Izzy and her sister, Natalie, stepped onto the asphalt at Bergman’s Running Track on Norm Street. This was Izzy’s favorite time of day. Quiet. The sun was rising. Izzy began to run, slowly at first, then speeding up. By the time she reached Natalie again she was at full speed. “Time?” asked Izzy. “Two-thirty,” replied Nat. “Yes!” Izzy exclaimed. “One more time.” The big race, three miles, was three weeks away—so far yet so near. Izzy spent afternoons practicing with her teammates. She practiced at the track near her house on Saturdays. Natalie, who raced for her high school, went along. Nat made Izzy feel confident. She was pretty and kind. Izzy admired her. She was a streak when she ran yet she was so happy and carefree. She would never be like Nat but oh how she wished. Izzy was also a little competitive with Nat. Izzy sort of thought it was good to be a little competitive. Maybe. For the next hour, Izzy pushed herself to beat her best time. She loved running and the sensation of wind against her face at top speed. But she also wanted to win. “Let’s stop for a drink,” Natalie suggested. Izzy was glad. She was hot and sweaty. It was not an uncomfortable feeling, just a little feeling saying “mission accomplished.” They headed to Brooks convenience store, where she bought a bottle of water. Then they walked up Norm Street towards home. “On your mark, get set, go!” instructed Natalie Every Saturday, Izzy kept to the same routine: she got up with her sister at five AM, worked out at the track until seven and returned home a half hour later. At ten, her best friend Jessie would come by During those hours, Izzy amused herself by trying to watch a movie (Harry Potter), or reading a book (Harry Potter) or fitting together the pieces of a puzzle (Harry Potter), though she could hardly pay attention. Finally, ten o’clock came and so did Jessie. She tapped out the secret knock, although it wasn’t very secret anymore. The door swung open and the two friends gave each other a quick hug. They grabbed some Power Bars and left for the pool. That was how it went every Saturday. Izzy liked it. * * * It was the last Saturday before the race. Jessie had decided to join Izzy and Natalie for their Saturday routine. “On your mark, get set, go!” instructed Natalie. Izzy and Jessie ran and ran. On this morning, Izzy didn’t notice the wonderful silence or the beautiful sunrise. “Time?” Izzy breathed after finishing twelve hard laps, hopping from one foot to the other. “Thirty-five minutes flat,” Natalie replied. “Not bad for three miles,” Jessie said, trying to laugh. She was trying to be funny but Izzy could tell she was worrying about the race. They practiced for another hour, trying. Izzy and Jessie were pleased. Better. “You’ve got a whole week to practice,” Natalie said. Her words were reassuring, but seven days didn’t seem enough. When they got home Izzy and Jessie were exhausted. No swimming. * * * Izzy’s time was improving, but butterflies were beginning to form in her stomach. They came flying in as the day drew nearer. And finally just when there was no room for another butterfly, not even a moth, it was time. Izzy and Jessie arrived twenty minutes early, as did the rest. The girls greeted each other with chatter. They warmed up alongside the track. Parents, teachers and friends arrived. Then noise. “I’m scared,” Izzy whispered to Natalie, who stood with her. “Don’t worry you’ll do fine,” she replied. Izzy took her place on the track. The whistle blew. Before Izzy could think, her legs were carrying her. Going, going, Izzy felt so tired and she began to slow. It seemed like forever before the finish line came into view. And it seemed even longer before she crossed it. Everyone else was there already, it seemed. She had failed. Izzy had thought she was a good runner and now what? Should she quit? She sat down with the rest of her team. She couldn’t hear the loudspeaker as it called out the winners. Tears pressed hot behind her eyes. She looked down. This was more than embarrassing. * * * Weeks went by, races were missed. Practice didn’t go well either. Nothing could comfort Izzy. She hadn’t run for days. You’d have to be very smart to think of anything that would upset Izzy more than this, but your guess would probably be wrong anyway. Almost every day Natalie would ask, “Are you sure you don’t want to run today?” And Izzy would always say, “Just leave me alone!” One day, Jessie sat down beside Izzy in her room to talk. “We’ve been losing all this time and if you don’t start coming to practices today we won’t get to go to the championship race. You need to be back. And I miss you with me.” “Huh?” Izzy was stunned. “You’re a great runner, Izzy.” “But I let you down,” Izzy sighed, “didn’t I?” “You didn’t. You were nervous. Everyone has those days. Don’t let a silly little race tear you away from something you love,” Jessie explained reassuringly. “Really?” Izzy asked excitedly. “Yeah,” was Jessie’s calm answer. Izzy felt like crying. “Thanks,” was all she could say. “So will you win?” asked Jessie. Her tone had changed. Now it was determined. Izzy nodded. They hugged, then walked out the door of Izzy’s house and headed to go—what else?—running. As she sprinted, wind whipping at her hair, a smile crossed her face. She was back. * * * Izzy and Jessie were the first runners at the championship race. Then the crowd and then noise. But Izzy didn’t hear the noise; she was happy. “On your mark. Get set. Go!” Izzy knew exactly what to do. She felt like wind. Sunlight shown on her cheeks, her heart bursting with joy.
