12-12-2009 Foot Locker Cross Country National Championship
Lukas Verzbicas First Place 15:08 National Champion
Complete Foot Locker race results
Foot Locker Midwest Regional Results
Complete Foot Locker race results
Foot Locker Midwest Regional Results
Coach John O'Malley & Lukas reflect on the Foot Locker race
Coach O'Malley
In 1993, I reluctantly joined the Sandburg Cross Country team. Running was hard. It wasn’t cool. I didn’t really want to run cross country. My mom had a requirement for me: you have to participate in something. She believed in getting involved. Baseball was what I wanted to do but it wasn’t a fall activity. Cross country kind of happened by default, joining my older brother and sister on the team. All of this is to say, I wasn’t excited about it. But in the fall of ‘93, what started as reluctance slowly became passion. Meanwhile in 1993, a boy named Lukas was born in Kaunas, Lithuania.
By the end of the year, cross country was a growing obsession. What was this thing that was hard, and I wasn’t great at, but was starting to love? By fall 1994 I was reading The Harrier magazine after getting a subscription for my birthday. I still have the old copies. I followed along as my season progressed. The Harrier showcased this thing called “Footlocker.” I saw a picture of Adam Goucher winning the race from the year before, seemingly leaping through the air across the finish line. After my sophomore season ended, my friend and teammate was over at my house and magically, the Footlocker Nationals Cross Country race came on tv. Back then, streaming wasn’t a remote option, and a broadcasting schedule for something like Footlocker was largely unknown and unadvertised. I watched this race in San Diego and was in awe of the whole spectacle. Soon after, I received my next Harrier magazine in the mail. It told all about the race I had seen. The experience seemed like the most perfect imaginable: San Diego in December, racing the top 32 (now 40) runners from the whole country, a weekend spent with elite high school and professional runners. And the race itself is the most perfect: how often in high school sport do we get to actually have a national champion determined through competition, not rankings? It’s the essence of competition. Head to head. One champion.
The years since, my infatuation with Footlocker only grew. I would watch every year even in college and beyond to see who the “one runner to rule them all” would be. How would the race unfold? A new elite group of runners joining together for that magical weekend in San Diego at Balboa Park. My junior year of college, I took a road trip with my future wife. We made it to San Diego. I saw the signs for Balboa Park, looking through my window from I-5. The race course was in there somewhere through all those palm trees and hills. I considered trying to find it but decided I hadn’t earned Balboa Park. I didn’t qualify. Upon graduation from college a year later, I started looking for teaching and coaching jobs. That same year, that boy from Kaunas followed his family to the United States in search of opportunity.
In 2003, my first year coaching high school cross country, a phenom who seemed to have rockstar status down the street in nearby Andrew High School was rolling through the fall XC season. As I attempted to piece together a team to qualify for state after Sandburg failed to qualify the year prior, and prove to myself that I could actually be a coach, I had the privilege of watching Matt Withrow race regularly. Tough and with the race strategy to devastate competitors with one exceptional mid-race move, Matt seemed hard to beat. He stormed through the state meet and won Footlocker midwest. I watched from home as Withrow laid down his mid race move in an attempt to defeat Galen Rupp and Shadrock Kiptoo. The move was effective but didn’t finish the job. Withrow was caught and seemingly defeated before electrifying the crowd with a final kick that blew the doors off Rupp and Kiptoo. To this day, it’s an all-time legendary race. I wondered in my first year coaching--having the front seat to the Footlocker National Champion--if I’d ever coach a kid even close to that ability. No chance. Most states haven’t produced two Footlocker champions. The chances that another would come from the area seemed improbable.
That was the year the recently immigrated Lukas Verzbicas, who loved basketball, would start trying to do this thing he seemed good at: racing.
When Lukas Verzbicas entered my classroom in August 2009, I recall clearly having this thought: “this kid can win Footlocker.” The words felt as grandiose as they come. What more can be said in describing talent and potential than believing someone is precisely the best in the country?
