Accidentally found an old, dust-full school album. Sports day memories age 5-7. Non-competitive, disenchanting gruesome hot months of preparations. Butterflies fluttering in tummy facing huge crowds of enthusiastic parents, cheering on top of their lungs, hilarious. A bit intimidating, as well.
Heart thumped fiercely against the chest like African drums, waiting tensely at start lines. ‘Are you ready?’ Bang! Loud whistles signalling start of races. Kids leaping to their feet. Runners fired up, sprinting down tracks as fast as their little legs could carry. Competing aggressively, except me. Believed sports days meant innocent, playful fun!
Racing at snails pace – tripping, falling flat, dusting off, running again, repeat multiple times! Sadly, ‘slow and steady wins the race’ didn’t hold ground. Crawl if you must but never give up! Rock bottom, literally. Just needed 1 person to believe – Dad.
So focused at waving to parents rather than winning. Flying kisses felt incredible! Over the moon seeing friends win races. Only loser who felt good. Learnt value of selfless teamwork, sportsmanship! Wonderful, eventful, smashing days…