V 6 N. 74 Shakespeare Knew Cross Country

SHAKESPEARE UNDERSTOOD CROSS COUNTRY

When I first saw Henry V on the silver screen performed  by Kenneth Brannagh, I was so moved by the St. Crispin’s Day  speech before the Battle of Agincourt that I felt like getting up in the cinema and kicking someone’s you know what.   The Bard caught what many in modern times call the pre-game or pre-meet coach’s speech  and set it alight.    It was  meant  to inspire people about to go into battle seemingly not caring if they  lived or died as long as their side carried the day.  He tells them that later the survivors would be able on the Feast of St. Crispin to  roll up their sleeves and look at the scars they earned and tell their grandchildren what happened on that day.  He talks about the men who stayed behind in England when his men would be fighting.  How they would regret not being there.  He invokes the passions of men to overlook the odds and go forth and believe in themselves.  Pure mind over matter. 

The battle took place on October 25, 1415 near the end of the Hundred Years War between England and France.  On this day the  French knights greatly outnumbered the English and they were on their home ground.  They definitely had home field advantage as Henry and his men had been on the march for some time and were cold and wet and short of rations.  However this battle was to turn the medieval  way of warfare on its head.  The French army consisted of armed nobility, men who had all taken vows of chivalry.  They did not use the common man to represent them in battle, (one)  as they did not want to arm the peasants and risk an uprising, and (two)  because warfare  was considered a gentleman’s privilege.   Were that not still the case.

The English however were not kin to those thoughts having themselves recently fought a  not so ‘civil’ war (The War of the Roses) for years between themselves and resorted to the recruiting,  training,  and arming of the less than noble folk.  Furthermore the English were on the cusp of weapons technology and had developed the longbow which was capable of piercing French armor.  When Henry’s men set arrow to the bow, the French knights were doomed.   This battle demarked the end of the middle ages and the beginning of the Renaissance.  Two hundred years later Shakespeare was able to reignite those times in his plays.  

The King is referred to by his men as King Harry.  This is a corruption of Henri or what it  sounded like in the ears of the common  folk.  Henry V had blood mixed with the French in his veins.    In fact it is a derivation from the French  Henri and the original Old German  Heinrich or Haimirich..  Harry became a very popular name in England and was even used in the phrase, ‘every Tom , Dick , and Harry’. 

So what we have here is a modest attempt to update the story in the context of a late season cross country meet.  The team of coach Harry is attempting to get through the NCAA district meet and on to the nationals at  Terre Haute, a name perhaps lost  on the unwashed and unschooled.

When starting this little exercise I thought of Coach Harry Groves the venerable dean of Penn State Cross Country and Track and Field.  Harry is a living legend and the epitome of the salty toughness of the old time coaches.  I’ve never met the man, but the stories about him can be found on the Penn State alumni track blog.  How do you say ‘reverence’ and ‘fear’ in the same breath?  Read the blog and get the answer.

https://psutafalumnigolf.blogspot.ca/

My own college coach at Oklahoma, Bill Carroll, used to say before the big races.  “This ain’t no county meet.  And if you’re not ready to go all out and give 100%, just get on the bus and wait there.  We won’t be long.”

You will see on the left, the original St. Crispian’s Speech as Shakespeare wrote it.  On the right side our updated Cross Country Version in italics.  There may  be some mixing of the two dialogs, but the italics will help  you to separate them.   You may also reference the speech as delivered by Brannagh and Sir Laurence Olivier on the two links below.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-yZNMWFqvM  Kenneth Brannagh

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9fa3HFR02E   Laurence Olivier

George

The Life of Henry the Fifth

Wm. Shakespeare

Act 4  Scene III

The English Camp

The Characters:

Coach Harry, venerable coach of the Puxatony State Groundhogs XC team

The Runners:  Gloucester, a third year chemistry major, suspected of creating PEDs in his alchemy courses, Bedford, a transfer from Great Britain, said to be a former world class six miler,  Exeter, another English transfer from McNeese State, Erpingham, red shirt frosh out of East Texas, Salisbury, a born again runner from Timmons, Ontario, Westmoreland,
grad assistant recently retired from West Point.

