The Not-So-Feisty-Ferret's-Field-Day-"Fun"

Thank you, Jesika Forsyth, for taking these awesome
pictures of me racing the wrong way down the track.

 It may go down as one of the worst ideas EVER. The only good thing that I have to say about it was that the idea DID NOT originate from me.

Field Days. Fun. Fresh air.  A platform to promote the virtues of good sportsmanship, endurance, and grit. A chance to celebrate the athleticism of others. Others. As in not me. My contribution to Field Days is limited to hours of decorating t-shirts with fabric paint (Go "Feisty Ferrets!").

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe they just got caught up in the spirit of the moment. I have to believe one of these theories because I refuse to believe that the third grade team challenged my little band of chair-sitting, vending-machine-visiting, park-as-close-to-the-school-entrance-as-possible-without-actually-getting-our-tires-up-on-the-sidewalk (too much) colleagues and myself to a baton relay in an attempt to humiliate us publicly. I listened, with a smile frozen to my face, as the idea was proposed to me. Surely Coach will put a stop to this nonsense, I thought. I've taught all three of his children and he is aware of my daily intake of Pepsi and Snickers bars.

But I watched, in horror, as the idea took hold and excitement spread. Student moms who had joined the "Feisty Ferrets" in the bleachers were thrilled, confident that I would bring honor and glory to the good name of the 4th grade. "There is a reason I stay off of trampolines," I whispered to them as they nodded wisely and offered to hold my hat and keys before pushing me down the stairs toward the track while I prayed that I could hold my weak bladder.

"Where do I go," I asked and was immediately pointed to a spot, far in the distance, next to 3rd grade teacher, Traci. After school, while I'm playing euchre with the 4th grade, Traci works out. In the early morning, while I'm still snoozing, Traci is creating lesson plans while running on her tread-upta-lizer machine. I adamantly refuse to acknowledge that we are the same age.

I watched nervously while Traci stretched. Well...I was committed...so here goes. I glanced over at the bleachers where my moms waved and shouted encouragement. "I think Reagan's mom is saying that I have an important phone call," I told Traci. "No," she frowned, touching both toes with her elbows, "She's reminding you to tie your right shoelace." I couldn't quite reach it so Traci quickly tied it for me. I windmilled my arms out suddenly. "What do you call that move," Traci wondered. "It's the beginning part of downward-facing dog," I explained, hoping she hadn't seen the fly that had buzzed by my ear. "You practice yoga?" Traci said in astonishment. Insulted, I admitted that I didn't. "But I can do the Superman," I said, showing her. My moms cheered.

The firing pistol rang out. Or Coach yelled "Go!" I don't really remember...it was all a blur. Clutching the baton like an Olympic sprinter, my friend Sondra raced toward me. She went from graceful gazelle to limping llama is zero point fourteen seconds. I heard a voice calling out to me. I knew enough not to hope for the Rapture. "I think Kaelin's mom needs me for some vitally important reason," I told Traci who was inexplicably standing poised with her hand outreached, as though she were hoping someone was going to run up and put a Snickers bar in...oh! Suddenly, Traci was gone and I became aware that Sondra was the voice. Calling out..."I have a cramp in my leg." I raced back to her and grabbed the metallic stick-thingy.

My moms later said that I moved like lightning. Reviewing the film footage, I cannot help but admire my excellent posture:  A key component for successful racing. Turns out I was more like a tree waiting to be hit by lightning. And not like a willow or poplar tree. More like an oak.

I'd like to say that we rallied and won. I'm actually fortunate that I didn't retch and weep. Shockingly, the third grade team was victorious. I'm not here to make excuses. That Sondra suffered a detrimental injury. That I had to run in the opposite direction on the track before proceeding forward AND lack any semblance of muscle tone whatsoever AND Traci tied my right shoelace too tight. That another team-mate ran barefoot. That our fourth team-mate has the competitive drive of a paperclip. It was all in good fun.

I was hailed a hero upon my return to the bleachers. My moms high-fived me and assured me that I looked like a super-star out there. "I took pictures," Kaelin's mom told me. "Thanks," I said, a smile frozen to my face. Now I was truly torn about on whom I would first exact my revenge.