A Night At The Races

I have a bit of a confession.

I hate the Pinewood Derby.

There! I said it! And I don't take it back.

You see, I have a son, a glorious, hard-working and honest little man who takes things seriously. He has followed the rules of his life from day one and tends to look at everything as good or bad, black or white, right or wrong.

This can be both a blessing and a curse.

So when he arrived home all rosy-cheeked and fresh faced from scouts a few weeks back, block of wood in hand, he was ready to get to work. He said is kind den mother told him to work hard and do his best and he would have a wonderful derby.

So he did. He came up with his own design and after the Rizz did the initial cutting, he spent hours sanding and puttying and sanding again. He went over every inch of that car, taking the time to come up with a paint job and design that he could carry out all on his own. And you have never seen a boy more pleased with what he was able to do. His car represented everything he believes in at 9 1/2, which is that hard work will be rewarded and that it's always more important to be honest than anything else.

And then the derby came.

And he saw what some of the other boys had done, with their perfect paint jobs and slick-as-can-be designs and perfect shapes. And I saw his confidence waiver for just a minute before he caught my eye, smiled broadly and put his car in the pit to wait for the race to begin.

This is where my loathing of all things derby comes in.

For his first race he was matched with a young man who is known for having amazingly fast cars. I could see his eyes widen when their names were called to race together but he proudly claimed his car and got ready to race.

He lost.

He was saddened for just a minute and then he remembered all the things my sweet husband has been saying to him for weeks. That it's not about winning. That it's about doing your best. That what's most important is working hard and knowing you did everything you could.

Race #2, here we go.

Lost.

Races 3, 4, and 5, lost.

And one of his wheels came off. And we didn't have any glue. And I didn't know what to do. And I hated that my son was hurting and he was left with me as his pit crew instead of Brad who would know just what to do and just what to say.

At this point, his little lip was beginning to quiver and his eyes welled up. I pulled him out in the hallway for a quick pep talk. And here's the thing; there's something that happens to young men of this age where they are still young enough to want to cry but are old enough to feel like they shouldn't (which we really need to do something about) and it's heartbreaking. He was trying so hard to hold it together and be brave.

A few kind fathers helped us out and got his car back in racing condition. We would have to race his car backwards, but at least it could race.

I got him laughing for just a minute before we went back in. Races 6, 7 and 8...

Lost.

He threw his bravery out the window and began an earnest cry.

We quickly made our way to a nearby classroom and I gave him a minute to cry it out. I told him how proud I was of his hard work, how I understood how frustrated he must be feeling, how I loved him more than anything else. And here's where I fell more in love with my son:

"I'm not sad because I'm not winning. I'm happy for my friends. I just want to do well one time because I worked so hard and I thought that's what it was all about."

I hugged him close and suggested that we say a prayer. Not a prayer that he would win but that the night would be a good experience for him and he would feel like his hard work wasn't for nothing.

When we rejoined the derby, he chose to sit with me instead of his friends. He looked at the ground, twisted his fingers about and waited for his name to be called. When it was, his big eyes turned to me and I gave him a quick hug and reassured him that no matter what, it would be alright.

And

he

won!

That one little win made his whole night. His car managed to do well and he felt like everything had been worth it. He managed to win two other races out of the 130 and he felt like the biggest winner of the night.

When it came time for the awards, Spence proudly stood with his den and cheered on his friends. The emcee started talking about the coveted "Best of Show" award which would be given to the scout who had worked on his car on his own, embodying everything that a scout should be and the winner was...

Spence!

I don't hate the derby anymore.

As you can imagine, Spence was OVERJOYED at his good fortune. And I was overwhelmed by his leaders who saw a boy who did his best and desperately needed to know that he had done well, win or lose. And that his hard work did not go unnoticed. He pumped his fists in the air and jumped up high when his name was called and I knew that he would be okay.

Afterwards, as he chatted a million miles a minute on the way home, he commented on another scout who didn't win a single race at the derby. This young man handled his defeat extremely well and Spence said "you know what, Mom? I just think that he and I have lots of other talents besides pinewood derby racing."

Man I love that kid.