From day one, Lukas was different. At practice, he was clearly a different animal. Animals cower at the threat of a clearly superior animal well up the food chain from itself. Lukas wasn’t at the top of the food chain, he was the top. His talent seemed limitless. His drive and unwillingness to settle was unmatched, perhaps obsessive. He seemed to be obsessed with getting better, being the best, with the knowledge of what it takes mentally and physically. I’ve never met an athlete like him before or since. Dedicated and determined are relative terms. A kid whose parents left two years in advance to establish a life in America, who then followed them to build this new life, who had to learn another language and witness the sacrifices his parents made to give him an opportunity...well, that can foster a version of “dedicated” and “determined” that the average American high school cross country runner cannot produce. He couldn’t waste the opportunity he’d been given. His training seemingly had one gear: intense. And then he’d rest. His fire on a typical workout day burned hotter than anyone’s on race day. It meant everything to him.
And that’s why when we went to Footlocker Midwest in November, I knew that Lukas could not be beaten. The other racers on the starting line knew it too. The food chain was clear. After Lukas crossed the finish line in first place, I didn’t know if I’d be able to attend the national meet with him. Money was super tight; I couldn’t pay for the master’s degree I was finishing. And that’s when our athletic director, Bruce Scheidegger, called me to his office. Bruce would tragically die a few years later in a car accident and I still cherish his presence in my life. He had gone to the administration and said, “We have to get John O’Malley to San Diego. He needs to be there.” I still am not sure why Bruce was so determined to get me there. He must have seen the young coach in me and felt the enormity of the moment. A moment to experience and enjoy and to grow as a passionate coach. But he got me there. I’ve been to San Diego three times since then and toast a moment in Bruce’s honor each time. It was more than San Diego. And coaching Lukas was more than winning titles. I was changing as a coach and believing things I never believed before. Bruce believed I had earned entry to Balboa Park.
The morning of Footlocker was a really dense fog. I was up early, my hotel window wide open and the ocean air pouring into my lungs. I went for a run, ended in the ocean, showered, got coffee and drove to Balboa Park, the park that was only a faint, mystical place on my TV, my old Harrier black and white magazines, and the feeling of being “outside” on I-5 that one day. The day before I ran the course with Lukas, went to get some lunch while we went back to the Coronado, and sat down with the course map. I outlined a strategy. I texted him some reassurance and suggestions on that race plan for the next day. “Sounds good, coach.” A few minutes later, another text came in: “Some of these guys are eating ice cream!” Lukas hadn’t travelled from Chicago to San Diego. He had travelled from Lithuania. And he was not a leisurely traveler; he was on a mission. Ice cream seemed so bizarre to him when he was there to do one thing.
The forecast had rain. In San Diego? I grabbed some towels from the hotel and met Lukas behind the introduction area.
“Coach.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m nervous.”
“I know. You’re good. These clowns were eating ice cream yesterday. No one has your motivation. And you’re just a sophomore!”
“Coach, I have to win.”
That was the last time I ever stupidly downplayed a situation for an athlete.
“You will.”
The rain came down hard. Lukas draped the towel around him. What he wanted, what he needed, wasn’t shelter. He needed that starter’s pistol to go off. So much intensity and passion, he needed to release it, express it.
The race plan called for Lukas to sit at the front and avoid pushing the pace until the 1.5 area when he passed the starting line again. He covered any feeble move made in the first 7 minutes of the race, and then he released. He pounded the mud and tore through the rain. I had texted Lukas to “take them up the mountain until the air is so thin that only you can breathe it.” No one could sustain that thin air and Lukas ascended. I cheered for Lukas and gave him feedback on his gap before he hit the enormous hill that makes the Balboa course so unique. I managed to sprint and beat Lukas to the top of the hill before yelling at him to finish the race, pour it on. I watched as he turned and began his descent to the finish line. I’ve grown to absolutely love this spot on earth. It’s way up there, away from the crowds and finish. When you descend, it’s a moment of silence, and then you rip uncontrollably toward the area of legendary greatness. The finish line and the pandemonium of the cheering crowds and announcers. I had a brief thought to myself: “I’m going to run down this hill and watch a Sandburg runner win the Footlocker National Championships now.”
