Child Hood Field Day.
I thought that must be a hundred degrees, as I waited for Mrs. Cailler, our school principal, to shout into her microphone.
“GO!” I heard, and started to run.
Even though it wasn’t a race, I was young, and wanted to zoom around the track like 6th graders could. Lea came up beside me and she was already sweating like crazy.
“I love field day, only I don’t like the hotness” I said, panting.
“You mean the heat, right?” She corrected me, as she always did.
We had only gotten half way around the track before I started to wonder why I wanted to do field day. I was too hot, too hot to run, too hot to wear this uniform, it was just too hot out. Soon running became jogging, jogging became walking and walking became just trying to keep myself from stopping and falling asleep right there on the track, with sixth graders --big, scary, and sometimes mean sixth graders.
Finally I got to the starting point and collect my first rubber band. This shows that I had done one lap, one hot, tiring, long lap. Again and again, I went around the track. I was sta...
I woke up at six to shower and eat breakfast. We were out the door and 6:30 and off to Ashland, Nebraska. We had the hammer down only stopping in Ashland to grab three Red Bulls apiece. We chugged our energy drinks while driving a couple miles out of town to the raceway hoping to get awaken by the rush of the sugar. We parked our truck by our buddy Jacob after getting signed in and paying our entry fees. We made fun of Jacob for awhile for being such a die hard and having to be one of the first ones at the track. Setting up our canopy and unloading our bikes took about 5 minutes because we wanted to hurry up and walk the track. The track was a freaking mud pit. They had overwatered it. I was hoping that it would stay a little muddier after practice until the moto’s because I could out ride three-fourths of the guys in my class in the mud. After the track walk we all walked back to our trucks and got our gear on. The C riders were first to practice. The first kid to start up his bike just revved the piss out of it not letting it warm up like it should. We started shaking our heads because our dads taught us to respect your things and not mistreat them. Leaving our little camp
My small, sweaty palms griped the cold fence as I looked on nervously at my brother’s baseball game. I was waiting for the final out of the game so that I could run onto the field and around the bases as I did after every game. As a young child, my parents were always searching for something to keep me entertained. I was a bubbly child with an endless amount of energy. Being that I was the only girl amongst four boys, I was always electrified in their presence. I wanted to be involved in all their wrestling, running and playing. Being the type of child who loved to play, I would stay outside until I was forced to come in. I would run along the dimly lit street, making up my own games and making new friends. Even when I got older, my energy did not fade. At
As I got back on Loopy I felt a sense of relaxation come over me. I heard the announcer say that my time was 10.1 seconds. I knew that this was a good time and could possibly win the short go at the State Finals. I sat through the other fourteen calf ropers to listen to no other times faster than 10.1 seconds. Not only did I win the short go but I showed everyone that I was someone to watch.
This past spring, was my first year running track and field at a high school level. I had spent my freshman year on the lacrosse team and had therefore missed out on track and field. From the other sports I had participated in at school, both coaches and fellow teammates had acknowledged my speed, this kept my confidence alive and made me believe I would strive in high school track
It was sunny out, but there was a slight breeze blowing the tent around, making it hard to set up. Friday evening was the practice run, where all the riders got the chance to pre-run the course for the race the next day. When the announcer announced that it was my class’ turn to practice my stomach dropped. It felt as if I was going 100 mph and just hit a dip in the road. I felt like it was time to race. I put on my helmet and difficulty strapped the chin strap. It was difficult with my hands trembling. My knees were weak and I felt like I was going to drop my bike when I was starting it. I gave it a good kick and a fair amount of throttle and it fired up. I could instantly smell the fumes of high quality race gas. That seemed to calm me down. I pulled out of the pits and up to the starting line. All of the riders began to start their bikes. The roar of the engines made me nervous. My hands were sweating and my mouth was dry. The official said, “Remember this is just practice, don’t kill yourself.” That relaxed me reminding me that I could just putt around out there having no worries of winning, losing, or most importantly, crashing.
As the first meet neared, things were going well. I made it onto the 4x100 team making me the third fastest kid on the team. The other members of the relay were Jason Schmidt, Jeremy Willard and Rodney Schmidt. Jason and Jeremy were both the top dogs and Rodney and I were second from the bottom of the barrel.
When I had got to the track for practice, I was in an jovial mood. Only to find out that I had shown up to run one of the hardest workouts of the year. The workout that was given to us was five-minute and twenty-second mile pace and not only was that a quick speed, but we had to run three in a row with
The start of the 2002 track season found me concerned with how I would perform. After a disastrous bout with mononucleosis ended my freshmen track season, the fear of failure weighed heavily on my mind. I set a goal for myself in order to maintain focus and to push myself like nothing else would. My goal for my sophomore track season was to become a state champion in the 100 meter hurdles. I worked hard everyday at practice and went the extra mile, like running every Sunday, to be just that much closer to reaching my goal. The thought of standing highest on the podium in the center of the field, surrounded by hundreds of spectators, overcame my thoughts of complaining every time we had a hard workout. When I closed my eyes, I pictured myself waiting in anticipation as other competitors names were called out, one by one, until finally, the booming voice announced over the loudspeaker, "...and in first place, your 2002 100 meter hurdle champion, from Hotchkiss, Connie Dawson." It was visions like these that drove me to work harder everyday.
