FREE ESSAY ON SATURDAY

SATURDAY

Saturday
Saturday. The first day of the weekend, the first day of freedom at the end of every week
at school. Saturday was always a day of great anticipation for me during my younger
years. It signified not only the beginning of a weekend away from the rigours of Primary
school and learning my times tables, but also my first real social experiences. Saturday
was 'Club Day'.
At around the age of 8 or 9, my Mum decided that I needed to get out into the real world
and get a taste of 'Saturday life', and all it had to offer. So, on the advice of my much
older and wiser 10 year old cousin, I chose to join the local craft club. Each Saturday
morning from that day onwards, I would join the 6 or 7 other girls in the hot, cramped
'Cathy's Crafts' store in Montmorency. For $7 a week I could paint pieces of wood shaped
as teddies, or perhaps even stick some glitter on a nice picture for Mother's Day. Either
way it served as a warning for the rest of my life that craft was definitely not my
scene.
Project after project, week in, week out, I came home bearing one more useless, awful
testament to bad taste and craftsmanship. Mum would be gently supportive - with kind
words such as "why don't you give this to Nana for Christmas?" Or in other words "I never
want that hideous toilet roll cover in my house again." Dad wad not quite so
understanding. My skills with the paintbrush were often criticised, as I had not used a
'polyglaze' or a 'neutral undercoat' or a 'size 12 brush'. Although the $7 a week had
produced some memories of gluing too many sequins on my photo frame, or never being able
to paint flowers quite right, the time had come for me to give my craft club days away.
Forever.
And so it was that I found myself, hand glued to Mum's, at the Little Athletics sign-up
day. And so it was that I found myself being talked into being patriotic and signing up
with the valiant Montmorency, who had never yet won a club championship and are likely to
never achieve this coveted goal. My Saturdays had taken on a new light, a change of
direction and an earlier morning wake-up.
Every Saturday I would wake up early, in excited anticipation of the day ahead. Mum would
check my schedule and inform me of the day's events. If I was lucky, I would have 'The
Walk', the 200 metres and Long Jump - my best events. With deck chairs and thermos in
tow, Mum would drive to Willinda Park in our old beat-up Holden Kingswood, and, despite
my howls of protest, pull up right outside Montmorency's headquarters. It really was an
old (embarrassing) Kingswood.
The rest of the day would pass in a blur of events, icy poles and catching up on what was
happening in my friends Lisa and Tracey's lives. Usually we would compete against each
other - especially in 'The Walk'. My pet event. I could do 11.07 mins into a head wind,
pulling a tractor. I was Montmorency's little pocket rocket. In my mind, when it came to
the walk, I was a star.
Around 20 - 30 of us, just little under 10s, would line up on the starting line on the
back straight of the track and nervously wait for the marshals to finally call us up for
the start. Usually I needed to go the toilet. The thought of racing for so long was
overwhelming at the time - and more than a couple of girls would drop out before the race
had begun. But I never gave up. I never lost sight of my goal. And that goal was, to beat
Sarah Hicks. Sure, I wanted to win for myself. And my beloved Montmorency. But more than
anything, I wanted to walk over that finish line ahead of Sarah, and turn around to see
the look on her face as her Olympic dreams vanished into thin air. I wanted to see her
crying to her Mum, and telling everyone that she wasn't even really trying, when everyone
knew she had been walking her legs off. I was quite malicious as a child. Basically, I
wanted to see her suffer.
So, one week when the marshal finally called us up to the line, I pushed my way to the
front, next to Sarah. I smiled at her and wished her luck, whilst picturing her crying
and sobbing at the end of the race. Everyone was still for the gun. Then - BANG! As
always, I got off to a flying start, and led the field by a couple of metres at the end
of the first hundred. I concentrated on my breathing - in, out, in, out, slow it
down… don't panic… my legs were flying away from me, my action was tight, and
I felt a sudden rush of confidence and energy. Never before had I led a Walk coming into
the second lap. That day, I was in front. Coming around the bend, I spotted Sarah's Mum,
a Walk judge. I tightened my leg muscles and concentrated on my action. Bend, straighten,
bend, bend, straighten, bend, breathe, breathe, breathe… I walked past Sarah's Mum
confident that my action didn't warrant a report. I relaxed slightly and sped up a bit. I
knew I had to keep my legs under control, but I also knew that out of the judge's sight,
if I relaxed slightly I could gain some more speed.
Coming around the back straight once more, the muscles in my legs began to throb and
ache, as if they were tearing themselves away from my leg itself. I took a long, deep
breath, gritted my teeth and tried desperately to maintain this rapid speed I had created
for myself. Passing by the Montmorency cheer squad, I saw my friends and Mum cheering for
me, yelling out support and praise. I grinned from ear to ear and pressed on. Two laps to
go.
I passed by Sarah's Mum once more and tightened my action accordingly, feeling the strain
it put on my muscles. My breath was coming in short, sharp gasps now. I tried to quieten
my breathing, slow it down, but the pain in my chest sent me gasping for air, and the
screaming pain in my legs caused me to relax slightly, slow down. I saw Sarah's Mum
studying me closely and writing something down. A report. Two more lapses of
concentration and I would be disqualified.
On the back straight I saw Sarah coming up behind me. I tried desperately to make my legs
go faster, to slow my breathing and get back into the rhythm I had generated at the
beginning of the race. But nothing worked. By the end of the back straight my lead was
gone. I was in second place.
A lap and a half later, gasping for air and aching all over from the pain in my legs and
chest, I somehow managed to cross the finish line. The rest of the race had passed in a
blur of pain, wheezing and dizziness. I had finished in third place, the judges informed
me. Sarah was standing by the judges' table, sipping a water bottle and grinning and
laughing with one of the older girls from her club. A couple of minutes later my friend
Lisa finished, and we sat together, trying to regain our breath and keep down our lunches
at the same time.
"Did you beat Sarah?" she asked, panting.
"No" was my exhausted reply.
After that, I never came close to beating Sarah again. Although I had finished a very
respectable third, gained a personal best and finished first out of my club, I still felt
incredibly disappointed and almost incompetent. The last I heard of Sarah she was in
Perth competing in the world championships for the Walk. A year later I quit Little Aths
and found a new Saturday activity - Saturday morning sport, at school. I have not
competed in the Walk for 4 years.
My Saturdays have always held some sort of special reverence in my mind. They have played
host to many memories I sometimes enjoy and sometimes regret, the craft club and Little
Aths being just two of them. However, I will never forget how I felt that one particular
Saturday, when Sarah Hicks and I put on a show for the crowd at Willinda Park.