Rites of Spring

or, The secret weapons of Curt Pefferman

A Memory Journey by John Busbee

Right now, schools across Iowa are hubs for regional track events. The Drake Relays take center stage, followed by that venue’s hosting of the State Track Championships. Springtime is a time of running, hurdling, throwing, and the passing of batons. The rallying cheers of teammates and fans alike ebb and flow with each passing heat and event.

Back in my high school days, the crunch of running on cinder tracks in smalltown Iowa was a constant ear-tickle at meets. The abraded, bleeding knees of fallen runners were common outcomes for missteps. I never wanted to run. I was drawn to an ancient classic: the discus. I had one moment of apprehension when, in my junior year, a teammate was smacked on the side of his face by an errant discus throw. These were the days of absent protections, such as today’s screened-in weight-throwing arenas. My friend would recover, but he decided to forgo a future discus career.

I found a special bond with the mechanics and nuances of throwing the discus. The aerodynamic considerations coupled with the spinning delivery for best results appealed to me. Our coach, a “weight man” himself, encouraged my interest.

Curt Pefferman was always either Mr. Pefferman or Coach. He was “larger than life.” In our small high school (my graduating class was 41), he was a swaggering presence to be reckoned with. Coach was a body builder, about 6’2”, with a Herculean build. It seemed that he could, if he wanted to, expand his chest and burst his shirt with Hulk-like explosiveness.

Coaching track was a side contract for his primary role as the art teacher. His stature made him a most unlikely figure for both. He prowled the school halls with the bounce of an apex predator, yet he was an affable fellow that delighted in how those he met for the first time reacted to his contradictory physique and artistic gifts. He was an excellent artist. I never had the opportunity to take one of his classes. Too many college prep classes for me to take Art.

His larger-than-life flair spilled into his presence at track meets. Most coaches carried clipboards. Ours carried a 2 X 3 drafting board. He taped a large sheet of drawing paper on it, then meticulously noted each team member by event. He would project how each would perform, predicting our team’s score. His projection board was a work of art, with calligrapher-caliber lettering that would make a school marm smile. He added embellishments, and used colored pens to document results as a meet progressed. This mountain of a man delighted in jostling the norms, loving the attention his stature attracted as he led his young charges with a disarming grin. He was a welcomed presence at those meets.

During my senior year, Coach had a secret weapon that won all local track meets, including the Class C District Meet in Tipton: his discus duo. I was joined by Argentinian exchange student, Clive Prandi, who threw discus at this school back home. In every meet through conference and district competition, Coach’s tally board would mark Clive and me as securing first and second place. That held true, except for district, where Clive finished third, yet with a distance good enough to qualify for state. Four individuals and three relay teams qualified for the state meet in Pocahontas.

The State Meet happened in mid-May. Our contingency of qualifiers headed northwest to Pocahontas. The weather was ominous, not springlike at all. We bunked several to a room at an area hotel. Early in the morning, Coach came in to begin prepping his team. The weather was chilly, blustery, with misty precipitation. Coach was prepared to help loosen his young charges’ muscles with an attached-to-the-hand vibrating massager. Since the field events were first on the schedule, he wanted to start with his discus duo.

Clive savored the relaxing of his calf muscles from this treatment. I declined, as I knew that treatment would stimulate my tickle nerves. It would be unbecoming for a young athlete vying for a state championship to be giggling.

We arrived at the discus ring, where each competitor was fighting the rain-slickened conditions. The blustery winds made judging the strategy for each toss even trickier. I uncorked a throw that was flying over the right out-of-bounds line, veering further right. Then, divine intervention as the discus curved back inbounds. It was good, and my best throw of the day. It was the best throw of the field, and I was now our school’s first ever individual state champion. Our 880-yard relay team (Bob Nelson, Duane Johnson, Chuck Reighard, Steve Norder) captured second, and a third-place finish was achieved by our mile medley squad (Johnson, Monte Thomson, Norder, Reighard). My discus buddy, Prandi, achieved a sixth-place finish at state, and in a recent email, commented about the ribbon and his experience.

Winfield-Mount Union achieved its best state track meet finish ever, third place, behind State Champion Miles, and second place Dike. Miles is no longer an independent school, but now is Easton Valley CSD. Same for Dike, now Dike-New Hartford CSD. Winfield-Mount Union remains its same consolidated self.

Ah, spring. My memories of Coach Pefferman, my 1969 track teammates, and my discus-tossing lifelong friend, Clive Prandi, will forever be intertwined with springtime.

Coach Curt Pefferman (top row, far left); John Busbee (top row, second from right)