My Precious Track Ribbon

 My sixth-grade institution of higher learning, Crooked Creek Elementary School, greeted spring as it unfolded in central Indiana. The early 19th century school building was a nondescript brown-brick structure with an impressive archway at its enterance. Six flights of worn steps led to my third-story classroom where I had just a few days left until I would move to the big-time adventure of being a junior high student.

The weather cooperated and gave us a sunny, warm May day for the all-school Spring Festival. Students from the six grades got a welcome break from the dreary classrooms as we gathered west of the building on playgrounds that bordered Washington Park Cemetery. Spirits were high despite circulating rumors that the graves there were leaking into the school's water supply.

Among other events the festival featured a boys' track meet. I was far from being a track star but somehow wound up participating. Competitors received red, blue and white ribbons as awards for first through third places. The rest... and I was among the rest... went empty-handed. Participation trophies remained a part of the far-distant future. The cool guys had ribbons. I had a T-Shirt unblemished by anything that resembled achievement. I envied the guys walking around sporting multiple ribbons while I remained a part of the naked-shirt underclass. 

Having competed with a broad jump that wasn't very broad and a high jump that wasn't very high, my final effort was as a part of a four-man relay team. The school jocks had banded together to form their own teams and my group of also-rans lined up with three or four other teams knowing full-well the two teams of real athletes would run away with it. 

We took our positions around the track. Shortly after the starting gun it was apparent the red and blue ribbons were a lost cause as the two teams of superstars ran way out front. I surveyed the large gap between the first two teams and the rest of the field with those runners chugging along like they were pulling dump trucks. 

It took a little while for it to sink in that the first group behind the speed-deamons was my team. I was the anchor man. I watched... almost in horror... as my team members handed the baton off to one another while maintaining that coveted third place. I practically had an out of body experience as our third runner approached, handing me the baton.

I grabbed it and ran like my chubby little butt was on fire. The relay was only one time around a quarter mile track. I only had to go a little over 100 yards, but it seemed like five miles. I didn't look back. I didn't have to. I knew I would soon see another runner sail past me; but it never happened. I crossed the finish line and snagged a precious white ribbon for all my team members and, most importantly, for me.

I pinned that ribbon on my shirt and strutted around the spring festival like I had won an Olympic event. No longer was I one of the ribbonless slags aimlessly wandering the festival. Someone else could envy me now. I was cool. I had a ribbon that was so important it hangs on my wall to this very day.