Sports
Flying
STARTING LINE I roll my head from side to side in an attempt to be nonchalant. My teammates look at me questioningly, and then ask, “Can we go now?” impatiently. I nod vaguely, lead them in a jog for about thirty meters, then turn around and run briskly back to the starting line. Once there I straighten my tie-dyed knee socks and perform an exaggerated walk in place. I glance at my teammates, making sure only five of our runners are in the front row and checking to see that everyone’s shoelaces are tied. I focus my gaze ahead as a man walks out before the competitors and gives a brief introduction, giving the usual instructions of there being two commands, one which is vocal, and then the sound of the gun. The man disappears in the herd of runners, and another walks out. He utters the familiar phrase, “Runners set.” There is a brief pause, and then the resounding sound of a pistol pierces the air. I am off. * * * RUNNING The sight of the other runners disappears in a flash, and the grass is rolling under my feet. My sneakers are white trimmed with red, accenting my maroon socks and uniform flawlessly. I glance back quickly as I round the bend; I am already breaking away, but not quite as rapidly as I would like. I pick up my pace, knowing that once I reach the woods I may slow down to my 3K pace and compensate for my overly swift start. I am already breaking away, but not quite as rapidly as I would like I leap over the railroad tracks and head toward the pond, only slightly aware of the crowd standing on either side of me, applauding politely Leaping over an obstacle reminds me of a book written by one of my favorite authors, and I run through the plot briefly in my head; anything to keep my mind off the rhythm of my breathing or the length of my strides, so that I may just enjoy the run and feel the wind rushing against my face. It’s a chilly day, and it will be even colder in the woods, so I pump my arms vigorously to keep the warmth flooding through my body. The pond is calm today, the water a calico sheet of tranquility. My breathing is shallow, so I concentrate on the tune of a beloved song and transform my jagged inhalation into a placid rhythm. I swivel my head, hopefully for the last time during this run, and am relieved to note that the other competitors are hardly in sight now. I relax my muscles and move briskly toward the edge of the forest. As I enter the kingdom of greenery and timber a slight breeze rustles ever so slightly through the trees. My energy is repeatedly replenished by this mellow gust of wind, and I continue on down the woodland path before me. There are no other sounds save the languid tones of my sneakers slapping the ground with ease, and I seem to not even be aware when the terrain ascends and I begin to run on an uphill slope. In time I see a clearing up ahead, and feel a twinge of regret that I am leaving the peaceful solitude of the forest’s haven, but it is only slight for I know that the finish line is near. As I approach the source of the sunlight and the crowd standing in the midst of it I alter my running style. I allow my breathing to become slightly more labored, and increase the length of my strides, no longer placing them in front of me in a carefree and thoughtful fashion, but in a deliberate and competitive manner, trying to look as though all I have been thinking about the entire race is a blue ribbon. For I am now exiting the woodland sanctuary in which I may camouflage with my surroundings and enjoy the scenery. Now I am a runner, and am human once more. I feel pain in my legs, and a familiar sensation of exhaustion as I round the bend, and see clearly ahead of me the true definition of a cross-country course, linear and concise in its layout. * * * FLYING I hear a roar of applause as I enter the clearing, and dimly note the crowd of spectators on either side of me, some of them wearing uniforms like myself, whereas others are garbed in merely everyday apparel. There is the part of me that notices them, that is for certain. But there is another portion of my being that is oblivious to my surroundings completely Suddenly the coldness of the day is nothing, and I no longer have to squint to shield the sun from penetrating my lashes. I no longer feel the fatigue in my legs, and exhaustion is no longer a factor. My awareness of leaping over the railroad tracks on the way back is minor, and the sight of the finish line inconsequential. I am flying, but without the need of wings. Spreading a vast drapery of brightly colored plumage is utterly unnecessary; for I am already soaring through the air effortlessly, unconscious of my environment, hardly feeling my feet hit the soil repetitively. I am impregnable. And then the sensation is gone, and I see the finish chute thirty yards ahead. * * * FINISH LINE I cross the powdery white strip on the grass at a clocking of nine minutes and eighteen seconds. I sway to the side slightly and then regain my balance, breathing deeply as I stroll down the walkway, my hand skimming the rope fencing on either side of me for a sense of support. My mother approaches on the other side of the finish chute and I greet her, bringing a hand over my brow dramatically to give her an understanding of my fatigue. A race official hands me a
Moonbeams into Eternity
