In my
first ever official track race I ran a 6:15 mile. Mom talked me into
joining the school team because she thought it would be good for me. I
was put on the junior varsity squad because I'm only a seventh grader and can't
really compete with the bigger, faster ninth graders.
The
greatest thing about my first race is that I came from behind on the final lap
to barely beat out this kid from the other school. It was a battle of
wills down to the wire. For once in my life, I triumphed. Everyone
was watching me dig in deep, give it my all, mustering a hidden strength they
didn't know I possessed. They'd been screaming at me to pass him the
whole time, so I did, with every ounce of effort that I had. I'd been
about five feet behind him for most of the race. On that final lap, the
coach got right up in my face as I passed him, injecting me with the extra
encouragement I needed to catch him.
Several people congratulated me after I beat him, but not my friend Will. He just shrugged it off like it was nothing. And why should he? I finished behind him and got third in the JV race. I should have been the one congratulating him.
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