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 ev...
