We are the champions

Mark went out for track this year. His team was really good, a fast team, and they ended up winning the championship title for their division.

The season lasted only four weeks, but it was enough to net Mark tickets to not one, but TWO, sports banquets last week.

The first was put on by a local philanthropy group, the Century Club. (Coincidentally, they've only been around for 55 years! I couldn't stop giggling about that. Maybe century is what they aspire to.) We were invited to a barbecue and the awards ceremony afterwards.

My friend Karen told me Mark's school always dress up for this banquet--collared shirts and ties. Mark didn't mind, because he just got a new bow tie, which he loves, and had  already worn for three days straight. He was excited to wear it again.

But that excitement died down as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. Two kids in shorts and t-shirts walked by, prompting loud protests from both Mark and his friend Sean.

"What!" they exclaimed. "Rip off! No one else is dressed up!" They refused to get out of the car.

"Let's go!" I told them, but Sean wouldn't leave until he'd put on a sweatshirt and zipped it up to his neck.

I signed us all in, and the boys made a beeline for the food. Plates in hand, we surveyed the dining area, until I spotted their coach, Mr. Sam.

"Do you mind if we join you?" I asked, and he smiled, offering up some chairs. Mark and Sean ditched me, moving four seats away.

I sighed. "Well, do you mind if I join you?" I asked, and Mr. Sam just smiled again. I can't believe I've got two more years of middle school left--I'm only one year into it, and I'm already tired of being invisible and ignored by my obnoxious son.

The boys were still grousing about being dressed up.

"Don't worry, at least one other kid will dress up," I called out. "Jonah will be here any minute. And besides, it won't kill you to dress up occasionally for a special event."

They both snorted. Apparently, they disagreed.

Sean's mom, Liz, arrived. The boys ran off to the banquet room, and, after Liz finished, we followed. The room was huge, filled with hundreds of people.

Liz and I found seats toward the back, where we could gossip and talk without disrupting the ceremony. It didn't even occur to me to look for the boys until about 30 minutes later.

"Where do you think they're sitting?" Liz asked.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I just assumed they were in here somewhere." Yeah, parenting a pre-teen is a lot less hands-on than parenting a little kid!

The ceremony started with, of all things, a spelling bee. Now, I'm not perpetuating stereotypes, or making judgments, but this seemed...out of place. We watched kid after kid go down, misspelling almost every word they got.

"What the heck?" I whispered to Liz. "These kids are ATHLETES! They excel in sports, not academics!" But God bless the incredibly optimistic Century Club MC, who also threw out some math problems later on. He sure seemed to have a lot of faith in the kids' scholastic abilities!

The MC was hilarious--he was intent on making jokes, paying more attention to what he said, than what the kids said. The spelling bee finals came down to one girl from Mark's school, and a boy from another school. The MC asked the girl, Kailey, her name every single time he handed her the mic to spell a word. Even then, he couldn't remember it.

"This is a big word," he warned her. "So think hard, Kimberly."

"KAILEY!" yelled every kid from Mark's school.

"That's what I said," he told them. And then he immediately asked Kailey her name again on the next round.

We sat through a whole lot of awards, until finally, our school was called. It was pretty easy to spot our boys then--Sean and Jonah walked up onstage like gentleman, and waited politely. Mark, surrounded by girls, pushed his way to the front, where he raised his arms triumphantly, and gestured for applause. He popped his collar, adjusted his bow tie, and winked at the audience. I sank into my seat, while Liz laughed out loud.

The awards kept on coming, tons and tons of them. At one point, the MC implored the audience to stick around till the end, for a special award. It hadn't even occurred to me to leave until he said that, and I immediately became restless.

Luckily, we didn't have to wait long. The evening ended with the big award, for sportsmanship, as chosen by all the schools. Mark's school won, and erupted into a giant screaming mass of middle schoolers. They ran onstage, where they proudly posed for pictures for the local newspaper with their coaches and the principal. Sean hid next to the podium, and there was Mark, down in front, flashing a double thumbs up to the photographer. He may be a runner, but he's also quite a ham, as well.

All in all, it was a really nice night. I still think it lasted longer than the actual track season, but hey, we got free dinner. And Mark got a spiffy plaque to take home, and a few minutes onstage. So everyone went home happy, even though their terribly mean moms forced them to dress up.

