Memoirs of an Outstanding* Teen

Chapter 4: Run To Melt The Pain Away

That Friday was grade-8s Athletics day. Now at my previous school, there was almost zero attention paid to sports. We had inter-house athletics - if you can call them that - only once a year, and it was basically where everyone that wanted to run around could run around for fun. But if you had no interest sports, then you could also just sit at the pavilions and watch other people suffer. At my new school, that was no so much the case. Every single one of the grade 8s had to participate in the athletics, and the only way out would be a doctors' note.

I believe I could have left with at least four medals that day. If they awarded medals to the worst person on the team that is. At almost all the events, I was beyond horrible. We started out with shotput, and I nearly followed the shotput into the sand while throwing it. At the long jump, I kept stepping over the little red line that you're supposed to launch from, and when I finally managed to avoid that, I landed like half a meter into the sand.

Then came the high jump. If, for some reason, you still had hope that I wouldn't completely embarrass myself, this is where your hopes get crushed. The mechanics of a high jump are very simple: You just run up to the bar and jump over it. If you're a good jumper, you'll go over it with your back first, but if you're a forced grade-8 student who has no interest in going to the Olympics, you could just jump over the pole like you're jumping over a puddle of water, legs first. That was allowed too. A lot of the other kids did it. But I did none of those things. Somehow, the fear of all things holy was placed in me when I ran up to that pole. I kept running up to the pole, and freezing right in front of it. No jump. I did it once, the ref just asked me to try again. I did it the second time, a couple of my fellow grade 8s shouted, "Just over it with your legs." I did it the third time, now everyone was just laughing. Did I think it was a snake that would strangle me? Did I think it would suddenly grow arms and stab me? I don't know.

When it came to the last event, the 100m, I was already depressed and demoralized. I sat down on the grass with my bag on my legs, fighting tears away. I watched the first group dash down to the finish line. And somehow it looked like that sheer physical exertion would take away the pain I felt. I watched the second group go by, and I wanted to be that girl that was pushing herself so hard she must have forgotten all her troubles. The third group was up. My group. I had made my decision: I was going to push myself as hard as I can for this run, even if I didn't end up getting first place.

"On your marks. Get set. Go." And I powered my legs with all the pain, all the frustration I had gone through that entire day and that entire week. I pumped my arms, and each gust of air exhaled seemed to leave my body along with all the un-cried tears.

I was first to cross the finish line. And when I walked back to give the ref my name and class, I wore the first smile I had worn that entire day.

My joy did not last very long though. I discovered that even though I was first in my group, I was fifth overall and could therefore not go through to the inter-house meet. But at least I didn't completely suck this time, right?

Later, as I waited for my dad to come pick me up, I overheard a couple of girls talking about how they discovered they excelled at so many things:

"I came first in shot put and the discus, and I was second in the high jump" "Oh really? I was first in the long jump, the 800m and the 100m." Clearly, these girls had had a very different day from my own.