I started my humble running career not sure if I belonged and believing running was hard and not cool. I sprinted to the finish line, panting uncontrollably and soaked to the bone, feeling a sense of belonging with Lukas in the champions’ circle, and knowing how cool it was that running was hard. How far we had come.
In 1993, I reluctantly joined the Sandburg Cross Country team. Running was hard. It wasn’t cool. I didn’t really want to run cross country. My mom had a requirement for me: you have to participate in something. She believed in getting involved. Baseball was what I wanted to do but it wasn’t a fall activity. Cross country kind of happened by default, joining my older brother and sister on the team. All of this is to say, I wasn’t excited about it. But in the fall of ‘93, what started as reluctance slowly became passion. Meanwhile in 1993, a boy named Lukas was born in Kaunas, Lithuania.
By the end of the year, cross country was a growing obsession. What was this thing that was hard, and I wasn’t great at, but was starting to love? By fall 1994 I was reading The Harrier magazine after getting a subscription for my birthday. I still have the old copies. I followed along as my season progressed. The Harrier showcased this thing called “Footlocker.” I saw a picture of Adam Goucher winning the race from the year before, seemingly leaping through the air across the finish line. After my sophomore season ended, my friend and teammate was over at my house and magically, the Footlocker Nationals Cross Country race came on tv. Back then, streaming wasn’t a remote option, and a broadcasting schedule for something like Footlocker was largely unknown and unadvertised. I watched this race in San Diego and was in awe of the whole spectacle. Soon after, I received my next Harrier magazine in the mail. It told all about the race I had seen. The experience seemed like the most perfect imaginable: San Diego in December, racing the top 32 (now 40) runners from the whole country, a weekend spent with elite high school and professional runners. And the race itself is the most perfect: how often in high school sport do we get to actually have a national champion determined through competition, not rankings? It’s the essence of competition. Head to head. One champion.
The years since, my infatuation with Footlocker only grew. I would watch every year even in college and beyond to see who the “one runner to rule them all” would be. How would the race unfold? A new elite group of runners joining together for that magical weekend in San Diego at Balboa Park. My junior year of college, I took a road trip with my future wife. We made it to San Diego. I saw the signs for Balboa Park, looking through my window from I-5. The race course was in there somewhere through all those palm trees and hills. I considered trying to find it but decided I hadn’t earned Balboa Park. I didn’t qualify. Upon graduation from college a year later, I started looking for teaching and coaching jobs. That same year, that boy from Kaunas followed his family to the United States in search of opportunity.
In 2003, my first year coaching high school cross country, a phenom who seemed to have rockstar status down the street in nearby Andrew High School was rolling through the fall XC season. As I attempted to piece together a team to qualify for state after Sandburg failed to qualify the year prior, and prove to myself that I could actually be a coach, I had the privilege of watching Matt Withrow race regularly. Tough and with the race strategy to devastate competitors with one exceptional mid-race move, Matt seemed hard to beat. He stormed through the state meet and won Footlocker midwest. I watched from home as Withrow laid down his mid race move in an attempt to defeat Galen Rupp and Shadrock Kiptoo. The move was effective but didn’t finish the job. Withrow was caught and seemingly defeated before electrifying the crowd with a final kick that blew the doors off Rupp and Kiptoo. To this day, it’s an all-time legendary race. I wondered in my first year coaching--having the front seat to the Footlocker National Champion--if I’d ever coach a kid even close to that ability. No chance. Most states haven’t produced two Footlocker champions. The chances that another would come from the area seemed improbable.
That was the year the recently immigrated Lukas Verzbicas, who loved basketball, would start trying to do this thing he seemed good at: racing.
When Lukas Verzbicas entered my classroom in August 2009, I recall clearly having this thought: “this kid can win Footlocker.” The words felt as grandiose as they come. What more can be said in describing talent and potential than believing someone is precisely the best in the country?
