It was Sports Day at my school, an inter-district event that everyone eagerly anticipated. Back then, I was known for my speed. My proudest moments included outracing a group of 5th-graders when I was merely in 3rd grade, the tiniest in my class. When I say tiniest—oh, believe me, I was like a speck. But this story isn’t about my track victories; it’s about the time I had to deliver the welcome speech to all the visiting schools.
I remember it vaguely now, but seniors from other schools had come to our hostel and stayed overnight. This meant we had to move upstairs to the 3rd floor with our super seniors—12th graders, about 10 years older than me!
The morning of the event was a whirlwind. I woke up with a mixture of excitement and nervousness, my stomach churning as I hurriedly ate my breakfast. I could barely taste the food as I thought about the speech I had to deliver. I quickly dressed in my school uniform, practicing the speech under my breath as I buttoned my shirt and tied my shoelaces.
With my speech paper safely tucked into my skirt pocket, I rushed out of the dormitory, joining the throng of students heading towards the sports field. Midway, I realized I needed to change into my sports uniform. I dashed back to my room, frantically pulling on my trousers and top, my heart pounding in my chest.
The ground was a bit far, and as I sprinted towards it, the crowd’s buzz growing louder with each step, a sudden, terrifying thought struck me. I stopped dead in my tracks, my heart racing for a different reason now. My hand shot to my pocket—I had left the speech in my uniform pocket.
Panic gripped me as I imagined the sea of faces waiting for my words. The pressure mounted with each passing second. I felt like I was running through quicksand as I approached the microphone, every step heavier than the last.
More than 100 pairs of eyes were on me, and my principal stood nearby, gleaming with pride. But my mind was blank. I stumbled through the beginning of the speech, the words coming out in a jumbled mess. My headmaster’s displeasure was evident, his stern gaze burning into me. I could see my PT teacher fuming in the background.
Despite my panic, I forced myself to continue, stretching the 5-minute speech into a nerve-wracking 15 minutes. My voice wavered, my hands shook, but I pushed through to the end. The crowd clapped politely, but I could feel the weight of their expectations and my failure.
But then I was confident that at least I would win in the relay race and someone would be proud of me. I was set to run the last lap. The race format required us to run straight back and forth, not the usual round track. As the baton was handed off to the third runner, disaster struck. She was the daughter of a teacher, I remember that; and, for some inexplicable reason, she started running in a circle and handed over the baton—God knows where she got that idea from. Of course, we lost. I remember the scene vividly: her mother quickly stepped in, saying it was okay and that she was proud of her, protecting her, holding her close, so no one would point fingers at her. I had to sink in all my emotions.
The day didn’t get any better. Our school didn’t win any events, and my PT teacher’s disappointment was palpable. She and the principal had always made me feel special, often having me sit next to them, pampering me or giving me books to read. But after that day, I noticed a change in her.
My principal, however, remained kind. He patted me on the shoulder and told me I did well. Despite the hiccups, that day remains a cherished memory for that one last bit.