It was customary for the boys at Akron Central School to gather on the sidewalk before the morning bell rang announcing the start of each school day. Inspired by the Bruce Jenner's magic the previous summer in Montreal, we'd often we'd use the time challenging one another to foot races.
The course was a figure eight, the bottom of the eight somewhat pregnant looking as someone's hand was bumped while drawing it, or, like a child just learning to write his numbers. Or, like I'd drawn it.
The racers would start at the bottom of the eight, the point closest to the school building, and set off in opposite directions. Racing in this manner added to the excitement. You could hear the other kids cheering on their favorites, with little idea how the race was actually proceeding. Until you met your challenger. Of course, you wanted to meet your opponent on your way back if at all possible. This meant they were still on their way out, and you were winning.
Like I said. I was fast. Never lost a race in first or second grade. I attribute this to two things. One: sprinting down Bloomingdale Avenue to escape the older boys who often chased me after school with snowballs or just to poke fun at me because I was smaller. I know they were trying to kill me and would have torn me limb from limb given the chance. Thankfully, they never caught me. Because I was fast. And, because my big sister beat them up for me. Two: sprinting even harder down Hoag Avenue to escape the 492 extremely large dogs that resided at the corner of Hoag and Eckerson Avenue.
I'm not sure why there are so many 'Avenues' as opposed to 'Streets' or 'Ways' in Akron, NY. Apparently the main differences between an avenue and a street is that an Avenue is generally in a nicer area and leads to a particular building, for which it is named. Streets are just paved roads. Hoag, Bloomingdale, Eckerson and other Avenues in Akron were lovely, lined with proud beech, cedar and sycamore trees and lovely arts and crafts style houses constructed in the late 19th and early 20th century. But, as far as I know, there is no Hoag, Bloomingdale or Eckerson building. At the end of Hoag there is, a Ford Gum and Machine factory which was kind of fun.
I know, I digress. Those yapping, horrifyingly annoying dogs haunt me to this today, and I am quite sure are one large contributor to my speed as a 1st grader. Put one behind me now and I'm pretty sure I could give Usain Bolt a race. To keep things honest - there weren't 492 dogs living on that corner. And they were poodles. These facts are completely beside the point. The seven year old me was quite sure they'd eat me if they caught me. We will never know, because I was simply too speedy for the little devils.
Over time, I developed a reputation for my racing skills. Beat every boy in my grade so often they eventually refused my challenges. For a while, this was great. After all, everyone wants to be good at something; to make a name for themselves. It's as old as the tower of Babel.
Eventually, though, it got old. What's the use of being fast if there are no opportunities to be fast? There was really only option. I was going to have to race one of the older boys. The prospect of such a thing made me feel much smaller than I was; and slower. For one thing, racing them meant first talking to them.
Contemplating this locked my knees, made my hands sweat and caused the voices in my head to go silent. It was weird. Generally, upcoming conversations are preceded by said conversation taking place in my head. For instance, in this case, it would go something like this. I saw myself walking over the group of older boys waiting their turn to race, taking my place in line, watching race after race, sizing up the competition. Race protocol was much like open gym in basketball. The winner held court until defeat, the challenger then taking his place, and so on. I'd inch closer and closer to the front, getting some idea of what I was up against. Reaching the front of the line, I'd say 'I've got next,' again, following protocol. Simple enough.
In the real world, as one boy after another tried his luck against the day's champion, and I saw how fast this boy was, the 'conversation' played itself out in my head like this. I'd inch closer and closer to the front, getting some idea of what I was up against. Reaching the front of the line, I'd see that this kid was not only faster than me, but was one of the older boys my sister occasionally had to knock down for me, enabling me to run safely home from school. Instead of boldly claiming my right to run, I'd merely stare at my feet, trying to remember why I was there and what my tongue was for and did my mom pack me a chocolate or vanilla zinger today for lunch?
So, for about two weeks I strove to muster the courage to actually get in the older kids' line. Finally, my day came. I watched the first and second graders run a few races, but the boredom was too much. I wanted to race. I longed to feel the wind in my face; hear the pounding of feet, the cheering spectators. I wanted to win. And beating these kids again would not be winning.
With all the boldness I could find, I moved over to the older kids' line and took my place in the back. Thankfully, there were only 3 or 4 boys ahead of me, limiting the amount of time I'd have to fret.
It was a gorgeous, blue sunny day. Warm enough to shed jackets once out of one's mother's site. The sidewalk on both sides of the figure eight were lined with kids loving the arrival of spring.
Now, only 2 ahead of me. 'I've got next,' I rehearsed silently, watching the current race. The champ was fast. And he was one of the boys who chased me. At least six inches taller. Buzz cut. Our Gang t-shirt. Yellow fang like teeth I'm certain could have bit me in half. I hoped he was wearing himself out. I looked down. One ahead of me. I saw and heard none of that race.
'You racing, kid?' the champ asked. There was no threat in his voice. Nor was there a hint of fatigue. Not even heavy breathing.
'Ummm. Yes.' I muttered.
'Well?' Well, what? I had no idea what he was asking.
'You got next?' he cued me.
'Ummm. Yes.'
'Well?'
Lightbulb! 'I've got next.' It came out as much as a question as a challenge, but, nonetheless, I'd stated my case. Such as it was.
'Come on, then.'
Nimbly, I took my place on the right, challenger's side, of the figure eight. We waited.
Someone shouted, 'On your mark.' I took my stance, made sure my shoes were tied.
'Get set.' I squeezed my hands into a tiny fist, staring straight ahead. No way was I going to look at my opponent.
'GO!!!'
I took off as quickly as I could. The shouts of our audience fading from a flood to vaguely audible. I pumped my pencil thin arms and legs harder than I ever had in my life.
The sun's warmth hugged my face like a loving grandmother; my t-shirt clung to my tiny chest. The world was utterly silent.
I approached my turn at the top of the eight, exhilarated by the fact that the champion had not passed me yet. I had no idea where he was. Did I actually have a chance?
I saw myself reaching the finish line, kids who'd never so much as seen me 10 minutes before now chanting my name. They'd lift me onto their shoulders. I'd be the talk of the 3rd grade. A big deal for me, a 2nd grader. My nemeses would now all be of the four legged variety.
Then it occurred to me. I had no idea where anyone was.
Turning back, the reason for the silence became evident. I heard no cheering because there was none.
Everyone had gone inside. Including the champion. I wasn't beating him. I wasn't even racing him. The bell had rung. The sidewalk had become a ghost town. School was starting. I was late. I swear I saw a tumbleweed rushing past.
The silence now roared in my head, barely drowning out the gut wrenching emptiness in my stomach as my big chance evaporated.
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