From day one, Lukas was different. At practice, he was clearly a different animal. Animals cower at the threat of a clearly superior animal well up the food chain from itself. Lukas wasn’t at the top of the food chain, he was the top. His talent seemed limitless. His drive and unwillingness to settle was unmatched, perhaps obsessive. He seemed to be obsessed with getting better, being the best, with the knowledge of what it takes mentally and physically. I’ve never met an athlete like him before or since. Dedicated and determined are relative terms. A kid whose parents left two years in advance to establish a life in America, who then followed them to build this new life, who had to learn another language and witness the sacrifices his parents made to give him an opportunity...well, that can foster a version of “dedicated” and “determined” that the average American high school cross country runner cannot produce. He couldn’t waste the opportunity he’d been given. His training seemingly had one gear: intense. And then he’d rest. His fire on a typical workout day burned hotter than anyone’s on race day. It meant everything to him.
And that’s why when we went to Footlocker Midwest in November, I knew that Lukas could not be beaten. The other racers on the starting line knew it too. The food chain was clear. After Lukas crossed the finish line in first place, I didn’t know if I’d be able to attend the national meet with him. Money was super tight; I couldn’t pay for the master’s degree I was finishing. And that’s when our athletic director, Bruce Scheidegger, called me to his office. Bruce would tragically die a few years later in a car accident and I still cherish his presence in my life. He had gone to the administration and said, “We have to get John O’Malley to San Diego. He needs to be there.” I still am not sure why Bruce was so determined to get me there. He must have seen the young coach in me and felt the enormity of the moment. A moment to experience and enjoy and to grow as a passionate coach. But he got me there. I’ve been to San Diego three times since then and toast a moment in Bruce’s honor each time. It was more than San Diego. And coaching Lukas was more than winning titles. I was changing as a coach and believing things I never believed before. Bruce believed I had earned entry to Balboa Park.
The morning of Footlocker was a really dense fog. I was up early, my hotel window wide open and the ocean air pouring into my lungs. I went for a run, ended in the ocean, showered, got coffee and drove to Balboa Park, the park that was only a faint, mystical place on my TV, my old Harrier black and white magazines, and the feeling of being “outside” on I-5 that one day. The day before I ran the course with Lukas, went to get some lunch while we went back to the Coronado, and sat down with the course map. I outlined a strategy. I texted him some reassurance and suggestions on that race plan for the next day. “Sounds good, coach.” A few minutes later, another text came in: “Some of these guys are eating ice cream!” Lukas hadn’t travelled from Chicago to San Diego. He had travelled from Lithuania. And he was not a leisurely traveler; he was on a mission. Ice cream seemed so bizarre to him when he was there to do one thing.
The forecast had rain. In San Diego? I grabbed some towels from the hotel and met Lukas behind the introduction area.
“Coach.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m nervous.”
“I know. You’re good. These clowns were eating ice cream yesterday. No one has your motivation. And you’re just a sophomore!”
“Coach, I have to win.”
That was the last time I ever stupidly downplayed a situation for an athlete.
“You will.”
The rain came down hard. Lukas draped the towel around him. What he wanted, what he needed, wasn’t shelter. He needed that starter’s pistol to go off. So much intensity and passion, he needed to release it, express it.
The race plan called for Lukas to sit at the front and avoid pushing the pace until the 1.5 area when he passed the starting line again. He covered any feeble move made in the first 7 minutes of the race, and then he released. He pounded the mud and tore through the rain. I had texted Lukas to “take them up the mountain until the air is so thin that only you can breathe it.” No one could sustain that thin air and Lukas ascended. I cheered for Lukas and gave him feedback on his gap before he hit the enormous hill that makes the Balboa course so unique. I managed to sprint and beat Lukas to the top of the hill before yelling at him to finish the race, pour it on. I watched as he turned and began his descent to the finish line. I’ve grown to absolutely love this spot on earth. It’s way up there, away from the crowds and finish. When you descend, it’s a moment of silence, and then you rip uncontrollably toward the area of legendary greatness. The finish line and the pandemonium of the cheering crowds and announcers. I had a brief thought to myself: “I’m going to run down this hill and watch a Sandburg runner win the Footlocker National Championships now.”
I started my humble running career not sure if I belonged and believing running was hard and not cool. I sprinted to the finish line, panting uncontrollably and soaked to the bone, feeling a sense of belonging with Lukas in the champions’ circle, and knowing how cool it was that running was hard. How far we had come.