MY
PROUDEST MOMENT
Award
Winning Story
National Competition
The doors of the Monday morning school bus swung open
at the first stop on Southside Avenue.
Josh Wiseman pushed his way to the front of the line,
his track medals on his letterman’s jacket flashing
in the morning sunlight. “Outa the way, loser.”
Julian stumbled backward as the other kids followed Josh
onto the bus. The other kids who lived in the big houses
lining the street. The kids who had new clothes, and bikes,
and cars, and money in their pockets. The kids whose parents
paid someone else to labor in their homes and yards, someone
who would live in a little room in the basement and feel
lucky. Someone like his mother. Someone like him.
“Hey
Julian, you getting on the bus?” Mr. Patterson drummed
his fingers on the lever that closed the door. Julian
climbed the bus steps and took the one empty seat behind
the driver.
Another
long day at school. Another day of “Hey, Dude, that
use’ta be my jacket. My mom gave it to Goodwill,”
shouted across the hall during class changes. Another
first period with Ms. Begali, who said he ought to learn
to spell if he expected to pass her composition class.
He could spell. He could spell perfectly in his mind.
But it wouldn’t come out his fingers; somehow the
letters got mixed up or disappeared completely as they
traveled down his arm to his hand.
The bus slowed as it eased into the school parking lot,
finally coming to a stop. Julian waited for the last kid
to get off, then stood, swung his backpack over his shoulder,
and bit his lower lip. It didn’t matter. He was
as good as anybody. Coach Amende said so. He took a deep
breath and got off the bus.
The first period bell rang. Julian broke into a jog. He
slipped into his seat in the back of the class.
“Quiet,
everybody.” Ms. Begali clapped her hands. “Time
for morning announcements.”
The intercom above the door came to life. “Seniors,
you should have completed submission requirements for
your college choices. Those who haven’t, schedule
an appointment with your counselor. SAT’s …”
Julian’s eyes and thoughts wandered across the room
to the fourth row, third seat. Long, dark hair, full lips
slightly parted; Beth DiBenedetto. He could feel his cheeks
heating up as he watched her write notes of the morning
announcements and bounce her foot on the pom-poms under
her desk. She was the prettiest girl in school. Especially
when she led the “cheer squad.” He rarely
got to go to the games, since he didn’t have the
price of a ticket. But he could still stand behind the
bleachers and look through the wire mesh that fenced the
playing fields, and every once in a while the prettiest
girl in school was visible in the distance, atop the human
pyramid that assembled every time the home team scored.
Julian let out a sigh.
“Track
tryouts…” The disembodied voice broke into
his thoughts. “Varsity time trials will be at three
p. m. tomorrow.” Julian’s heart skipped a
beat. Tomorrow. It was a long shot, a JV guy making the
Varsity team. There was only one spot open, but Coach
Amende had said he was ready.
Ms. Begali clapped her hands again. “Okay class,
get out your journals. We’re going to have a free
write. Topic: “My Proudest Moment.” You have
thirty minutes. Remember, write freely, this is for your
eyes only. When you’ve finished, I suggest you start
on tonight’s assignment. It’s written on the
board.”
Julian opened his spiral notebook to a blank sheet of
paper and printed across the top, “My Proudst Moment.”
He tapped his pencil on the blank paper, then sat back
in his chair and looked around the room, everyone was
writing. His eyes wandered to the clock and he watched
the second hand travel around its face. My proudest moment?
He chewed his lower lip. My proudest moment?
Julian put his pencil to the paper. “My proudst
moment is yet to come. In that moment I will be the first
in line and others will follow me. I will hold my hed
high. I will lead the way and I will not look back.”
His eyes drifted across the room. “Even Beth DiBenedetto
will know my name.”
Julian
nibbled at the end of his pencil and reread his sentences.
He tapped the pencil on his chin, then wrote a closing
line. “And Josh Wiseman will never call me a loser
agin.”
He closed his journal and took out his composition book.
He copied the homework off the board and had started to
diagram the first sentence when the bell rang.
The day passed as all others, and when Julian heard the
last period bell ring, he rushed to catch the bus home.
He had chores to do at the McMillan estate where he and
his mom lived. Old Dr. McMillan had been confined to a
wheelchair since his last stroke and now Julian took care
of all the yard work. They were good people. Mrs. McMillan
often made cookies for him, and when she found out Coach
Amende had agreed to help him train for the track team
after regular practice on school nights, she’d faithfully
driven him to the sports complex every evening.
As Julian made his way down the narrow isle of the bus
one of the kids stuck their foot out, tripping him. He
managed to regain his balance before he fell. Blinking
rapidly, he set his lips in a firm line. Tomorrow at this
time he’d be competing to win the only spot on the
Varsity track team.
As
Julian threw the last of the weeds in the wheelbarrow,
he heard the big Lincoln rolling out of the garage. Five
o’clock. He wiped his hands on his pants and jogged
to the car.
Mrs. McMillan sat behind the wheel, waiting for him. He
jumped in the front seat.
Her
smile was warm. “You’re sure doing a nice
job on the yard.”
“Thank
you, ma’am.”
“When
are the track tryouts?”
“Tomorrow,
after school.”
