Running toward greatness: Father makes son proud

By COLONEL JOE PIERSON

Editor’s note: Colonel Joe Pierson is assigned to the U.S. Military Academy (West Point). He is the son of former area football coach Jack Pierson.

Make no mistake: Jack Pierson is a football man. Growing up amid the billowing steel mills that straddled the Ohio and Pennsylvania border as the son of a Roaring Twenties star player from Sharon, it was his destiny. He was a center and linebacker at Ursuline, then collegiately at Youngstown, coached at the latter by Dwight “Dike” Beede, whose simple invention helps everyone follow a game, the penalty flag.

Long before the Buckeyes’ Jim Tressel won national championships during his stint at Youngstown State, Dike built the program from scratch. Jack became a teacher and coach, and began a career in the Steel Valley, heading programs at North Lima, McDonald, Howland, and Niles along the way. He was married to his high school sweetheart, Peggy, and together they raised 10 children.

Coach Pierson moonlighted on the railroad in the 1950s and 1960s to fully support his brood, a guy renowned for his stamina. He is my father.

Military physician Kenneth Cooper’s book “Aerobics” was released in 1968, and the message intrigued Dad. He not only quickly implemented the Cooper Test, a 12-minute run to assess physical fitness, for his players in the preseason, he joined them in his bulky black coaching shoes. Before long, especially once he left the railroad, he’d be seen regularly jogging the streets of our quaint village of McDonald, where a U.S. Steel mill was situated along the Mahoning River. To be clear, the sight of a middle-aged jogger at that time was an absolute rarity.

Before Frank Shorter, Bill Rodgers, and Alberto Salazar became famous, or the motivational books of George Sheehan and Jim Fixx were published, Dad was on the leading edge of the running boom power curve.

His running took him to area road races. Somewhere in his mid-40s he ramped up the mileage, though we must’ve slept through most of the long training runs he took each weekend. Dad eventually entered a few local marathons, where he covered the distance remarkably well for a man of his physique. However, to enter the world’s oldest annual marathon, Boston, the restrictive 31‚Ñ2 hour qualification standard (now known as BQ), was consistently beyond his grasp. His persistence in pursuit of that goal was admirable, especially during the brutal Ohio winter of 1978. Mom, who sacrificed far more in raising the 10 kids, somehow maintained steadfast support of his endeavor.

In May, the thick-legged ball coach seemed to defy laws of physics, racing an epic 3:29 in Cleveland, qualifying for the 1979 Boston Marathon by less than a minute. To this day, I’m not sure I’ve witnessed a more tenacious athletic effort. Inasmuch as a son could be proud of a father, I doubted one could ever be prouder.

Dad made the trip to Boston in April of 1979. He received an official race shirt with the regal Boston Athletic Association logo as proof. But Dad never did run that race. On the eve of the marathon, his father passed away, and he and Mom hastily departed for a long somber drive back to the Midwest.

Given the circumstances, little was said about his not running Boston. It paled, perhaps not even registering, in comparison to our loss that spring. It seemed to me that if Dad still wanted to run in the event the following year, he’d do so. However, a little-known detail in the annals of the Boston Marathon is that for the 1980 race, and a decade thereafter, the BQ was temporarily lowered to a widely unattainable 3:10 for those over age 40. Dad appeared justifiably at peace with his momentous accomplishment the previous year, completed one more local marathon, and continued to run with his characteristic enthusiasm for many years afterward.

His running zeal rubbed off on me. Although I played freshmen football games midweek, I raced as fifth man for the high school cross country team on Saturdays — an existence confirming I was my father’s son: I loved football. I loved to run. After some modest success as a distance runner in track the following spring, I agonized over whether to play varsity football or run cross country the upcoming fall.

There are seven sons in the family, and all five of my older brothers had been starters on the varsity football team, as would my younger brother. With an early teen’s apprehension, I approached “Coach” Pierson with my dilemma. As a fellow runner, Dad truly empathized with my plight, but his advice was emphatic: “You can’t play football forever, but you can always be a runner.”

So I strapped on a helmet and played football at McDonald High. Not possessing the burly interior lineman legs of my father, I played running back or receiver on offense, while on defense I basked in the opportunity to play linebacker, just like him. As fate would have it, our coach, Andrew Golubic Jr. had played for my dad at McDonald.

He also was a Youngstown grad, and his own father once held the same job at MHS. Coach’s disciplined work ethic resonated as a prevailing theme of fighting through adversity galvanized us. In 1980, the backdrop for senior year was sobering as U.S. Steel closed the mill, yet we provided a bit of solace as our team finished memorably undefeated.

College years were spent at Youngstown, though no longer as a participant in football like my brother Jack Jr., a defensive stalwart for the Penguins. But I continued running, through internship and residency in Cleveland, and around the world as a career military physician. In my mid 40s, after not tackling serious longer distances since younger days, intangible forces conspired to ramp up the mileage again. My wife Beth was somewhat ambivalent, being wary of the time away from family, but as a loving psychiatrist she understood the addiction overall. In return for her tacit approval, I’m routinely out the door before 6 a.m. for a long run each Saturday, while our four kids sleep. I completed a few local marathons.

Dad was right. You can always be a runner.

So I found myself having a first look at the town of Hopkinton, Mass. on Patriot’s Day, lining up for the start of this year’s Boston Marathon, filled with emotion. The same age as Dad when he qualified, I too was issued an official race shirt with that recognizable logo the day prior. Unexpectedly, sentimental Dan Fogelberg lyrics began popping into my head: “He gave to me a gift I know I never can repay ... to imitate the man.” The legendary Rodgers, emblematic of the running boom which Dad and I were both part of, winner of that 1979 race, and now a prostate cancer survivor, was honored before the race was launched, as he courageously participated again.

To the extent one could be buoyed by fond memories over 26.2 miles, I was thus elevated. While my body found a familiar natural rhythm, a myriad of inspiring paternal images flashed in my mind, propelling me past the mile markers along the course. The notoriously difficult series of ascents in Newton, culminating in Heartbreak Hill, were more privilege than obstacle.

As the stream of athletes took an unforgettable final turn onto Boylston Street and approached the coveted Copley Square finish, nobody in the large crowd saw a strong lineman from Youngstown clearing a path in front of me, but I can assure you that he’d been there the whole way, playing a great game. Some officials might have been concerned, seeing me exhausted, them not knowing the far deeper gratitude, as I mysteriously paused at the goal line, but this touchdown needed to be shared with the team. Countless other unseen family members, coaches, players, teachers, students and friends spanning across the past century poured into the end zone to join us in celebration. No penalty flags were thrown.

Since I didn’t inherit those husky interior lineman legs, my performance couldn‘t approach Dad’s incredible BQ achievement, but the recorded time was nonetheless a justly fitting tribute, 3:29.

My dad lives through treatment of prostate cancer. Really lives.

At age 76, Coach Pierson is again gearing up for another season prowling the sidelines of the football-laden Valley in his first year at Mathews High. Mom, albeit in relative disbelief his “Friday Night Lights” passion has not waned, still affectionately stands by him.

Dad is now the rightful owner of a Boston Marathon finisher’s medal as he continues living life to its fullest every stride of the journey. The son who witnessed a spectacular endurance feat in Cleveland many years ago was wrong. It was possible to be even prouder of a father.