I’m Guilty, Arrest Me

In the wake of all the people being indicted lately on sports-related gambling issues, well, I’m guilty, come and get me.

You see, I used to run cross-country track back in grade school. I wasn’t all that good at running back then; even worse now. I was probably 5’10” and 170 lbs in eighth grade, not even close to your prototypical long distance runner. You might think 5’10” and 170 is normal for a typical man. For a typical man, sure, but I was a 14-year-old who liked to eat. Muscle tone, yeah, none at all. I think the most I could bench press back then was 100 lbs in my parents’ basement with those really old plastic covered cement weights. I couldn’t even jump and touch the basketball rim. I didn’t really blossom (if you can even call it that) till my high school and college years.

(However, these years back in grade school turned out to be the climax of my sexual prowess – with myself. With the internet just coming out and all the available porn sites out there, man, not a day went by without a good beat-off session. I liked to think of it as a reward after finishing my studies. I was a good student back then usually only getting a B in art class or something totally gay like that – but I was a much better beater-offer. Sure I learned more as I got older but I’ll never forget fantasizing about Brian’s older sister in the bathtub (she was hot!) or using whatever kind of lube I could find around the house to aide in my quest (note: WD-40 does not work well and may even burn a little).)

So it was eighth grade and we had the final meet at the end of the year. I remember it pretty well. It was cold out and I had sweatpants and a sweatshirt on to keep warm. As with most fieldtrips we got there about an hour early and pretty much froze out butts off till it actually started. My dad showed up after work along with one of his co-workers (wonder what Dave “The Wave” is doing nowadays?). They tried to get me prepped and fired up for the run. I’d done this stuff before but usually it was just me out there running along with everyone else; not anywhere near the front of the pack and not near the stragglers. I was maybe the fourth best male runner on our team.

Our best runner was Paul. Paul had the build for running long distance. He was 5’3” and maybe 120 lbs with his coke-bottle glasses on. Paul was a nerd. Paul was a dork. But Paul was freaking fast. He was a grade under me and I used to pick on him a bit. If he was running next to me I’d push him into a tree or stop sign. He used to come over sometimes in the summer and I’d block every one of his shots at the hoop. But there wasn’t any way to catch him over the five or six miles we used to run.

Just before the race was about to start my dad told me he’d buy me a new radio controlled car motor ($80 back in 1991!) if I were to beat Paul. I used to be big into that kind of shit and would routinely kick guys’ asses who were twice as old as me and who spent twice as much money on their cars. I probably had more talent doing that than anything else in my life (well, besides the aforementioned beating off). I knew exactly which motor I wanted: an 11-turn single that would totally blow everyone else away.

Knowing that the possibility of me beating Paul was somewhere between slim and none I did the unthinkable: I approached Paul. I approached Paul and offered him $10 (two weeks worth of allowance) if he would let me beat him.

Right away I knew it was wrong. Its not that he accepted the offer or that the fix was in but it still felt wrong.

With my dad and Dave strategically placed around the course for support I somehow managed to beat Paul and everyone else on the team. Out of 400 some kids I came in at 43rd. I remember they had a chute at the end that they wanted you to file into as you crossed the finish line so they could keep everyone in the same order that they finished. At the end of the race my brain did not comprehend this. I kept running as hard as possible till I felt a very strong arm grab me around the stomach that halted me in my tracks and pushed me towards the entrance. I was spent. I barely made it to the end of the chute where they gave me the pink ribbon. Yeah, pink, thanks.

I didn’t get a congratulation from the coach. Paul had a big mouth and I’m guessing my proposition had gotten around to her. I tried to stay away from her as much as possible. It was my last year in track, wasn’t like I’d be running for her again. Now that I think of it that might have been the last time I ever saw her. Huh.

You better believe I got some high-fives from my dad and Dave. At first I had no idea where I had placed in comparison to my classmates – including Paul. Later I found out that the 2nd and 3rd best runners had stayed together and saved too much for the end sprinting past a number of weary runners on the home stretch. Paul came up lame with a side ache and finished in the middle of the pack. Dad and Dave said I did great but I didn’t really feel all that great after what had transpired earlier. My most memorable moment in grade school track was overshadowed by the thought of fixing the race.

But I got the motor. I used that motor for a good two years and won many races and trophies. It’s the motor that’s currently sitting in the radio controlled truck in my parents’ basement. I used to do wheelies off the line on a dirt track with that motor (which back then you never saw – guys would always ask me what I was running). Did I mention I was 14 and at the top of my game? I was like the fucking Doogie Howser of the radio controlled car circuit. And just like Doogie I got tired of helping sick people and turned gay. Wait…

Paul asked for his $10. I punched him in the side. He went down like a sack of potatoes.