“I’m
excited for you, dear. You’ve worked hard with Coach
Amende. It will pay off.; hard work always does. And you’re
on my prayer list, too. Work with all your might and pray
with all your heart. The rest is up to God.”
Julian fingered the cross under his shirt that the McMillans
had given him for Christmas. “Well, I’m sure
working hard. Coach Amende says I have the potential to
set a school record someday. But I don’t know. I’ve
never run against the other kids. I don’t know how
I compare. I’m trying out for Varsity and I’m
only a freshman. Most are bigger then me and lots of ‘em
have already lettered.”
Mrs. McMillan turned onto the boulevard that led to the
school. “Trust yourself, your coach, and the God
who made you. The rest will take care of itself.”
When Mrs. McMillan pulled up to the sports complex, Julian
could see Coach Amende sitting on a bench just inside
the entrance.
“Thanks
for the ride, Mrs. McMillan.” Julian dashed out
of the car. “Hey, coach.”
Coach Amende stood up, his hands behind his back.
Julian stopped mid-stride. His eyes wide, his face breaking
into a big grin. “You got ’em?”
The coach held up a pair of spiked shoes by the shoestrings,
bouncing them up and down. “Yep, and they’re
all yours. The way you’ve been eating up the track
in your tennis shoes, you ought to really fly with these.”
Julian took the shoes from the coach’s outstretched
hands. He turned them over, examining them, brushing his
thumb across the spikes. “These are awesome. Thanks,
Coach.” He sat down and put on the shoes, then jumped
up and down a few times to get used to them. “They’re
perfect.”
“Ready,
Julian?”
“You
bet. I’m ready to fly. Get out your stopwatch ’cause
I’m gonna give these shoes a workout.”
Julian ran laps and sprints for the next two hours, never
resting, pushing himself, working with all his might.
Students
trying out for spring sports packed the sports complex.
The parents who came to watch and were scattered across
the fields and stands. Whistles blew and events were called
over the loudspeaker. The “cheer squad” practiced
cheers near the finish line.
The Varsity track team lineup had already been named based
on individual time trials, but as was the case every year,
one position remained open for an outstanding Junior Varsity
runner. This year five JV boys would be competing for
that single position. The loudspeaker called the five
runners to the starting line.
Coach Amende called out with the bullhorn. “JV’s,
you’ll be running in lanes one through five, two
laps, eight hundred meters. Josh Wiseman is going to run
in lane six. It should help you focus to have the Varsity
captain setting the standard for you. To the starting
blocks.”
Julian’s
heart pounded. His mind raced. What if he had a false
start? What if he fell? What if he finished last and Josh
Wiseman called him a loser in front of the “cheer
squad?”
“Julian,
it’s time to get to the block.” Julian felt
Coach Amende’s hand on his shoulder.
He took a deep breath. I can do this. The coach says I’m
fast. He fingered the cross at his neck. I’ve worked
hard. He wiggled his toes in his new shoes. I can do this.
His eyes scanned the lanes. The other boys were lined
up. The only open spot was lane five… next to Josh.
“Runners
to your marks.”
The
coach raised the starter pistol. Julian set his feet.
The
sound of the pistol cut through the air like a knife.
Julian shot off the block. The boys on his left were running
at about his pace, their staggered positions keeping them
separated. They rounded the top of the track, moving across
the backstretch. Julian held steady in the middle of the
group.
I
can’t give it my all now. It’s way too early.
I won’t have anything left for the final stretch.
The runner on his left drew past him. Julian strained
to lengthen his stride, tapping his reserves.
As they began the second lap, the runner in lane one fell.
Julian turned his head and saw the boy getting up. In
those few seconds he took his mind off the race, the runner
ahead of him picked up speed, closing in on Josh Wiseman,
who still held the lead.
Julian focused on the track in front of him. The final
hundred meters stretched before him. A crowd of athletes,
coaches, and parents gathered at the finish line. His
lungs burned, his legs ached. Maybe he couldn’t
do this. Maybe he was a loser. He closed his eyes. He
could hear Coach Amende “You’re a gifted athlete,
as good as anybody we’ve ever had.” Mrs. McMillan’s
voice whispered, “Trust yourself, your coach and
the God who made you.”
Julian held his head high. I can. I will.
He
lengthened his stride until his feet barely touched the
ground. He did not look back as he pulled ahead. The other
runners stretched in a line behind him. He drew even with
the team captain. He could hear Josh gasping for air,
the finish line only a few meters from their feet.
I
will.
Josh
Wiseman disappeared behind him as his feet crossed the
line.
The crowd cheered. Julian’s mouth dropped open as
he glimpsed his mother’s face behind the shoulder
of Mrs. McMillan as they jumped up and down, shouting
and clapping. The Varsity team gathered around him.
“Way
to go, Julian.”
“Cool,
Dude.”
Josh pushed into the crowd. “Hey.” The boys
around Julian stepped back. Julian braced himself and
faced the senior. Josh’s eyes were narrow, his jaw
clenched . . . he extended his hand. “You’re
fast.”
Someone was lifting him in the air. “Ju-li-an. Ju-li-an.
Ju-li-an.” His eyes found the source of the chant.
Beth DiBenedetto, the prettiest girl in school, standing
atop the human pyramid, her arms raised in a big V, leading
the squad, shouting his name. Celebrating his proudest
moment.
