Blue and Gray) and the announcers didn’t mention him until about 1.5 miles into the race. At that point he was in 7^th place in a closely packed group, looking totally relaxed.

As the race progressed past the 5,000-meter mark the announcers started to mention Jon’s name saying several times that he was a “fly in the ointment”. They started to Google Jon trying to find recent race results and were unimpressed by his 3,000 meter race and 4:24 high school mile.

Between the 4 and 5-mile marks they started to mention what a smart race he was running and how well coached he was. Even at the point they were still focusing on the favorites, expecting one of them to win the race.

With 1200 meters to go Jon took the lead and Kourt, Sam and I went from simply enjoying an analyzing the race to yelling and screaming. You could tell that the announcers were still expecting one of the favorites to come back and win but Jon kept increasing the pace and ran the last 400 in 62 seconds to win in 30:54.

We exploded with excitement and texting Brandon to congratulate him.

After the race Jon was quoted as saying,”(My coaches) helped me quite a bit because this is my first 10k ever. The training I’ve had at Georgetown has been awesome in keeping my fitness really, really high. Obviously, I’m excited to represent my country. I’ve looked forward to this for a long time. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Georgetown. My coaches got me here, so they will get me prepared for worlds.”

When I read those words I get a tear in my eye with pride for Jon, Brandon and Georgetown. Brandon will be taking off again to Coach Jon at the World Championships and Kourt, Sam and I will be cheering while we watch our favorite reality show.

His Own Work of Art

Kourt wrote this classic Bonsey Family story.

