[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]
I have never been a natural athlete—except once.
In seventh grade, age 12, our PE class did a track and field unit. Coaches were scouting for talent. They set up all the equipment, and on that particular day I was the best high jumper in my middle school. Better than boys who were two years older than me. My form was perfect. It felt smooth and effortless. I floated and flew. I was in the zone.
What a tremendously exhilarating feeling!
The coaches urged me to join the track team, so I did.
And never came close to duplicating that spectacular performance again.
I competed in high jump and long jump for three seasons, and stayed stubbornly mediocre at both. Whatever magic I’d had that day was gone.
I did notch one triumph I’m proud of. Track meets are scored on a point system. The team that tallies the most first-, second-, and third-place points wins. At one meet, I was warming up to do poorly in the long jump when I noticed an 880-yard race about to begin with only one runner, so I ambled over and checked in.
My competitor shot off like a caffeinated jaguar, while I plodded out the half mile choking on his cloud of dust. My coaches and teammates did a double-take, then cheered me on! I earned the second-place points for my team! A heroic heads-up play!
To this day, coming in second in a two-person race is my greatest athletic accomplishment.
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