It was early spring
of my sixth grade year. Water puddles covered the lower end of
the playground, and temperatures were cold enough that the water
froze over at night. We still wore our winter coats to school,
and some of us wore galoshes. Those black rubber overshoes were
ugly beyond words, but they fastened tightly to mid-calf, protecting
us from snow and rain. When spring began to show, however, we
wouldn't bother to connect the metal fasteners, letting the pleated
fabric flop open and the fasteners jingle as we walked and ran
at recess. We thought the boots looked better this way.
The upper elementary
grades in my school had just begun practicing for the annual track
meet in May. We competed against our respective grades from the
only other grade school in the small Iowa town where I grew up.
We'd already run a series of races in physical education class
to determine who were the fastest girl and boy runners in each
grade. Later the best runners would be selected to compete in
the 50 and 100-yard dashes and to be part of the relay teams.
The fever of competition burned in those who were among the best.
In a recent trial, I had proved myself to be the fastest sixth-grade
girl.
My counterpart was
a boy named Max. Having been held back several times during the
course of his grade school career, Max was a good two years older
than the other sixth graders. He was also bigger and perhaps more
cunning than any other child on the playground. Max knew a far
less comfortable family life than most of us enjoyed. His unfortunate
school record and home life had made him an outsider. The girls
were all a little afraid of him. Now Max had achieved the fortunate
distinction of being the fastest sixth grade boy.
But Max yearned for
more acclaim. At morning recess, he challenged me to a race. He
said the race would decide who was the fastest sixth grader. I
agreed without realizing the advantage of age and strength that
Max had over me. The sky was overcast and threatened rain that
day. I was more interested in huddling in conversation with my
girlfriends.
Word had spread that
an exciting race was about to be run, no doubt fueled by Max's
certainty that he'd be the winner. Soon we were standing side
by side at a designated line under the leafless branches of the
only tree on the playground. Our classmates gathered along the
course of the 50-yard distance we were about to run. Ever since
I was a little girl I'd been good at short bursts of speed, a
trait my mother told me we had in common. So I had my own kind
of confidence as I began the race.
I remember the cold
wind in my ears as I dashed forward, my mind focused on the thrill
of running as fast as I could. Max might just as well have not
been there for I gave no thought to him. Quickly the race was
over, and I had won. The crowd broke up, we finished our recess
time doing the usual things, and no one seemed to care much about
the outcome of the race.
Max cared more than
he probably should have. The next day he came up to me at recess
and asked for another race. "I forgot to take off my galoshes.
They kinda slowed me down," he explained, looking down at his
unfastened overshoes. "I know I can run faster than you."
I was an innocent eleven-year-old
who had lived a protected life and didn't know about the harsher
world that Max had surely experienced. I did know that my race
had been won fairly, so I didn't give him another chance. Only
later did I understand that his galoshes had evened the odds between
us.