About ten years ago, my family and I lived in a private neighborhood that was driven by arbitrary rules, status, and whether or not your family was invited to another family’s big holiday party. It was obnoxious, actually. Lawns had to be meticulously maintained, toys were never allowed to be left scattered in the yard, and heaven forbid you leave a huge mulch pile in your driveway for three weeks straight, which my family did. We never heard the end of that one. My dad hated these rules. He couldn’t stand the neighborhood, and he certainly couldn’t stand the people. This was constantly a point of contention in our house; mom loved living this cookie cutter lifestyle (or whatever it was) and dad, well, dad didn’t really give a shit. One weekend in early May, mom was away with my older brother, Brandon, at a soccer tournament and dad was home with Sam and I, going through the routine of a typical weekend with two preteen kids. A few days before, Sam had flushed one of those miniature “furby” toys (the one’s that you get in a McDonald’s happy meal) down the toilet in our “guest bathroom.” My mother had thrown a fit because we were not even allowed to use this bathroom; “it’s for guests only,” she would say in a voice that made her sound more like a “Stepford wife” than my mother. As if any ten year old is going to abide by that rule. Mom and Brandon ended up leaving for the weekend, forgetting all about the toilet fiasco. While they were away, though, dad realized that there was a big issue with the toilet. Sam’s little toy had caused some plumbing problems and the toilet needed to be fixed. My dad is the kind of person who does his own work. He rarely hires anyone to come to the house to fix something, or to paint something or to build something, he’s always been the type to get right down to the heart of the matter and fix things on his own. And I have always admired that quality about him. I can remember dad approaching the scene of the crime, sporting his loose jeans and his typical disheveled white t-shirt. Even though it was late morning, his hair was still sticking up on one side of his head, the result of a poor sleeping position. His hands fell at his sides, looking as though they could sense the gruesome scene that lay ahead of them. Needless to say, dad looked like the typical parent of three young kids; tired, unbalanced, yet ready to handle any situation thrown at him. So he went to work on the toilet. Sam and I went off to the living room to see what the Disney Channel had in store for us at 11:00 on a Saturday morning. Mom was gone, which meant we could get away with a bit more “TV time” than usual, and with dad distracted by this toilet mishap, we took advantage of our opportunities. As we turned on the TV, the buoyant opening credits to “Even Stevens” filled the room, drowning out the sound of dad’s incessant banging from inside the bathroom. Almost immediately, Sam and I were absorbed in the trivial story lines of Ren, Lewis, and Twitty, forgetting all about dad and his hard work on the furby-infused toilet. The next morning, I walked downstairs to find that the toilet was missing from the guest bathroom. Huh, that’s odd, I thought to myself as I sauntered down the hall and into the pantry to rummage through tattered, half-open cereal boxes to find something that could be considered breakfast. Sam was already awake, plastered to the couch with an empty cereal bowl at his side and another episode of “Even Stevens” playing on the television. “Why don’t we have a toilet in the guest bathroom?” I inquired. “We don’t?” Sam asked, puzzled. Assuming that he had even noticed the missing toilet was clearly misguided on my part. “Yeah, there’s definitely not a toilet in that bathroom. Dad must be replacing it or something. Way to go, Sam.” I can’t quite remember now, but Sam had some witty response to my sarcastic words. At ten years old, Sam’s sense of humor was precocious. He constantly made us laugh, surprising us with immensely witty comments for such a young kid. Ignoring him, I walked outside to see if dad was mowing the lawn or dealing with our mulch pile that still sat in our driveway like a stubborn dog that doesn’t want to go outside to pee on a rainy day. As I opened the door and stepped out onto the driveway, I saw that dad was nowhere to be seen. I padded across the hot tar - even though it was only May, the persistent sun seemed to make a frying pan out of our driveway - and found my way to the front yard. As I stepped onto the wet grass, I found dad. I also found the missing toilet from the guest bathroom. Confused, I halted my strut and watched dad as he knelt in front of the toilet (that was perfectly positioned in the center of our front lawn) placing flowers from our garden in its bowl. Dad looked even more disheveled than yesterday. He, of course, was wearing the same clothes he had worn the day before; his white t-shirt hung looser around his frame and the dirt stains from his “landscaping” work painted an image of spattered chocolate milk across the front of his shirt. There was something magical about watching dad in this moment. Now this is a sight to see, I thought to myself. I stood there for a few seconds without saying a word, as I observed my father, who was still unaware of my presence. Suddenly he looked up from his artwork. “Hey kiddo,” he said to me, “What do you think?” “Are you going to keep this out here all day?” “Sure! Why not!” Dad exclaimed, placing the remaining flowers in the toilet bowl. “Why not all week?” “Huh,” I said. “What? You don’t like my landscaping? I thought it was rather classy.” Suddenly, I began to chuckle. Then the chuckle turned into an uncontrollable laughter. As I stood there, staring at my father with a toilet placed in the middle of our front lawn, flowers delicately placed within it, I could not help but laugh. And laugh I did. He was laughing too. Without having to say anything, we both knew why we were laughing so hard. I ran over to him, my feet seeping into the damp spring grass, and helped him place the last of the flowers in the toilet. “Mom’s going to flip” I said to him, admiring the toilet in all its glory. “Oh I Know” he said, letting a subtle grin emerge from the curve of his mouth. Later that day, my aunt stopped by the house for a visit. Upon seeing dad’s masterpiece, she was in stitches, erupting with laughter at the first sight of the newest addition to our front lawn. It was a beautiful afternoon - one of those breakthrough spring days when the weather decides to cooperate - so dad and Aunt Lynn planted themselves outside on the steps of our front porch. Dad had brought out a six pack of beer, and was happily enjoying its refreshing taste as Aunt Lynn carried the conversation. It was a sight to see, really; dad on the front steps with a beer in his hand, his loose t-shirt swaying a bit in the delicate spring breeze, his sister sitting next to him, and a toilet playing the role of an oversized vase on our front lawn. What is the country club going to think about this one? I thought to myself. I remember watching the soccer mom minivans and the oversized SUVs driving by the house, reducing their speed as they took notice of the display in the Bonsey yard. I remembering watching widened eyes peer out of the side windows of cars as they inched slowly by our house, digesting the scene. Already, dad’s display had ruffled the feathers of half the neighborhood moms. All the while, dad sat their, completely at ease, taking in the afternoon sun and enjoying the refreshing taste of his beer. Suddenly I saw the familiar gold Dodge Stratus make its way down the street and reluctantly turn down Prestwick Circle. Brandon was asleep in the passenger’s seat, his body tilted so far back that only the visor of his baseball hat was noticeable. Then there was mom, who you couldn’t miss with that look of horror plastered to her otherwise winsome face. Now this is good, I thought to myself. It was a brilliant sight to see - mom driving down our street, hands clenched to the wheel, her eyes wide with a mix of amazement and shock, and dad, sprawled out on our front steps, entirely at ease, beer in hand, smiling to himself as he admired his work of art. Yes, it truly was a work of art. And my dad, in that moment, was his own work of art.

Breaking My Dad's Track Record And Learning Something About Myself

It’s December of 1978 and I am halfway through my freshman year at the University of Maine at Orono. I am running track because it is the only thing that I think I am good at, and it keeps me focused enough to pass my classes and “almost” stay out of trouble.

As much as I am willing to work harder than anyone else during track practice I am also willing to party harder than anyone else when a keg of beer is tapped.

My efforts and dedication during track practice have started to pay off. In a time trial meet, early in December, I run a 1:55.1 800 meter. Pedestrian, by today’s standards, but at the time it was actually the fastest 800 recorded on the UMO indoor track.

The next weekend we have a home meet against UNH and I am entered on the 600-yard dash.  UNH is running the "1978 New England Indoor Champion" in the 600 hundred. UMO coach, Ed Stryna, tells me to stay with him for 300 yards and then "go like hell." So that is exactly what I do. At 300 yards I surge and take the lead. As I round the last turn I feel my whole body begin to go numb and I do my best to relax but in the last 20 meters, the UNH runner catches me and surges past me to win. Although I have lost, I am very happy. This senior is good and my dad, as usual, is there to watch me run.

After the race, dad tells me he won’t be able to go to Vermont the next weekend to watch me run because of prior commitments. In reality this is a big relief to me because I am running more than I ever have and I am tired and just want to relax.