Enter: Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, Saisbury and Westmorland

As W. Shakespeare did write                                  Updated Version (with apologies)

Gloucestor Where is the King?	Gloucestor Where the bloody hell is Coach Harry?
Bedford The King himself is rode to view the battle.	Bedford He sits in his golf cart looking o’er the cross Country course and laying strategy in his Seasoned mind.
Westmoreland   Of fighting men they have full three score thousand.	Westmoreland The Frogs are loaded with studs.
Exeter There’s five times; besides they are all fresh.	Exeter They’ve all been tapering and Harry’s dusted our arses at practice this Week!
Salisbury God’s arm strike with us!  ‘tis a fearful odds. God be wi’ you princes all; I’ll to my charge: If we no more meet till we meet in heaven, Then joyfully, my   noble Lord of Bedford, My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, And my kind kinsmen, warriors all, adieu!	Salisbury If God is on our side, but I fear He’s not, We’ll all be in shite by the mile mark. Good luck you hearty lads.  I’ll be over at the Coaches’ tent quaffing suds and watching The JV and varsity races on my IPad. Meet you at the vans afterward.
Bedford Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck go With thee!	Bedford Best to ya, Sali, (Aside to Exeter)  Hell be rollin’ in shite Himself after that JV race.
Exeter Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day: And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour	Exeter Luck, Sali-Do your best That is all we can ask. (Aside to Bedford) Bleeding Sali stole my spikes!
Exit Salisbury	Exit Salisbury running like Hell
Bedford He is full of valour as of kindness: Princely in both.	Bedford Ack, he’s a two-faced lying Arshole.
Westmoreland O that we now had here But one ten thousand of these men in England That do no work to-day!   King Henry V What’s that he wishes so? My cousin West morelalnd?  No, my fair Cousin: If we are make’d to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The few men, the greater share of honour. God’s will!  I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dewll not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God’s peace!  I would not lose so great an honour As one man fore, methinks, would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart, his passport shall be made And crowns for convoy put into his purse: We would not die in that man’s company That fears his fellowship to die with us, This day is called the feast of  Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this da, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, and say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’ Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars. And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day’. Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot, But hell remember with advantages What feats he did that day:  then shall our names. Familiar in his mouth as household words Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick, and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember’d; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; Shall be my brother, be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap while any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.	Westmoreland Why can’t we recruit a few more milers Like we did in Viet Nam? To get a better body count?   Coach Harry What’s that freakin’ Westmoreland trying To pull over on me? I gave him that grad assistant job ‘Cause our mothers are sisters, and He goes behind my back, the laut. I’d rather run with five guys, lean And mean than take them down with numbers. Get those JV’s out of my sight! Those high school wonders all wanting Full rides, they never produce. I’m down to my jockstrap for a budget. All I want is to win this f---ing District. AAnd I’ve no more spikes to hand out. The bloody Exchequer sends us Nike Tailwinds when I ordered Mizunos. If we can get by Michigan we’ll win the Nationals on the Terre Haute come St. Crispin’s Day. Have faith, cousin Westy, do not seek one More replacement, if you value your assistantship. Let any of these Slackers who is not ready to give 110% just get on the bus right now and never show himself again at practice. Today is the feast of Saint Crispian, And even though we are a state sponsored University, we will undo that PC sanction and honour our saintly heritage. And someday when we are Old Farts Redundant, So shall we pull up our trouser legs and show Off our spiking scars at the Legion Hall. And the lads swilling the cheap beer will Remember our names- Coach Harry, Bedford, Exeter, Warwick, and Talbot, Salisbury, and Gloucester.  They will teach Their sons and daughters now, and St. Crispin shall never go by without the world Remembering how we few, we happy few, We band of brothers: did meet the test, Achieved and sustained lactate threshold, and crossed the line in Victory!! Those who did not answer that call but instead stayed home watching porn stroking their senseless tattoos when we are honored with our teammates on St. Crispin’s Day.
Re-enter Salisbury	Re-enter Salisbury
Salisbury My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed.  The French are bravely in their battles set. And will with all expedience charge on us.	Salisbury Coach, enough with the small talk. We haven’t even pinned our numbers on our beating Breasts. We need some run outs.  The Frogs are all on the line ready to go.
King Henry V All things are ready, if our minds be so.	Coach Harry It’s mind over matter, Lads! I'll spike those bloody numbers on yer tits. To hell with run outs!
Westmoreland Perish the man whose mind is backward now.	Westmoreland Salisbury has my f---king spikes fer Chrissakes!
King Henry V Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?	Coach Harry Then run barefoot, Westmoreland You sorry piece of rotting codfish!
