a sporting memory

Grade 1, week 1. The first athletics competition of the year, and the first of my 6 year old life.

Timid child that I was, I was already nervous of the teachers, the other children (I had already been teased because of my wild hair), the starter's gun going off and the chaos of milling children and teachers. My parents were watching, and I sensed the unspoken hope of my dad that his eldest child will be good at sports. Poor Dad, hahaha!

The teachers got the straggling line of grade ones in line, and Bang! went the starter's gun.

I ran. I was doing well, not first, but in the first five or so. But, as always in life (though that was my first lesson of it) it is one's insecurities that trip you up.

I looked back, and stepped in a small depression in the ground. I stumbled, fell, ploughed several feet, heard the "Ahhhhh!" from the crowd, got up and looked towards my parents. They were making signs that said, "Run on! Go on!" So I did.

I ran to the end, but ended last. Last. After my good beginning I ended last. I was mortified.

And although I did participate in athletics until I was about 15, I never gained back the confidence of that first few minutes of running at the front.