Polarizing Athletics
Benjamin Levine
Issue date: 2/4/10 Section: Op/Ed
When I was in middle school, my best friend was Gordon Forbes. Forbes was a star football player and track star - and currently plays in Division I. Also, Gordon is black. One day after school, I foolishly challenged him to a race to see how fast he truly was. We were at the end of my street, a straight stretch of about 100 yards, at the end of which was my house. It would have made a perfect street for drag racing, and was. Since my house was across the street from the high school, the town put up barriers to prevent high-schoolers from abusing their newfound mechanized freedom.
I knew I couldn't beat him in a straight race, so I bet him that I could beat him if he wore his backpack with the zillion pounds of textbooks in it and I took my bag off. After five strides, I was done - smoked. I challenged him again: give me a lead. He blew by me, backpack bouncing tauntingly. I asked him how he got to be so fast, hoping to find some way for me to be close to a challenge to him - I'm still as fast as someone trying to run in four feet of snow - but he just shrugged his shoulders modestly and said something like: it's just something I can do. Later, I learned that he ran every day, and worked hard for his athletic ability. It's not as if he could have sat around playing video games and still maintain this blinding speed, but that's how he made it sound.
Rewind two or three years before that, and I'm a fourth grader sitting cross-legged on the gym floor, not quite listening to my principal, but definitely thanking the powers that be that I was not in English class. During an assembly about black athletes, one of my classmates (you know, that kid who makes you cringe when he is about to speak) raised his hand and told the principal that his father had told him that African-Americans are better at sports because of something in their skin. Half of the kids looked nervously up at our principal as the other half of the assembly laughed nervously. "Oh God," I thought. "What is this kid talking about? How could someone think that the color of one's skin is an indicator of their athletic ability?"
I knew I couldn't beat him in a straight race, so I bet him that I could beat him if he wore his backpack with the zillion pounds of textbooks in it and I took my bag off. After five strides, I was done - smoked. I challenged him again: give me a lead. He blew by me, backpack bouncing tauntingly. I asked him how he got to be so fast, hoping to find some way for me to be close to a challenge to him - I'm still as fast as someone trying to run in four feet of snow - but he just shrugged his shoulders modestly and said something like: it's just something I can do. Later, I learned that he ran every day, and worked hard for his athletic ability. It's not as if he could have sat around playing video games and still maintain this blinding speed, but that's how he made it sound.
Rewind two or three years before that, and I'm a fourth grader sitting cross-legged on the gym floor, not quite listening to my principal, but definitely thanking the powers that be that I was not in English class. During an assembly about black athletes, one of my classmates (you know, that kid who makes you cringe when he is about to speak) raised his hand and told the principal that his father had told him that African-Americans are better at sports because of something in their skin. Half of the kids looked nervously up at our principal as the other half of the assembly laughed nervously. "Oh God," I thought. "What is this kid talking about? How could someone think that the color of one's skin is an indicator of their athletic ability?"