It was the morning of my little sister’s big race.
‘Get off to a good start,’ our Dad advised her at breakfast as he browsed through the morning paper. ‘Stick with the leaders and then use that kick of yours at the final bend. There’s no one in that field you can’t beat.’
‘Dad,’ I protested, ‘you’re putting too much pressure on her.’ I squeezed her leg under the table. ‘Just do the best you can Sally.’
‘Spoken like a born loser,’ he snorted. ‘No one remembers who came second.’
‘What about Scott?’ I asked.
‘What?’ He flicked his paper in irritation. ‘What the hell are you going on about?’
‘Scott! Scott of the Antarctic. He came second and everyone remembers him.’
He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘You are a moron at times Frank. That is totally different.’
‘And he died too. I bet you don’t even know who got to the Antarctic first.’
He threw the paper on the table, got to his feet. ‘Win the bloody race,’ he declared. ‘Or don’t bother coming home’ He stormed away.
Sally was upset. ‘So?’ she asked through sobs. ‘Who did get there first?’
‘Dunno,’ I shrugged. ‘Some Swedish chap.’