Between the Folds

I have a confession to make: Winning is not in my nature.

That may sound strange, even un-American, but it’s always been true.

Ever since I can remember I’ve never expected to win anything. I just didn’t think it was possible. To be honest, I’ve never felt like a winner. I don’t feel like a loser either… just somewhere comfortably in between.
Little successes — accomplishments — please me quite a bit. However, a major success — VICTORY! — makes me strangely uneasy and embarrassed.

My earliest memory of ever winning anything worthy of a trophy took place in the sixth grade.

We were studying “flight” in science class and our teacher, Mr. H, announced there would be a paper airplane flying contest at the end of the unit.
Even though Mr. H was a gifted teacher, and able to pique even my interest in science class, like every other competition in my life, I immediately disregarded the challenge. Because I knew I would be eliminated in the first round.

But then I happened to mention the little tournament to my older brother, who happened to claim that he knew the very best paper airplane design ever invented.

Up until this point in my life I had never folded a paper airplane, because I had about zero interest in knowing something like that. But after only a few tries, my brother managed to teach me how to fold and throw his personal model of choice . . . repeatedly emphasizing the importance of very sharp creases.
As it turned out, he was right! Every time we launched our planes off the breezeway of our house, they flew clear across the meadow and out of sight.

The day of the contest, we 11 year-olds lined up and wiggled our way down the long hallways to the school auditorium. (It’s always fun to escape from the classroom even if you know potential humiliation lies at the other end.)

We each had our rectangular piece of paper which we either folded during class or down at the auditorium – I can’t remember the order of protocol, but I do recall no pre-folded planes permitted to prevent any funny business.

Our planes were judged by the distance they flew combined with the number of seconds they managed to stay in flight.

Each time I climbed the steps to stand in the middle of the stage, I assumed it would be my last. But to my astonishment, my aerodynamic-supersonic flying machine floated steadily and gracefully, over the endless lines of wooden chairs, all the way to the very back wall of the auditorium every single round. No nose dive into the third row for me.

In fact, no matter how badly I threw it, that plane would right itself and soar perfectly to the finish line.

The only people more shocked than I were all of my classmates, especially those boys who later became engineers and/or computer geeks and accused me of somehow cheating. And then, of course, there was Mr. H himself. I don’t think I’d ever achieved anything higher than a B- in his class. I wouldn’t be surprised if he questioned whether or not I was even in his class.
Was I in his class? Did I somehow manage to cheat? How did I win this thing again? I couldn’t help wondering and worrying and doubting myself!
That night, I remember the victory — and all its ensuing responsibility — still swirled in my head as I tried to fall asleep. I folded my sheet back perfectly, turned over on my side, creased my worries as sharply as possible, and tucked them into the back of my brain… and then I vowed to never tell my brother about another school contest ever again.