Sixty surfers sat like giant black spiders, fangs bared, waiting to strike out and take one wave. Only one surfer could ride a wave at a time, which poisoned the air with the tense gas of ruthless competition. This was Trestles, a place where waves rolled like moonbeams into eternity Because of this phenomenon, Trestles attracted crowds of people like termites to a rotting log. My first time at Trestles was like a race in wheel-spinning mud. Of the two to three waves I caught, I only rode one all the way in. It seemed like every time I paddled for a wave, I missed the wave by five feet—just three more paddles and I would have caught each one. I felt frustration like an icy hot pad— cold with glum depression and hot with frustrated aggravation. Like a pot of moldy mush, I slunk back out to the treacherous takeoff zone on my surfboard. * * * “ It’s firing,” Chance, my surf coach, gleefully shouted 1 through the telephone. “The set waves are rolling in like dinner courses at a five-star restaurant.” “Really?” I asked anxiously. I was a little nervous about going to Trestles again after my first disastrous experience. At the same time, I was excited to give the world-class waves another try. “Yes, it’s two- to three-foot overhead, with an occasional four-foot.” I have gotten used to this jargon. One “head” is usually considered about six feet. So in this case, we were talking about set waves with an eight- to nine-foot face and occasionally one with a ten-foot face, which is the front of the wave. With a few swift- strokes and a squeal of delight I stood up on perfection itself “I’ll pick you up after school,” Chance said cheerfully. Excitement bored a tingly shivery hole in my stomach, and my hands started to sweat. Swookachsh! Chance and I stood on the beach getting ready to change while waves like charging elephants rolled through the mossy rock point. Salty mist filled my lungs with new hope. “This is it,” he said as we began to paddle through the molten cloudy fluff. As I sat in the lineup to wait for a wave, venomous glares from the salt-crusted spiders pierced me. Who is this newcomer? they asked with speculative beady eyes. I tried to return their fierce stares, but failed and only managed a shivering glance. “Whoa, that’s a big wave,” I exclaimed to Chance, pushing my electric-green board through the wall of blue gel. “Shhh!” he replied with a cranky frown. “Don’t say that.” “Why?” I asked, curious at the harshness in his normally calm and easygoing voice. “I’ll tell you later, but don’t say that again.” A wall of sea glass danced toward me, and I paddled eagerly toward it with a salivating smile to ride its treasures. Excitement rattled my bones. There was no one to steal it from me. I was in the right spot and had the right-of-way. My silver fingertips shattered the smooth glass wall with repeated strokes of eagerness and delight. With a push from bubbly nature herself, I glided down the face of the wave, my fins slicing the shimmering sea like silver knives through honey butter. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the slicing of yet another board. My screaming smile suddenly shimmered and then was blown out. Frantically, I shouted and waved at the rider to get off of my wave, but he just ignored me and pretended I wasn’t even there. I tried to get next to him so that he would see me, but when I got close, he snapped a big turn and sprayed me in the face. Blinded by salty sea tears, I fell and smashed into the bottom of the sea. * * * “Hey, Gromulet!1 What’s up?!” Chance cheerfully asked me a few days later. “Trestles is going off. The swell’s picked up and it’s going to be perfect after school.” “Can we go somewhere else?” I groaned. “Because last time I ended up at the bottom of the sea.” “Nah. We’re going to Trestles. It’s just that last time you did everything wrong. You have to keep your mouth shut when you go out there because if you don’t they’re just going to take advantage of you. For example, if you say the waves are big, they will think that you are a novice and won’t let you catch any waves. Also, you have to strategize and get your spot in the pecking order. Right off the bat, catch a couple waves and do some good turns to let every one know that you mean business. Oh yeah—one reminder: whoever is the deepest2 has the right-of-way. So if you can manage to get the deepest every time, you’re gonna get all the waves.” The next day at Trestles, I sat amongst the giant black spiders again. But this time, I was ready. When I was on the beach, I had told Chance, “If anyone wants to take my waves I say, ‘Bring on the heat.” “That’s the right attitude buddy” Chance had said, grinning. Paddling up the point, I wore my stoniest face and said nothing. When the first couple five- to six-foot waves rolled through, I was as ready as a rattlesnake. It was my turn to strike. I nimbly paddled to the deepest place possible and dug my fingernails into the rampaging wave. Then with one last blast of effort, I stood up and claimed my first wave for that day at Trestles. I dug my fins deep and threw huge sprays. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw the spiders staring their beady eyes at me. But this time it was not with a look of condescension, but with admiration and respect. My eyes shimmering with happiness, I paddled out hungry for a set wave. I waited and waited, letting many mediocre sets go by. Then the wave came. It was
