Hey Andy Lamb I can’t speak for anybody else, but for me success was failure. That is, there is no humble way to say this, my natural abilities in virtually every field were in the top percentile. Thus, everything that I tried, I excelled at from the first go. From the outside, people may have seen my winning of this and that as successes, but from my perspective, I didn’t understand how it was that I was winning.
Such as a Science fair in which I won first place in 4th grade for my research project. I did it on the potter’s wheel. I’d studied a lot of books, written a short essay, made a table top display of its history, made a potter’s wheel and made some little ceramic dishes that we had fired at a local artists kiln.
I remember it clearly. I had to stand and wait by my display as the judges made their rounds. They came up to mine, looked over the articles I had on the table and all I could think was how much better that could have looked and how much better the articles could have been. They read through the short essay, nodding their heads, all I could think was how much better that could have been. Then, they looked over the potter’s wheel and the articles I had made and I could hardly stand it. The potter’s wheel was garbage. The wheel was off center a bit and it looked crude. When they asked if I’d made that myself, I replied, “Yes, except for the pieces that had to be cut on the table saw, my father cut those.” Just a year or so prior to that, one of my older brothers had cut his thumb half off when he had been using the table saw. No guards or rails on it, just a blade jutting from a small metal table. I noticed though that they looked very impressed, which confused me.
Then they got to questioning me about potter’s wheels. As a double check to see if the kid actually did anything, I think. As I answered their questions, I was getting rather upset at how little I felt I knew about the subject, but I noticed that they now looked shocked and were looking around at each other in bewilderment. Which I now know was a “How does this kid know all of this?” look.
When they awarded me with the blue ribbon and first place, I thought for sure they were in error and I said as much. They laughed and began to go on about how impressed they were with what I had made and what I knew. Yet, I was confounded. I looked up and down the line of displays and kids and wondered just what was wrong with them. Maybe I’d been stuck with the wrong group or, I didn’t know. But it just didn’t feel right that I had won and such a big deal was being made, when from my own perspective, I could have done so much better.
There was once when I was proud of myself during that time though. It was when I came in 4th in the 200 meter dash. That doesn’t make much sense, but it will in a moment.
It was that same year and I was in the 4th grade. I was on the track team and that year I won 1st in the 3,200 meter relay, 1st in the 1,600 meter relay, 2nd in the 800 meter run, 2nd in the 800 meter relay and 4th in the 200 meter dash. Running the legs in the relays was nerve wracking, with that baton, I was the anchor leg in the 3,200.
The way the races were lined up that year, I ran the 800 meter solo run and then immediately after that race, I had to trot over to the start point for the 200 meter dash.
The 800 meter run was a bit crazy, my buddy who was a grade ahead of me and I were excellent at it. Our coach told us to pace each other until we reached the last corner and then to race each other until the finish line. As we reached that last corner, I looked back and saw that 3rd place was almost the whole straight behind us. I had paced right behind my buddy, so now I took to lane 2 to pass him. Then I saw, standing right in lane 2 and 3, two guys chatting, adults. Just standing there, right in my way. So I had to duck back behind my friend so I wouldn’t run into them. Boy, were they shocked to see us running. One of them turned to yell at us for running, the other yelled at the guy and said, “I think there’s a race going!”.
It’s a track meet. And this guy stands on the track and yells at kids for running past him. That was so surreal.
Entering the straight, I hit lane 2 again. My buddy was pushing really hard now. Wow, he desperately wanted to win this race. It was always a massive deal to him, this race winning. Myself, I cared only for how far I could push myself, that’s why I liked long distance running.
My buddy was hurting though. His breathing was hard, his steps a struggle and he looked like he was about to collapse. Shortly before this race, we’d gone to the little food vendors and against the vehement dictation of our coach, my buddy had bought a bunch of candy and wolfed it down. “It’ll give me energy!” he’d said. “You’ll barf all over the place, you’ll cramp up.” I’d replied.
With him beside me going down that stretch, half of me wanted to burst out laughing at him. About to vomit, after all of that practice, all of those miles and here, he’d done something foolish and hurt himself. Part of me felt really bad for him though. He wanted this so bad.
50 meters to go and we were nose and nose, he was possessed. I didn’t really care.
At the end of those long races, we’re supposed to give that “final push”, use up all you got. Well, I never cared for that bit, I didn’t care about edging out someone at the tape. What I liked to do was just hit a faster pace overall, try to make it so I hit the end, at the end.
I didn’t kick at the end of that race, I didn’t push it. The crowd was going nuts, and I was thinking, “Oh, if you only knew. This kid is about to puke all over the place.” My buddy won, he harnessed some demon for those last few meters and got a length on me. I don’t know that I could have beat him if I’d tried. Not on that day.
He crossed the line. Threw his hands up in victory. Then rushed over to the grass and puked all over.
I don’t know if that was a victory of a defeat for him. I had and still have mixed feelings about that 2nd place ribbon.
A few sips of water and across the field I went to start the 200 meter dash.
The 200 meter field of runners was a bit odd. As I waited for the announcement of lanes from the starter, us kids milled around. Some tall kid walked over to me, looking bemused. He was head and shoulders above me. He asked, “What grade are you in?”, I said, “I’m in the 4th grade, what grade are you in?”. He said, “I’m in the 8th grade”, he looked at me and said with a slimy smirk, “Good luck.”
Well, I sure hated that kid already. Condescending piece of shit. I was horrible at the 200 meter dash, I didn’t even know why I had been chosen to compete in it. A bit taller than average, but not much more than skin and bones. I was already helping my dad on his, on the side construction business, so I suppose I was strong. Hauling around cinder blocks, concrete and such.
My shoe was an issue. They were “special track shoes” acquired at the cheap shoe store. The sole of them curled up over the toes in a thin bit of rubber, with lines in it. I liked them, but now the season was almost over and the sole of the right shoe was coming loose, starting at the toe. During the 800 meter race just before, from the toe back, 1/5 of the sole was pealing off. Too late for glue now!
We lined up for the 200 meter dash, getting in our stances. That horrible bastard of a starters gun fired. Keen hearing is often a painful curse.
We took off.
This time I actually cared about, well, not winning. But beating that 8th grader at least. By my fifth or sixth step, the sole of my right shoe was half off. If flapped and whopped with each stride. Strides that I now had to modify a bit, so as to try and keep the shoe together.
Of the 8 racers, I came in 4th, I hadn’t expected to do anywhere near that well. I looked around after the finish. Over to the side, I saw that kid. He’d come in 5th and he was furious, shocked. “But, this isn’t supposed to happen!” I could see flashing through his mind.
Winning and losing can be such a subjective thing. I’ve won a lot, but I’ve always been so self critical that it has rarely felt as such. I’ve lost too and one of those losses, that 4th place in that 200 meter dash, it felt like the biggest win in my life up to that point. Because I didn’t think I’d be able to beat that big kid, but I did.
I knew lots of kids who sought adulation at all costs and they didn’t seem to care if they came by it honestly or not or if it was a significant win or not. They just wanted the public’s approval. I didn’t care, I just wanted my own approval and I’ve rarely got it.
As an aside. Here in the States, Soccer(your football) gets a lot of harsh criticism from sports people when it comes to the youth leagues. Because at the end of the seasons, every player on every team gets a trophy, regardless of how well that player or that team did.
One of my nieces played for years and one year, after she received her trophy, I asked her how well her team did. Because, although I’d been to a lot of her games, I hadn’t been to all of them. She replied that they’d never lost a game that season. So strange, they had a perfect record, yet, they got the same trophies as each team that they beat.
Anyways, thanks for inciting a jog down memory lane.