The next Friday, I board the bus headed for the University of Vermont. Christmas break is about begin and I can’t wait to be away from school and away from running. I’ve made a calculated choice to sit with a senior triple jumper, who I know is ready for fun. 

As the bus pulls away from the UMO campus for the 6-hour ride to UMV, that senior triple jumper hands me a beer (yes, we were on a college athletic bus) and we begin one of the most interesting trips of my life.

I’ve never been one to sip a beer, and as each can is handed to me I drink faster and faster. There is no effort to hide the indiscretion. As as the beer is consumed we simply tuck it overhead in the luggage rank and pretty soon the clank, clank, clank of beer cans begins to rumble, as the bus negotiates each turn.

Several hours into the trip we are given our “per diem” meal allowance, in cash,  and the bus stops for dinner. As the other, dutiful athletes, head toward the local diner for their pre-meet meal, the triple jumper and I head to the local package store, across the street, to purchase more beer, in cash.

By the time we hit the Vermont hotel, close to campus, I am ready for the night ahead and the idea of preparing to run the following morning is simply ridiculous.

I get my bag, the key to my room and then head off into the night with the triple jumper, to enjoy the UMV night ambience.

By the third or fourth fraternity party my mind is getting bleary, but I do remember anxiously stepping into a circle of fraternity brothers to share a joint.  After several hits I turn around and find a fraternity brother passed out behind me. The first thought that comes to my mind is to tie his shoelaces together, and that is exactly what I do.

As I stand up from this joyful task, I turn around to find every brother, that has ever pledged that fraternity, standing over me and…. well pretty much, they were threatening my life.

As I untie the “wasted” brother’s shoes I start to realize the error of my ways and head back to the hotel at 4 am.

Normally, we would meet for breakfast and as tough as I thought I was, swallowing eggs at 7 am after the night I had just experienced was not in the cards for me. In fact, getting to the crappy, 176 yard, old school, UVM track in time to compete was as big a challenge as I had faced.

I remember walking into the UVM indoor track facility and thanking God that dad was not coming to the meet. I just wanted to lie on the track and die.

I began to stretch, as I held back dry heaves. This 880-yard dash, is going to suck and I deserve it. At least no-one that I care about is going to see how bad I am about to run and I’ll be able to sleep on the long ride to Orono.

There I am, smelling like alcohol and pot, feeling like shit and simply thankful that my indiscretion will go unnoticed..........when my dad walks through the doors of the UVM indoor track facility.

For those of you reading this, who know what it is like to throw up in your mouth and swallow it, that is what I did.

I know what I must have smelled like as I gave dad a hug and then something hit me in that moment that I have used several times since then. “I had to perform, regardless of what I felt like."

I pulled myself off the ground and started to slowly jog and assess how I felt. I quickly came to the internal consensus that I felt like shit and kept jogging.

Slowly, I began to loosen up.

When the time came for the start of the 880-yard dash I toed the line and, out of fear more than anything else, I decided to just run like hell and see what would happen.

Remarkably, I felt much better than I anticipated and no one challenged me. As I crossed the finish line and heard the time I knew I had set a track-record.

Dad was delighted that I had won.  I told him that I had set a new track record and he responded in his proverbial Maine accent with “Are you showa”?

“Yes dad, I am sure.”, I responded.

I should have known that this would not be the end of the process. My dad was a town manager and he had to verify “everything”.

This was 1978 and there was no email or internet and Os Bonsey was going to make sure that he confirmed that his son had a set a track record.

On Sunday he hand-wrote a letter to the UVM track coach asking if I had set a track record, and put it in the mail on Monday.

Two weeks later Dad received a letter from the UVM track coach that said, “Yes, Osmond, you have set the 880 yard dash record for the UVM track facility. You are off to a terrific start in your career.”

Somehow the UVM coach thought that I was writing to him and that I was Osmond!

Of course, this was probably dad’s ultimate plan.  The record was recorded as “Osmond Bonsey” and placed on the wall of the UVM indoor track facility.

Two years later I returned to UVM and broke my dad’s “track-record”.

This time, I didn't drink.

What I Learned From A 10-Year-Old " Gross Boy"

I was ten years old when I met Steve. He was twelve and his family owned a camp, two cottages away from my family’s camp on Crescent Lake in Raymond, Me.

I was a scrawny, shy and insecure kid. 

For some reason Steve took an immediate liking to me and even though he was older and smarter we became fast friends.

After a few days of hanging out together Steve asked me to sleepover at his camp.

I immediately said, “ I don’t think you’d want me to”

Steve gave me a curious look and said, “Why?”

“Because I’m a gross boy.”

"What’s a gross boy?”, Steve laughed.

 “I pick my nose and fart a lot.”

I always laugh when I tell this story but as I think about this I realize that I do the same thing, when I am at my best, in business and personal relationships today.

I believe it is important to be who you are and set the parameters for the relationship up front so that everyone knows what the expectations are.

Even as a 10-year-old I was aware of this.  Steve knew what he was getting into and that has allowed us remain and grow as friends for almost 45 years.

Besides, it allows me to still pick my nose and fart a lot.