Lion and Magic Boy

The important thing was, I practiced. I was entered in not only the 50-yard dash, but also in the grueling 440. Only eight years old, but obviously with a promising track career ahead of me, this was to be my big debut.

So I practiced.

Oh, well, I did practice the running a little, taking off from a standing start for the 50-yard dash, and making my way all the way around the track for the 440, but the real practice was of course in my head.

Everyone knows now that the race is won before it’s even begun, right? It’s all really in your head, isn’t it? So I was just a little ahead of my time.

Every spare moment, even in the bathroom, I practiced, for weeks. Over and over again I saw myself flying over the finish line, yards ahead of all opponents, and then, the most important part, humbly stepping forward and accepting my ribbon. Not just any color ribbon, but the ribbons I won were all blue.

Race day dawned bright and sunny. I felt no trace of nervousness as the family made its way to the track. After all, hadn’t I run these races thousands of times in my head? I knew what was going to happen.

Crack! went the starter’s pistol, and we were off running the 50-yard dash. But what’s happened? Why is everyone running so far ahead of me? Why do I seem to be running in slow motion? An afterthought, I finally crossed the finish line, yards behind my opponents.

This wasn’t how it went, so many times before, in my mind.

Well, no matter, there’s always the 440. Maybe I’m not cut out to be a sprinter anyway, but distances, I was always better in the distance race, wasn’t I?

There are three of us. The other two girls look meaty, tough. I’m scrawny next to them, but I know it’s the lean look of the distance runner. No problem.

Crack! goes the pistol again, and we’re off. The meaty girls are fairly flying, and soon they’re way ahead of me. Time slows down, almost to a crawl, matching my own crawl around the enormous track, the track that stretches and elongates with my every step.

I have time to think now as I plod along.

My humiliation is apparent. I am so much slower than the two meaty girls, now nearing the finish line. The important thing now is not to be a focus of attention. I can feel every eye upon me. I must make a decision, and quickly.

The decision is obvious: I must make myself invisible. The race is already over for the meaty girls, and two-thirds of the way around the track I suddenly veer off the track into the infield, hoping to melt into the crowd. I disappear, alone, invisible, humiliated.

Later my parents asked me why I left the race (isn’t it obvious? I howl silently). After all, I would have had a ribbon even if I finished. A white one. Third place.

But I know that white isn’t the same as blue. And a ribbon, just for finishing, is like awarding a slap, just for being there.