I caught myself staring at the glistening constellations of sweat droplets on the foreheads of students exhausted after the considerable amount of excruciating workout. The sun was approaching the peak of its everlasting crescent among the sky; its light ruthlessly beats down on you like it wanted your money. The striking assaults of its rays encouraged the inevitable arrival of sunburns. Most people would use this opportunity to embrace and bathe in the glorious resplendence of the sunlight; not me. I didn’t expect my first high school experience to resemble a military camp, although I anticipated the encounter of several hardships and difficulties. The track and field arena looked even more intimidating with students dispersed throughout the place. What do you get when you gather hundreds of aggressive students and deposit them in an inferno-like field ridden by flesh-feasting mosquitoes? My summer school experience in a nutshell. The track and field place, the source of my suffering and mortification, had created long-lasting memories that cause me to tremble and cringe whenever I am reminded of this experience. It was July; the temperatures soared. I could practically see the waves of heat rising from the sizzling pavement as I became aware of the thick, prickly grass tickling my ankles. The weather this month consisted of an alternating pattern between evenings of heavy rainfalls, which created moist, humid air that was perfect for drawing in large populations of bugs, and days of scorching drought. The lively gossip lingering in the air like smoke infiltrating a casino was reduced to discrete murmured whispers when the teachers called everyone to line up in alphabetical order. I was neither physically nor mentally prepa...
It was two days until the first game of my last high school football season. My team and I were going to play Bayfield, a battle we had persistently prepared for since the last game of our junior year. The sun was beating on my pads, radiating the heat to make practice seem even worse. I was exhausted and looking forward to the end of my last sweat poring practice for the week. Our team was repetitively executing plays to make sure they were like second nature to us on Friday.
I dip my toes in—feels cold. My nerves rise up and spread like fire throughout my body while I watch—while I wait. Stomach hurts. All those butterflies clash and crowd. They come every time that I race—it never fails. There is so much noise—the splash of water, talking, yelling, whistling, cheering.
Going into the first race we had not expected much since Susan and I had never run this type of race. There were so many crucial things that we had to remember. It wasn't just to get out of the blocks and burn up the track; there was a baton involved, a certain amount of steps to take, and even a certain way to hold the baton.
Have you ever had something happen in your life it made you so happy you still remember? I do. I remember the day my mother made a surprise party for me. She knew that turning fifteen in a Latina's world meant so much. My mother couldn’t afford to do me a Quinceañera- the celebration of a girl's fifteenth birthday in parts of Latin America . It is celebrated differently from any other birthday, as it marks the change from adolescent to young womanhood.A Quinceañera is a celebration in which a girl turns fifteen which in the Spanish speaking countries it is a recognition of her journey from adolescent to young womanhood. It starts out with a religious ceremony. Afterwards comes the reception which is held at home or at a banquet hall. The celebration includes food, music, choreographed dances or waltz (performed by the quinceañera and her court). A court is made up of fourteen people ( seven young girls and seven young men) plus the quinceañera making it fifteen. She wears a ball gown. Normally the gown’s color is chosen to be white or pink but in last few years it has changed as more trends come out. Some dresses are now chosen to be blue, purple, yellow, orange, red, and even black. As I was growing up I started hearing about girls turning fifteen getting ready to plan their parties and inviting people to their quinces. They would say they would get a DJ or a Mexican/ Guatemalan group to come sing at their party.
When I was a young child I would love to hear my parents tell me that we were going on a trip. I would be full of excitement, because I knew that we would be going to a place that I had never seen before. My parents, my brother, and I would pack our luggage and venture out in our small gray minivan. Three of my most cherished memories in our minivan are when we went to Disney World, the beach, and the mountains.
At its fundamental level, adulthood is simply the end of childhood, and the two stages are, by all accounts, drastically different. In the major works of poetry by William Blake and William Wordsworth, the dynamic between these two phases of life is analyzed and articulated. In both Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience and many of Wordsworth’s works, childhood is portrayed as a superior state of mental capacity and freedom. The two poets echo one another in asserting that the individual’s progression into adulthood diminishes this childhood voice. In essence, both poets demonstrate an adoration for the vision possessed by a child, and an aversion to the mental state of adulthood. Although both Blake and Wordsworth show childhood as a state of greater innocence and spiritual vision, their view of its relationship with adulthood differs - Blake believes that childhood is crushed by adulthood, whereas Wordsworth sees childhood living on within the adult.