Westmoreland God’s will, my liege, would you and I alone Without more help could fight this royal battle.	Westmoreland Okay, Coach, but don’t say I didn’t warn ye.
King Henry V Why, now thou hast unwish’d five thousand men; Which like me better than to wish us one. You know your places; God be with you all!	Coach Harry We can pull this off, my Boys, You’ve just got   to believe in Yourselves.  An may the Almighty light a fire Under your collective arses.
ENTER MOUNTJOY A MESSENGER FROM THE FRENCH	ENTER MOUNTJOY THE BROTHER IN LAW OF THE OPPOSING COACH
Mountjoy Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry. If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, Before thy most assured overthrow; For certainly thou art so near the gulf, Thou needs must be englutted. Besides in mercy, The constable desires thee thou wilt mind Thy followers of repentance; that their souls May make a peaceful and a sweet retire From off these fields, where, wretches, their Poor bodies must lie and fester.	Mountjoy (at coaches’ meeting) Well, Harry, you can pull out now and go Home before your lads lay strewn across Bloody meadow, spiked to shreds, Achilles ruptured, ACL’s torn.  They’ll Naught be ready for the indoor season. You’ll have to red shirt the lot. Go home now and suffer no more Humiliation at our hands.  Indeed We are on our home turf.  You shall Rot in the sun.
King Henry V Who hath sent thee now?	Coach Harry First of all, where the f—k did you get a name Like Mountjoy?  Did you grow up in a field of pansies?  I pull out from no man or woman  or goat for that matter. And who sent you with this message of Foreboding?
Mountjoy The Constable of France	Mountjoy “Tis the surrogate of the French, one Dassler from the Rhineland, Purveyor of  magic footwear that will Make us invulnerable to your fearsome Farm lads.  Beware the ‘drei Reimen’ (three stripes)  Shall  leave a mark on your backsides!
King Henry V I pray thee, bear my former answer back: Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones. Good God! Why should they mock poor fellows thus? The man that once did sell the lion’s skin While the beast lived, was killed with hunting him. A many of our bodies shall no doubt Find native graves; upon th which, I trust, Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work: And those that leave their valiant bones in France, Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, They shall be famed, for there the sun shall greet them, And draw their honours reigning up to heaven; Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime, The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France. Mark then abounding valour in our English, That being dead, like to the bullet’s grazing, Break out into a second course of mischief, Killing in relapse of mortality. Let me speak proudly: t3ell the constable We are but warriors for the working-day; Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch’d With rainy marching in the painful field; There’s not a piece of feather in our host— Good argument, I hope, we will not fly— And time hath worn us into slovenry: But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim; And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night They’ll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck The gay new coats o’er the French soldiers’ heads And turn them out of service.  If they do this—As if God please, they shall, -- my ransom then Will soon be levied.  Herald, save thou thy labour; Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald:They shall have none, I swear, I swear, but these my joints;Which if they have as I will leave ‘em them,Shall yield them little, tell the constable.	Coach Harry I tell you, Man, take this my answer back To your Kraut purveyor, that your offer to Retreat insults us too much to accept. There will be no baby cast out with the Bath upon this playing field. We’d rather leave our bones dissected on Your campus to fester and reek sores Upon your coeds’ arses, than walk away from  our fate with tails ‘twixt our sweaty loins. Let me say with pride that we are Gay Warriors cloaked in Crimson and Gold and Fuschia though a bit soiled from this Incessant French reign, if you would so deign  permit a wretched pun.  Is there no decent dry cleaner in this forsaken Land?  Our secret is a second wardrobe, Versache No Less.  While you French must be content with your Derivative Dior and Louis Vuitton purses. You will go running backwards  from these fields bare-arsed when we English are Finished with our work.  Come no more with Offers of surrender, dear Mountjoy, or you will learn what it means to be a Mount of Joy.
Mountjoy I shall, King Henry.  And so fare thee well: Thou never shalt hear herald any more.	Mountjoy You shall hear no more from the likes of me, Coach Harry.  You, Sir, may mange de la merde!
ENTER YORK	ENTER YORK
York My Lord, most humbly on my knee I beg The leading of the vanguard	York Coach, please do, please let me set the pace On the first mile.  A 4:15 is within my legs.
King Henry V Take it, brave York.  Now soldiers, march Away. And how thou pleases, God, dispose the day!	Coach Harry Take it out hard, fair York. And let your elbows do the talking. And should God care a hoot This day will be England’s and You shall wear the noble Boot.
EXEUNT	OFF THEY GO

                         I must say this adaptation of Henry V, the Battle of Agincourt, Shakespeare, Harry Groves, and all the minions both then and now is a classic in the best form of the word.  Your GPA at Oklahoma (2.45) belies your knowledge of history and literature as well as your ability to link the two in writing.  What a joy to read this as I attempted to place myself back in 1415, or 1974, or 2013, or any other time when groups of men and boys lined up across from each other or side by side to do battle.  I am pleased to have lived in this era when the competition only made you want to throw up rather than pick an arrow out of your chest due to the ingenious invention of the longbow.  This was your best entry.

  Bill Schnier