THREE LEGGED RACE
Fifth grade can define the rest of your life (A tad dramatic? Yes). The hierarchy was this: over-achievers and under-achievers. You could be a popular geek (cool), a trouble maker who aces exams (still cool), or a loser with bad grades (not cool).
I was not cool. I was an under-achiever, through and through. I had terrible grades and was not athletic in the least. Everyone says they were picked last, but seriously, I remember, I was always picked last for dodgeball, kickball, softball… you see the pattern. For our final PE class of the year we had to run the mile. I didn’t run, (still don’t) so I always finished last. It was just me and the asthma kid.
Jose and I are Facebook friends now.
But there was this one day where I felt true triumph: the three legged race.
Coach Z paired me up with Lucy. Short, skinny, down to Earth, freckled faced Lucy. As we crossed our arms over each other’s shoulders I realized our legs were even, we’re the same height! The race was about to start and we both agreed to take it slow and practice. We take the first step together and it goes well. Then the next step and the next. Coach Z blows the whistle and we’re off!
Holy schnikes, we’re running together! Everyone else was falling down. You could see the wind blowing through our hair (her hair was silky; mine was a bird’s nest). Ah, just me and my super twin crossing that finish line in glorious victory. The mere fact people were cheering for us (really her) felt amazing. To feel like a winner you need to be physically tied to a winner.
And then Coach said, “Switch partners.”
What? We’re not line dancing. I don’t want to give up my better half. Who the hell am I being paired up with?
Oh no…it’s Gordon.
Gordon was on the fast track to puberty; he already had facial hair, body odor, gapped teeth (those braces did nothing). He was like a ten year old rugby player.
Alas, there was nothing I could do. This Garbage Pail kid and I were paired up. We start to tie our ankles together. All of us were given yellow splintered nylon rope and the trick was to roll down your socks to create a soft barrier for your skin. But there wasn’t any time. We fumble to the starting line; I look up at him trying to establish eye contact. The whistle blows. He takes off running. Meanwhile, I’m being dragged across ant piles and prickly grass. This ogre looks down and realizes that a tiny human anchor is slowing him down. He picks me up by my head, presses me against his sweaty, jiggly gut (for the love of Disney he stunk) and we cross the finish line. He raises his hands in jubilation as I collapse on the ground. That nylon rope chafed my ankle raw. I had nothing but a bloodied sock and dirt in my shorts. I look over yonder and see my broken penny loafer left at the starting line (because of course I forgot my sneakers that day). I hobbled back to grab it.
As I return to the finish line, Gordon walks up and says, “We won! Wasn’t that fun?” I squint up at him, noticing his sweet goofy smile and said, “Yeah. It was. Good game, Gordo.”
The End.
