The older boys always took the dry center of the upper field for their ball games,
while the girls claimed the small top section for hopscotch and jump rope and hanging around talking.
So the lower-grade boys had started this running thing.
They would all line up on the far side of the lower field, where it was either muddy or deep crusty ruts.
Earle Watson who was no good at running, but had a big mouth, would yell “Bang!”
and they’d race to a line they’d toed across at the other end.
One time last year Jesse had won. Not just the first heat but the whole shebang. Only once. But it had put into his mouth a taste for winning.
Ever since he’d been in first grade he’d been that “crazy little kid that draws all the time.”
But one day—April the twenty-second, a drizzly Monday, it had been—
he ran ahead of them all, the red mud slooching up through the holes in the bottom of his sneakers.
For the rest of that day, and until after lunch on the next,
he had been “the fastest kid in the third, fourth, and fifth grades,” and he only a fourth grader.
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