"Don't drop the baton. Whatever you do, don't drop the baton."
That thought flashed foremost in my mind. I kept repeating it to myself as I stretched my calf muscles in preparation for the race. I was the second leg of a 4 x 400m, 4-man relay.
It was the Coaches Relay, one of the final races of the Summer Games of the Rhode Island Special Olympics. The athletes and their families really got a kick out of this purely exhibition event. It may have been non-competitive in the sense that no medals were given for this race, but we were split into 4 teams representing our respective areas of the state and each team was encouraged to give it their all.
The races were split into heats comprised of similarly-fit head coaches from each team. I think I was in the moderately-fit heat. Certainly not the sinewy jocks, but not the fatties either! I was average build and only 23 years old.
My heart was beating a mile-a-minute in nervous anticipation. I tried not to look at the stadium bleachers filled with hundreds of spectators. Parents and family of the athletes, volunteers both from the respective teams and from the university and, of course, the athletes themselves...all watching this popular last athletic event before the closing ceremonies scheduled for later that evening.
It had been a fun but exhausting three days since we arrived and set up camp in our dorms here at the Kingston Campus of the University of Rhode Island. My athletes had been training months for this, the most prestigious of the Special Olympics events in any calendar year. Only the National Games, held every four years is considered more of a pinnacle. But those can be difficult for most athletes to attend.
Special Olympics is a non-profit organization and it does a great job of using it's donations that it receives to put on some great athletics, including the Regional, State and National (now World) Games. But, just like the "real" Olympics, teams are expected to fund the rest of the athletes expenses.
From uniforms and equipment to transportation and adequate staffing, each team had to raise the money to provide for itself. Some teams, in more affluent communities could depend on either large donations from a few booster families or each family of each athlete could be expected to assist with costs. But my guys were all pretty much from Pawtucket and Central Falls exclusively, two of the poorest cities in the state. So we had to do all sorts of fund raisers throughout the year to earn our money.
We had enough to do the Regional and State competitions each year, but usually those few athletes whose families could afford the costs of the less-frequently-held Nationals went solo. That was allowed in Special Olympics...once they traveled to that event, wherever in the country it was held, they'd be grouped with other Rhode Island families and teams to represent the state as one. But this being the State games, it was a maximum 45-minute drive (thank goodness for the small size of our state!) for any team, no matter where you were from in the state. The housing was free, of course, as we were put up in the seasonally empty dorm rooms.
I was responsible for about 30 athletes...we had to drive down in 2 vans...and each athlete was scheduled to compete in an average of 3 to 4 events. And often, because diversity in athletic activity was encouraged, they would be 3 or 4 different sports.
For instance, I had one guy, Paul, who was competing in swimming, track, basketball and bowling...and several heats for each...all in different buildings or fields scattered around the campus! Yes, I had about 5 of my own volunteers but I was the coordinator. I was the one responsible for insuring that they all got to where they were needing to be over the course of the 3 days. I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off.
Add to the mix the usual needs of meds disbursement, equipment management, and behavioral issues moderator and I was being pulled from all ends. Luckily there weren't many behavioral issues but when you've got 30 folks crammed into tight quarters and being run around and having their nerves tested, all with varying degrees of developmental disabilities, you're bound to have a tizzy break out here and there.
Bang! The starter's gun fired and the crowd began to cheer. It was to be a blind handoff so I waited nervously in starting position with my hand stretched out palm up behind me.
When I heard the runner on my team come up from behind, I got ready to run. The baton was slapped firmly in my palm and I was off. As I brought my hand forward though, the baton brushed my thigh and my heart, already racing, skipped a beat or two. I almost dropped the baton! Luckily I kept my grip and booked as fast as I could towards my teammate down the track. All I kept thinking was "Don't be the weak link in the chain. Don't let the team down."
And of course, "Don't drop the baton!"
It all happened so fast and before you knew it, it was over. I handed off the baton with a snap and slowed to first a jog, then a trot. Just a 100 meters, but I was out of breath. My legs were already starting to feel the cramping pain of lactic acid build up.
But it felt great!
I didn't drop the baton!
Our team didn't win, but we didn't come in last either. I asked later if I did well and everyone said I won my leg! But the next runner and the last, the anchor, let the lead slip away. Oh well, at least it wasn't my fault.
I think that's when I realized that the feelings I had about this race were a metaphor for my outlook on life...
It didn't really matter to me if I won, just so long as I wasn't the worst loser.