Track attack

Mark's been waiting since fourth grade to join the middle school track team. So when he found out about team try outs a couple weeks ago, he was thrilled.

He's a pretty fast little guy, so I was excited when he made the team. He was, too.

However, news was somewhat slow to arrive home, and I was never quite sure when practice was, or even what gear Mark needed, if any. I asked if he'd run in his regular shoes, or if he needed special running shoes.

"We don't wear shoes," he answered. "We run in our socks."

I realized the only gear to stock up on was bleach, to get the grass stains out.

But then I found out he did need real track shoes, and they were surprisingly hard to find. Even the salesman at the local running store had a tough time locating any.

"It's not track season," he explained. "I'm not even sure we carry track shoes now."

Lucky for me, he had one pair left--and they were Mark's size! They fit snugly, which meant they'd fit Mark for all of five minutes before he outgrew them. Unluckily for me, they were $50. Which seemed like a lot, considering he only has two weeks left for the season.

"Do you all run the races at the same time?" I asked Mark. "Maybe we can just buy one pair, and you guys can alternate." I found out later Liz had said the same thing. (All moms think alike.)

So, armed with $50 shoes, Mark hit the track again. I'm not sure if he ran any faster, but at least his socks are a little whiter.

Last week, the team started practicing at the local high school, which has a real dirt track like the one they'd race on during meets.

"Was it hard to run so many laps?" I asked. Mark said it was not--the toughest part of practicing was just walking there, wearing his humongous backpack. I reminded him that's part of the conditioning.

And so, with two weeks of training under their belt, the team attended their first meet this weekend. Sean and Mark were very excited.

Sean's parents and I were excited too, until we saw the competition. I'm not sure what the other parents feed their kids, but the other runners were huge. Humongous. Gigantic.

Sean's dad, Denis, pointed to a tall, lanky kid nearby.

"That kid's got a couple inches on me!" said Denis, who is six feet tall himself. Our little sixth-graders looked more like kindergartners racing Olympic athletes.

Sean and Mark told us they were both running one race, the 100-yard sprint. Which Mark loves, since he's a slacker. He likes running, but...you know, not more than a couple laps.

Turns out, they also ran a 440 yard relay. Liz and I prayed that there was at least one other kid between Sean and Mark, and that they wouldn't hand the baton off to each other. Because they spend so much time together, they act like brothers, getting along great half the time, and driving each other insane the other half. Liz and I knew there was a 50/50 chance they'd get along that morning, and successfully pass the baton without dropping it (or throwing it at each another--a more likely scenario).

But we didn't need to worry. They did great--Sean took off like a shot, passed the baton to Mark uneventfully, and away Mark went.

They didn't win, or place, but they were exceedingly proud of themselves, and we parents were equally proud.

The 100-yard sprint was last. Sean and Mark were in separate races, but they each raced 6 lanes full of giants in their respective races. I am not kidding--this is just one of the kids Mark raced against:

Seriously, I think that kid was old enough to shave before the race. He might have driven himself to the track meet, too.

Mark and Sean put in a great effort. They didn't care where they ranked, they were just happy to be in the meet.

Later on, my friend Edra asked Mark how he did.

"Great!" Mark replied, enthusiastically.

"You did?" she asked. "Awesome! What place did you come in?" She was expecting to hear second or third, maybe even first.

"Second to last," Mark said, proudly adding, "I didn't come in last."

I congratulated him again on his performance, saying I was impressed by how much he's learned in two weeks.

"What I liked best of all was your effort," I praised. "I could see you were giving it 100%."

"Not really," Mark corrected. "I only gave about 90%. Maybe 95."

I just looked at him. The parenting books never prepared me for having such a brutally honest kid.

"You only gave 90%?" I asked. "What happened to the other 10%?"

"Aaah, why waste it?" he answered. "I figured 90, maybe 95% was good enough. Which it was--because I didn't come in last." 

"No, you didn't," I agreed. And then I sighed, because that really is the measure of athletic success to my child--not necessarily winning, just not coming in last. Or running that far.

I've already crossed Mark's chances at an academic scholarship off the list--now it seems his chances for a track scholarship have dwindled as well...by at least 90 to 95%.

Oh well. Mark still has drums--and Sean still has saxophone. We'll just have to focus on music scholarships instead. Or maybe a college with a track team that only runs short-distance sprints.