Tuesday, August 10, 2004
The Glorious Master Aschbrenner
Right away, I wasn't sure if he was going to work out or not. First of all, he looked about 12. Second, whenever he spoke it was in this whispery, wavery stutter. Finally, he was too smart. Seriously, his head was like twice the size of a normal human head. This was obviously too much brain power for our little cross country team.
And what sort of host was I? Here was I, a freshman, supposed to show this kid around school, explain to him about our team . . . and I didn't even like my team that much. I never really hung out with anyone on the team. I ran with them 6 or 7 days a week, then I did my thing.
So that's what I did with Ryan Aschbrenner. We ran. Then I and some of my non-runner friends at the time decided we'd do something revolutionary for a Friday night in the dorms -- we got some beer. Immediately, I worried, "This kid's gonna be scared off." Which would have been a shame, as he was a tremendous high school runner that I would have hated to lose to a rival school. So what was his reaction to our plan?
"Beer?!" His eyes lit up. What do you know? Aschbrenner, whose nickname became "Hash", turned out to fit right in there at Eau Claire.
So he joins the team, and he becomes that great character that all teams need: he was a niche player. But not the kind that you think about years later, like, "Oh, remember that guy who was out for a year or two? Whatever happened to him? He was something." No, Hash was a model of consistency -- there every day for practice, in the library every night to study, running every meet with the same quiet consistency. He was that runner who would get injured and not say a thing about it -- not because he was trying to be some tough guy; he just didn't want to stop running.
He was a niche player because he wasn't a loud captain or a front-runner. But he'd always be there, dressing in the shadows, running next to you, peering over a notebook in the corner. And then out of nowhere, he'd pop out and say something like, "Kyle, you're such a dumbass." Then he'd have his head back down, working on the next equation. He was the great equalizer, in this respect. If Hash had to get up and say something, it was going to be worthwhile.
The best thing about Hash is his enthusiasm. You wouldn't think it to look at him. He's got that quiet politeness that so dominates him that you'd think it was physically impossible for him to get excited about anything. But if you start talking to him about music, all the sudden he starts talking. Better yet, get a little beer in him, and he'll never stop talking -- he'll even turn into a "close-talker", just to make sure you hear everything he has to say about Led Zeppelin or Eric Clapton or Pink Floyd or whoever else -- because he knows that 70's-era of rock like few else.
The truly rare moments may be behind him, just as my moments of wild exuberance may be behind me. But I won't be able to erase the memory of this big-headed kid wearing a hat that didn't fit him stand on top of my roof, get down on one knee, and slam a beer . . . and then follow that display up with a fist to the sky, as if he were a wrestling champion.
When I was in school, I became obsessed with a great musician by the name of Warren Zevon, who's got this great radio hit, "Werewolves of London". When I discussed this song with Hash, he said to me, "It's a fun song." And he said it so earnestly and succinctly. Hash doesn't need a lot of words like I do. He doesn't need much flourish or explanation. He can just nail it like that with so many things: it's a fun song.
In school, we all thought Hash was going to go on to work at NASA or something. He was this mathematical nut who just loved to puzzle over the work -- scratch that; I don't think it was ever work to him. And the puzzling was so fun to watch -- he'd sit there and it looked like he was physically, manually squeezing his brain for a solution. But that's not all. I was always the guy people turned to to read their papers over for errors; in reality, Hash could have edited any paper with equal precision. There was no academic weakness for him.
So this week, I and my group of runner-friends received the communication: Hash -- and it's Master Hash now -- just started his job . . . working on satellites. No one could have been surprised.
The surprising thing is Hash is also getting married. His fiance, Kelly, is as intimidatingly intelligent as the man himself. So someday, they'll get married and create perhaps the world's smartest human being of all time.
Sometimes things work out for the right people. And with that stated: Ramble On, You Glorious Master Hashbrenner. Ramble On.
And what sort of host was I? Here was I, a freshman, supposed to show this kid around school, explain to him about our team . . . and I didn't even like my team that much. I never really hung out with anyone on the team. I ran with them 6 or 7 days a week, then I did my thing.
So that's what I did with Ryan Aschbrenner. We ran. Then I and some of my non-runner friends at the time decided we'd do something revolutionary for a Friday night in the dorms -- we got some beer. Immediately, I worried, "This kid's gonna be scared off." Which would have been a shame, as he was a tremendous high school runner that I would have hated to lose to a rival school. So what was his reaction to our plan?
"Beer?!" His eyes lit up. What do you know? Aschbrenner, whose nickname became "Hash", turned out to fit right in there at Eau Claire.
So he joins the team, and he becomes that great character that all teams need: he was a niche player. But not the kind that you think about years later, like, "Oh, remember that guy who was out for a year or two? Whatever happened to him? He was something." No, Hash was a model of consistency -- there every day for practice, in the library every night to study, running every meet with the same quiet consistency. He was that runner who would get injured and not say a thing about it -- not because he was trying to be some tough guy; he just didn't want to stop running.
He was a niche player because he wasn't a loud captain or a front-runner. But he'd always be there, dressing in the shadows, running next to you, peering over a notebook in the corner. And then out of nowhere, he'd pop out and say something like, "Kyle, you're such a dumbass." Then he'd have his head back down, working on the next equation. He was the great equalizer, in this respect. If Hash had to get up and say something, it was going to be worthwhile.
The best thing about Hash is his enthusiasm. You wouldn't think it to look at him. He's got that quiet politeness that so dominates him that you'd think it was physically impossible for him to get excited about anything. But if you start talking to him about music, all the sudden he starts talking. Better yet, get a little beer in him, and he'll never stop talking -- he'll even turn into a "close-talker", just to make sure you hear everything he has to say about Led Zeppelin or Eric Clapton or Pink Floyd or whoever else -- because he knows that 70's-era of rock like few else.
The truly rare moments may be behind him, just as my moments of wild exuberance may be behind me. But I won't be able to erase the memory of this big-headed kid wearing a hat that didn't fit him stand on top of my roof, get down on one knee, and slam a beer . . . and then follow that display up with a fist to the sky, as if he were a wrestling champion.
When I was in school, I became obsessed with a great musician by the name of Warren Zevon, who's got this great radio hit, "Werewolves of London". When I discussed this song with Hash, he said to me, "It's a fun song." And he said it so earnestly and succinctly. Hash doesn't need a lot of words like I do. He doesn't need much flourish or explanation. He can just nail it like that with so many things: it's a fun song.
In school, we all thought Hash was going to go on to work at NASA or something. He was this mathematical nut who just loved to puzzle over the work -- scratch that; I don't think it was ever work to him. And the puzzling was so fun to watch -- he'd sit there and it looked like he was physically, manually squeezing his brain for a solution. But that's not all. I was always the guy people turned to to read their papers over for errors; in reality, Hash could have edited any paper with equal precision. There was no academic weakness for him.
So this week, I and my group of runner-friends received the communication: Hash -- and it's Master Hash now -- just started his job . . . working on satellites. No one could have been surprised.
The surprising thing is Hash is also getting married. His fiance, Kelly, is as intimidatingly intelligent as the man himself. So someday, they'll get married and create perhaps the world's smartest human being of all time.
Sometimes things work out for the right people. And with that stated: Ramble On, You Glorious Master Hashbrenner. Ramble On.
