The Starless Summer Games of 1997

"The Starless Summer Games of 1997"
Oliver D. Anderson

As a child, I remember dreaming of some day being a famous football player like the ones my dad would watch on T.V. I was not exactly athletic but I felt that if I put my mind to it I could become a football star without too much exertion. I always wanted to be a wide receiver. I would catch the pass, juke out the defender, and score the game-winning touchdown. Unfortunately, my dreams would never escape the backyard. I can still remember the day I realized a career in athletics wasn't in my future.

It was May in grade school and the weather was just turning for the better. Kids and teachers alike were looking ahead to summer but there was still one final milestone: "The Student Olympics". Every year students would turn their attention away from their studies to compete in tests of strength, stamina, and will power. All schoolyard rivalries were temporarily set aside in the spirit of competition. Winners were elevated to the levels of kings of the playground, and the losers were teased and tormented until the throat was numb. Everybody, besides the fat kids or the physically retarded, loved the games and training would begin weeks in advance.

I was never the fastest, strongest or anythingest in my class but I had always walked away with a couple medals. This was mostly because the games were fixed so almost everybody could win at least one race. Only four athletes competed in each event and three star stickers were handed out afterwards: gold, silver, and bronze. This made things a lot more humiliating for the lone-loser but it did, theoretically, give every runner a three out of four shot. The idea is you have a race and then run the loser again and again until someone trips and fatty steals a bronze.

I was scheduled to compete at several short to medium distances and, as I lined up at the first race and eyed my opponents, I felt pretty confident. The starting gun fired and I threw my weight forward and began running. I was off to a good start and was securely locked in second place. I kept my eyes ahead and ran. There were cheers radiating from the crowd and I soaked in the glory of what I was sure would earn me a silver star. I turned my head to survey my lead when I noticed a second runner a good ten paces ahead of me at about three o'clock. Then, looking to my left my third opponent came into view and I realized I was in a tie for last. I kicked with all my might and closed my eyes as I approached the finish line. The crowd quieted and the smoke settled. I lost. I looked ahead to the see the broken ribbon, which once hung across the finish line now flapping in the wind behind the outstretched arms of the gold star finisher. The silver and bronze recipients trotted behind, just happy not to be me. A pitiful, "good job Oliver!" rang out from the crowd and I suddenly felt covered by some sticky form of shame I could not shake off.

I watched the award ceremony with contempt. I felt better knowing I would at least have another chance. Yet, after four more races I was still starless. I didn't stand a chance. My spirit was broken in the first race and I could never overcome that. I spent the rest of my day watching fatties and retards being decorated with bright metallic stars while my shirt remained bare. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, trying to conceal my nakedness. I went home that night defeated and waiting for summer.


(650 words)