That thought flashed foremost in my mind. I kept repeating it to myself as I stretched my calf muscles in preparation for the race. I was the second leg of a 4 x 400m, 4-man relay.
It was the Coaches Relay, one of the final races of the Summer Games of the Rhode Island Special Olympics. The athletes and their families really got a kick out of this purely exhibition event. It may have been non-competitive in the sense that no medals were given for this race, but we were split into 4 teams representing our respective areas of the state and each team was encouraged to give it their all.
The races were split into heats comprised of similarly-fit head coaches from each team. I think I was in the moderately-fit heat. Certainly not the sinewy jocks, but not the fatties either! I was average build and only 23 years old.
My heart was beating a mile-a-minute in nervous anticipation. I tried not to look at the stadium bleachers filled with hundreds of spectators. Parents and family of the athletes, volunteers both from the respective teams and from the university and, of course, the athletes themselves...all watching this popular last athletic event before the closing ceremonies scheduled for later that evening.
It had been a fun but exhausting three days since we arrived and set up camp in our dorms here at the Kingston Campus of the University of Rhode Island. My athletes had been training months for this, the most prestigious of the Special Olympics events in any calendar year. Only the National Games, held every four years is considered more of a pinnacle. But those can be difficult for most athletes to attend.
Special Olympics is a non-profit organization and it does a great job of using it's donations that it receives to put on some great athletics, including the Regional, State and National (now World) Games. But, just like the "real" Olympics, teams are expected to fund the rest of the athletes expenses.
From uniforms and equipment to transportation and adequate staffing, each team had to raise the money to provide for itself. Some teams, in more affluent communities could depend on either large donations from a few booster families or each family of each athlete could be expected to assist with costs. But my guys were all pretty much from Pawtucket and Central Falls exclusively, two of the poorest cities in the state. So we had to do all sorts of fund raisers throughout the year to earn our money.
We had enough to do the Regional and State competitions each year, but usually those few athletes whose families could afford the costs of the less-frequently-held Nationals went solo. That was allowed in Special Olympics...once they traveled to that event, wherever in the country it was held, they'd be grouped with other Rhode Island families and teams to represent the state as one. But this being the State games, it was a maximum 45-minute drive (thank goodness for the small size of our state!) for any team, no matter where you were from in the state. The housing was free, of course, as we were put up in the seasonally empty dorm rooms.
I was responsible for about 30 athletes...we had to drive down in 2 vans...and each athlete was scheduled to compete in an average of 3 to 4 events. And often, because diversity in athletic activity was encouraged, they would be 3 or 4 different sports.
For instance, I had one guy, Paul, who was competing in swimming, track, basketball and bowling...and several heats for each...all in different buildings or fields scattered around the campus! Yes, I had about 5 of my own volunteers but I was the coordinator. I was the one responsible for insuring that they all got to where they were needing to be over the course of the 3 days. I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off.
Add to the mix the usual needs of meds disbursement, equipment management, and behavioral issues moderator and I was being pulled from all ends. Luckily there weren't many behavioral issues but when you've got 30 folks crammed into tight quarters and being run around and having their nerves tested, all with varying degrees of developmental disabilities, you're bound to have a tizzy break out here and there.
Bang! The starter's gun fired and the crowd began to cheer. It was to be a blind handoff so I waited nervously in starting position with my hand stretched out palm up behind me.
When I heard the runner on my team come up from behind, I got ready to run. The baton was slapped firmly in my palm and I was off. As I brought my hand forward though, the baton brushed my thigh and my heart, already racing, skipped a beat or two. I almost dropped the baton! Luckily I kept my grip and booked as fast as I could towards my teammate down the track. All I kept thinking was "Don't be the weak link in the chain. Don't let the team down."
And of course, "Don't drop the baton!"
It all happened so fast and before you knew it, it was over. I handed off the baton with a snap and slowed to first a jog, then a trot. Just a 100 meters, but I was out of breath. My legs were already starting to feel the cramping pain of lactic acid build up.
But it felt great!
I didn't drop the baton!
Our team didn't win, but we didn't come in last either. I asked later if I did well and everyone said I won my leg! But the next runner and the last, the anchor, let the lead slip away. Oh well, at least it wasn't my fault.
I think that's when I realized that the feelings I had about this race were a metaphor for my outlook on life...
It didn't really matter to me if I won, just so long as I wasn't the worst loser.