Cracked Dreams

There it was. My ticket to glory. My key to success. My one and only hope. All I could do now was sit and stare at my literally cracked dream. The pieces of iridescent white radiated and glittered. The smooth yellow yolk remained intact and sat housed perfectly in its shell. Cradling this with love, I walked into my house and told my Mom a story not even a Mom could believe.
Today was the opening ceremony of Clintell Elementary school’s Olympic games. Having no athletic bone in my overweight, pudgy frame, I dreaded the Olympics. I couldn’t run well. Start thinking of a walrus falling in love with a sloth and having children. Then pick the weak link of the litter, and you have successfully envisioned my running prowess. Throwing a ball was a disaster too. My gym teacher gave step by step visual instructions on how to throw. I watched and I thought I mimicked it. Turns out my visual processing skills need work. I threw it. Threw it backwards into my unsuspecting third grade teacher who had come to pick us up from gym class. Words I had never heard shot out of her, thus ending my chance at the softball team. At this point, you might guess, and yes, you’d be right, my kicking ability paralleled my throwing ability. Twist this time being that I wouldn’t injure unsuspecting members of the school staff, but rather I’d injure myself. Time after time, my foot would become overjoyed at the thought of kicking the oncoming ball. So overjoyed, that it started to dance to its own drummer and completely forget about the ball. Dancer I am not, so often my foot, who decided on its own to do the cha-cha, would slip and I would ungracefully land on my heinie. My name and grace were hardly interchangeable. 
The thought of the upcoming games naturally made me want to throw up. That is until Mr. Stevens came to good ole Clintell. Looking at Mr. S was like looking in a mirror. Portly with a side of tremendous girth and tonnage. He always had a hanky in his hand to wipe the sweat streaming down his face. At times the flow was mightier than Niagra Falls. Just when I couldn’t idolize him more, he did it. He altered the trajectory of my Olympic career. He added the egg spoon race to the games. 
I knew I could do it. It involved the protection of food. No one at school could rival me in this category. Yes, it would appear the race includes a great bit of running. This did not deter me, however. I had an ingenious strategy—stay steady and pray heavily.
I grabbed the spoon and chose my egg. It had to be the perfect egg—pleasingly plump like myself. I studied a half dozen eggs before I found the winner. It was aerodynamic and sturdy. The other kids just shoved their hands in the bucket and went with whatever egg they drew. They did not study it. It was a grab and go frenzy.
The five of us lined up at the starting line and Mr. S went over the rules. We were not allowed to touch the egg at any point during the race and the first one to make it to the Oak tree won. Sally the sprinter burst off the starting line. She was leading the field when she heard a friend yell, what she thought was “No, Sally!” Sally stopped so quick that the egg propelled itself off the spoon. In reality, the friend had yelled “Go Sally!” In my head however, it was one down and three to go. Onward I plodded. Matt and Lisa, the Bradley twins were in front of me. They were going at a good rate when they had the brother/sister attack. They were not so quietly arguing over who was better and who Mom loved the most. This verbal attack did not last long as soon they were swatting at each others eggs. Needless to say, they and their eggs went down in a blaze of familial glory. This left only Chuck. He was well ahead of me. Victory was his really until he tripped over a rock and the egg went kablooie all over the paved sidewalk. A minute later when I finally waddled up I studied the fallen egg. It had sacrificed itself for my glory. I made it to the Oak tree and won the race. Sure it was due to a battle of attrition, but I am the one who survived. I overweight, overly clumsy and un-athletic Calvin had taken the inaugural egg spoon race of Clintell Elementary. I was a champion. 
I returned to the sidewalk area where Chuck’s egg had fallen. I knew without its fate, I would not be a champion. Giving it due honor, I picked up the shattered pieces and cradled the half that contained the golden yolk. I held the golden yolk in one hand, my victorious egg in the other and received my award.
Mom at first stood speechless after hearing my tale. She was elated and without thinking ran and gave me a hug. The egg I was holding shattered into smaller pieces. My overalls were covered in egg yolk. It did not matter, however. I was, and always will be, Olympic champion.