A Little Bit Like Home

Where It Felt Like the Olympics

There was always a moment in the morning that felt more important than it probably should have. Standing in the kitchen, cabinet door open, the decision came down to a few familiar choices: Cheerios, Malt-O-Meal, or Wheaties. That morning, Wheaties won.

As always, the box came to the kitchen table. The words and graphics on the back had been seen so many times they were probably committed to memory, but every word and detail still seemed worth another look. On the front was Olympic decathlon champion Bruce Jenner, captured in a moment that suggested strength, confidence, and the idea that something special might be possible. For an elementary school student, he was the athlete of our time.

Imagine the excitement when our teacher announced what was planned for the last week of school. Play Day was coming. This would be our personal version of the Olympic Games.

Multiple events were offered: a 40-yard dash, long jump, the softball throw, baseball hitting, long-distance running and more. Participation was limited to three events. At the time, those selections felt like serious decisions.

The 40-yard dash took place on the street in front of the school. “Street” might be a generous description. It was more of a stretch of black asphalt than anything lined with curbs. Still, someone had taken the time to sweep it clean. Whether for safety or ceremony, that simple act made it feel official.

There was confidence going in. That confidence did not last long.

The race began, and just as quickly, it was over. Several classmates had no trouble pulling ahead. Disappointment came quickly, followed just as quickly by explanations. A slow start. A stumble along the way. Small details seemed to explain everything. As it turned out, the 40-yard dash was never going to be my event.

The long jump was set up at the back of the playground. Instead of sand, there was sawdust brought in from the lumberyard. The moment anyone stepped into it, the smell gave it away. It also felt special, as if a bigger piece of the community had been brought in just for the day.

Our elementary school custodian, Bill Linebaugh, was part of it all. Bill was always friendly and everyone’s friend. He was the guy who mopped the halls, cleaned the building and made repairs, but also the one who would step into the gym during recess, pick up a basketball and make every shot, especially from the free throw line.

Officially, he was the custodian. In reality, he was much more.

On Play Day, Bill seemed to be everywhere, keeping things moving, raking the sawdust and measuring jumps.

The long jump itself brought a mix of results. No medals, but a sense of doing well enough. What stood out more was a moment along the side of the pit.

A girl who had recently moved into the school stepped up for her turn. It was about that time in life when classmates began to notice one another a little differently. Her jump was long. Longer than anyone else.

On the landing, her hands reached back to catch herself, and that is where the mark was made.

From the perspective of those watching, it did not seem right. It felt as though the jump itself should have been the mark. At that age, fairness was often measured by what looked right, not by how it was officially recorded.

The day built toward the final event: tug-of-war.

A long, heavy rope stretched between classes, with a flag marking the center. Students lined up, hands gripping tight, feet digging into the ground. There was an assumption that strength would be enough. It turned out coordination mattered more.

The rope tightened. The pulling began. One side gave ground, step by step, until the result was decided.

It did not go the way our class hoped. Even so, the outcome was not what stayed. What remained was the feeling. The noise. The effort.

There may have been around one hundred students in that entire school. The classes were small. The setting was simple. Yet with parents gathered along the street, teachers organizing events and each competition carrying its own importance, it never felt small.

It felt like the Olympics.

Somewhere between a box of Wheaties on the kitchen table and a freshly swept stretch of asphalt, it was more than enough.

Tom Brand writes about faith, family, and life in Northwest Missouri. He’s still convinced he could have had a better start in the 40-yard dash, but knows it wouldn’t have improved his chances of winning. Read more at ALittleBitLikeHome.com.