You know that moment in disaster movies when the camera pans across ordinary people just living their lives seconds before the asteroid hits or the tsunami crashes in? That’s what this feels like. A pack of Anaheim High School distance runners, all knees and elbows and oversized dreams, stretching against a brick wall after a workout. Waiting for the crosswalk signal like they’ve done a thousand times before. The mundane rhythm of high school athletics. Homework, practice, avoid the sketchy takeout place near campus. Then a blur of orange metal chews through the sidewalk. Bodies crumple like discarded water bottles. Blood on the concrete where spikes should be clicking. And just like that, eight kids learn the hardest lesson sports will ever teach them: Potential is fragile.

According to early reports, a 27 year old driver—already under investigation for driving under the influence—veered onto that Anaheim curb Wednesday afternoon. The aftermath footage plays like a grisly YouTube compilation nobody should ever see: teenagers splayed on asphalt beside a shattered sedan, backpacks and running shoes strewn like confetti at the world’s worst parade. This wasn’t some unavoidable tragedy. This was a Molotov cocktail of neglect: A driver allegedly too impaired to stay in his lane. A society too distracted to shield its kids. A sports culture that glorifies teenage dedication then abandons them to dodge traffic like Frogger characters.

Let’s talk hypocrisy. We demand these kids grind like pros. We coach them to shave seconds off mile times, to push through lactic acid burn, to rise at dawn for weekend meets. But when they step off school property? We toss them onto streets designed for commuters, not cross country runners. Remember that viral video of LeBron James’ SUV getting sideswiped while his son Bronny was inside? Every sports talk show host had takes about superstar privilege and armored cars. Where’s the outrage for Anaheim’s kids? Where’s the cavalry for anonymous runners who don’t have billionaire dads or Nike armor? We treat pro athlete safety like a Pentagon briefing while student runners navigate Thunderdome intersections with a single adult chaperone if they’re lucky. That’s not protocol. That’s a prayer.

This isn’t an isolated incident, it’s a pattern with receipts. Conor Lynch. A 16 year old Notre Dame runner killed by an SUV in 2010. Ohio’s 2016 horror show where three Toledo cross country athletes got mowed down by a motorhome driver who didn’t see them. We hold minute silences at meets. We hashtag Never Again. Then administrators shrug about limited budgets and distracted drivers like it’s hurricane season. Meanwhile, parents white knuckle steering wheels waiting for that phone call coaches dread making. How many memorial 5Ks must we run before politicians grasp that runner safety isn’t a niche issue? Every mile logged near traffic is a gamble where teens hold the weakest hand.

Here’s what no athletic director wants to admit: Running is the only sport where the playing field is essentially a minefield. Football players get concussion protocols and million dollar helmets. Baseball kids swing $400 bats inside fenced complexes. But distance runners? They’re handed reflective vests from the Reagan administration and told to dodge texting drivers between math class and AP Bio. It’s like sending gladiators into the Colosseum with plastic spoons instead of swords. The imbalance isn’t just unfair. It’s barbaric.

The human toll here radiates like a shockwave. For those eight Anaheim kids, the trauma isn’t just physical. When your sanctuary—the rhythm of sneakers on pavement, the ache of a good workout—gets violated by violence, how do you ever lace up without flinching? I think of marathon survivors from the 2013 Boston bombing. Some never raced again. Others limped across finish lines years later just to reclaim what the explosion stole. These Anaheim freshmen and seniors now face that same crossroads. The mental hurdles will dwarf any steeplechase they’ve ever faced.

And forget not the ripple effects. That track coach replaying whether they should’ve taken a different route. Teammates wondering if their joking delay tying shoes spared them. The driver’s family grappling with irreversible choices. Communities fracture over these events. Paranoid parents pull kids from sports. School boards erupt into shouting matches over liability. Lawsuits crawl through courts for years. All because we couldn’t be bothered to install protective bollards where runners cluster. To push for harsher DUI penalties. To treat pedestrian infrastructure like the lifesaving priority it is.

We’re better than this. Or we could be. Imagine if cities treated running paths with the same urgency as bike lanes. If police staked out school zones not just for speeding tickets but to actually shield young athletes. If booster clubs raised funds for barrier systems instead of just new uniforms. Picture corporations sponsoring runner safety initiatives like they do stadium naming rights. This isn’t rocket science. It’s basic respect for human life. Barcelona built superblocks restricting traffic in school areas. Dutch cities redesigned entire districts around pedestrians. Anaheim’s disaster proves America’s car obsession has become a death cult where teenagers are human sacrifice.

But here’s the twist that keeps me up nights. For all our collective hand wringing, we still glorify the “warrior mindset” in young runners. Coaches quote Prefontaine about giving anything less than your best being sacrilege. Social media feeds overflow with motivational edits of athletes training through monsoons and blizzards. That mentality breeds heroes. It also normalizes risk. When a culture romanticizes suffering, kids stop recognizing danger as anything but another obstacle to overcome. They shouldn’t need Navy Seal training just to survive tempo runs.

Sports will always carry bruises and sprains. That’s the contract. But when we send kids onto public roads armed only with hope and neon vests, we’re failing them. Anaheim’s nightmare isn’t just a crime scene. It’s a verdict. Guilty of complacency. Guilty of misplaced priorities. Guilty of building a sports industrial complex that churns out teenage dedication then abandons them at the curb. Until we demand changes—actual money spent, actual laws enforced—we’re all just rubbernecking at the next tragedy.

Eight runners went down Wednesday. But every one of us is collateral damage when we accept preventable carnage as the cost of doing business. Their road back starts with our willingness to finally open our eyes.