The Origin of the Bros

I met Steve in the fall of 2004 when I joined Coventry High School’s Cross-Country team. He was rude, obnoxious, mischievous - and vibrant. We got along immediately. I had no way of knowing - of course - that girl talk and dick jokes would change the entire course of my life.

If you’re not familiar with Cross-Country (XC, for short), it’s this very stupid “sport” in which you train by running a lot and then you compete by running a lot. But let’s back up for a moment.

How and Why I Started Running

In truth, I had no passion for running. I had dealt with weight problems and body dysmorphia ever since I could remember and after watching Rocky IV, I decided to start running over the summer break in between Freshman and Sophomore year. Along with a borderline anorexic diet and the magic of puberty, running daily helped me thin out dramatically.

The rewards of running outweighed its pain and monotony, so I kept at it. Then, it paid off during gym class. For some sadistic reason, gym teachers like to do “physical fitness” tests once a year where everyone is forced to do the things cadets are forced to do in the police academy: Pushups, Situps, Pullups, and the 1 mile run. As a fat kid my entire life, I dreaded them. After months of training for an event that I never even considered, however, I cherished the opportunity to run some laps.

I sucked at everything else, but I put up a decent enough time in the mile - decent enough that a senior whom I looked up to told me I should try running as a sport. It was a ridiculous idea but he was cool, smart, and super handsome, so I basically wanted to be him. I decided to take his suggestion on the path to being less like me and more like him. And so I joined the school’s track at the next available opportunity - the Indoor Track season.

Track SUCKED

Indoor track began when Winter began, so we ran in the bitter, freezing, cold. Track SUCKED. Running in the cold sucked. Running in the gym when it was too cold to run outside sucked. The coach sucked. The coach was too serious, too mean, and nobody had fun. I was ready to hang up my track spikes for good when that same handsome senior implored me to try XC. I still idolized him to some degree, so once again, I took his word for it.

Cross-Country Did Not Suck

The cool senior was right. When the XC season began, I found that the bitter cold of running in winter was replaced by the calm breezes and pleasant temperatures of fall. The intense speedwork was replaced by longer, slower miles. The douchebag coach was replaced by Mr. Warner, a guy I’ll always remember as wise, kind, fatherly, and tolerant.

And believe you me, Mr. Warner was tolerant. Whereas we ran in a state of quiet discontent during Track, we were having a blast every single day when we showed up to XC. It sounds impossible, but I looked forward to finishing school, throwing on the absolutely putrid shorts and shirt that I never washed, and heading out to run eight miles with the guys. Because they were becoming my guys. Fast.

Bonding with the My Fellow Runners

When I ran Track, I ran the 1500m. Despite running the second longest race, our workouts were rarely slow. There was no time to have fun or connect with my teammates. As Mr. Warner said, however, training for Cross-Country races necessitated “long, slow miles” at a “conversational” pace. For the first time in my life, I was running in a group of guys that actually talked with one another. And for the first time in my life, I was experiencing that special sort of bond that can only be fostered through endurance and struggle.

Yes, Cross-Country training was less intense - but don’t get me wrong, training seriously for races inevitably brings a certain type of pain that non-runners will never know. That pain, when shared, yields respect. And while most of our time was spent making extremely immature jokes and bullying each other, the respect cemented lifelong friendships.

Enter Steve

And finally, we reach Steve. I have kept in touch and even stayed good friends with several of the guys from Cross-Country back in 2004, but Steve and I built something that will last a lifetime - of that, I have no doubt.

Steve was my polar (pun unintended, I swear) opposite. While I had developed my own streak of irreverence in the latter years of high school, I was - by all accounts - a “good” kid. I achieved near-perfect grades, I was polite to my teachers. All throughout my adolescence, I behaved well. Steve… did not. In fact, he was one of the least well-behaved kids I knew.

I can’t remember a single day during which Steve wasn’t involved in some sort of shenanigans, tomfoolery, or general rapscallionism. To every single adult who worked at Coventry High School, he was a terror. But that’s probably why I was so drawn to him.

Steve’s Radical Authenticity

More than anything else, Steve was himself. He was - and still is - the most authentic person in any setting. He made trouble because he wanted to make trouble. I had always wanted to make trouble, but I was too afraid of consequences. Unlike me, Steve had discovered one of life’s hidden secrets: pranks and mischief, when done with a pure heart, are charming and refreshing. While he was always in some sort of trouble, everyone loved him. His antics were never mean-spirited. It was all in the name of fun.

Something Deeper

Steve’s antics were what drew me to him, but it was something else that led to us developing the deepest type of friendship there is. In Steve, I saw something strange. Something different. Something I didn’t yet have the words for. And while Steve and I were polar opposites, when I saw Steve, I saw myself.

During those long, slow miles, the team ran together most of the time. Steve was fast and I was slow, but he must have seen the same thing in me as I saw in him, because he started turning it down a notch to match my pace and spend more time talking with me one-on-one. Mr Warner didn’t like that, but Mr. Warner wasn’t fast enough to catch up.

Learning to Open Up with Steve’s Help

Steve’s openness inspired me to open up, too. We talked about school, our parents, video games, girls, and who knows what else. Really, that short list is woefully inadequate. We talked about everything. I have a vivid memory of the first time Steve and I realized we were the same person; it was when we broached the subject of body dysmorphia - another thing we felt and could describe but didn’t have the knowledge to name with two medical words.

That Fateful Day

The day’s run had just started. We rounded the corner of ClubHouse Road and entered Wood Estates. Steve’s energy was calmer than usual, almost somber. I asked him what was up. He said, “I feel fat.” Already winded, I barely managed, “What?” Steve was six feet tall and maybe 140lbs. You could not possibly find a single person in the world who would describe Steve as “fat.”

But I felt the same. The exact same. My earliest memories were paired with shame and guilt for being “fat.” I spent my entire childhood self-conscious because I was fat. Then, when I lost weight and started running, I wasn’t fat anymore - but I still felt fat. It was a private feeling. But Steve knew it. Steve lived it. And Steve was brave enough to speak it.

Shared Pain

When Steve’s words and feelings sunk in and I replied, “Me too,” I saw him change. We slowed down without saying a word. The second pack of runners passed us. Then the third. Then Mr. Warner was right behind, scolding us. So we picked it up. We found a nice quiet spot between the second fastest group and the third fastest group. That nice, quiet pocket allowed us more space to talk. And with a reasonable pace, I could actually contribute to the conversation. So we talked it out.

The Bros’ First Safe Space

We talked about the mirror. The fucking mirror. God, I hated the mirror. And Steve did too! I can’t adequately describe the feeling I had when Steve described my own inner monologues, so I won’t try. But I can tell you in one sentence what Steve did for me. He did something that I’d only previously found in my favorite books: Steve made me feel less alone.

In each other, we found ourselves. From that day forward, we continued joking around and making each other laugh. But all of those jokes acted as the foundation for something deeper. In the midst of all of our fun, we built a safe space for each other. We allowed each other to say everything we never dared say to anyone else.

That’s what made Steve and I bros.