I went over the last hurdle and ran for the finish line…I didn’t catch the guy in front of me, but I didn’t need to…a second place finish would get me into the final race. If I could win that, I’d make the state meet.
I don’t remember how long it took, but within minutes I realized that they had me third and I would miss the final race.
I went and protested, and then protested again, but no one would listen. They decided I was third and that was it.
I sat down next to the chain link fence and cried. I couldn’t prove it, there was no videotape (this was 1980…and few junior high track programs had $15,000 video cameras) and no one would listen to me (no one who would do anything about it, that is).
I still can’t believe it. I’ve accepted it, but that’s about it.
It’s just a coincidence, but this was my last race. The season was over. The next year I went to high school and they ran the 110 HIGH hurdles and my 5’1” frame wasn’t much taller than the hurdle itself. I could jump over one (maybe) but there were too many of them in a row for me to do it to anyone's satisfaction (coaches or mine) and you weren’t allowed a step stool or someone to help you over.
So I didn’t really quit, but in assessing my chances, it was time to retire.
A man’s got to know his (self-imposed or not) limitations.
