Hey, Filthy Felthy!” It was a guy called Chim. I was in junior high and he was in high school. I didn’t know Chim’s real name, or why he’d picked me out for bullying, but it didn’t matter. I knew he played on the football team and that he took perverse pleasure in shoving me into the dirt. Why, Lord, why? I asked.
“Hi, Filthy Felthy,” Chim called one day. “Ready for your daily dusting? Why don’t you run?”
I was a decent runner for seventh grade, but Chim could easily catch me. That was probably what he wanted. To take me down hard. Lord, Lord, I thought, I can’t fight this bully alone. You’ll have to help.
“I won’t run from you,” I said firmly, then blurted, “but I’ll race you!” As soon as the words left my mouth I was sorry. Chim was a foot taller than me. What was I thinking?
Chim looked as shocked as I was. “Really, you think you can outrun me?” he sneered. “Okay. If you win I’ll leave you alone. Forever.”
“Deal,” I said. There was no backing out now. We walked to the track that circled the football field. Along the way we picked up curious onlookers. Chim promised they’d get to watch him beat me up. He gave me little shoves as we walked, chanting, “Filthy Felthy! Filthy Felthy!”
God, I’m counting on you to get me out of this mess!
Chim offered to give me a 20-foot head start, but I declined. If I was going to get beaten, I might as well do it righteously.
“Ready, set, go!”
Chim took off, legs pumping. He left me in the dust. I almost gave up right then. But something made me keep running. I gained a little ground. I pulled even with Chim. Then, as if my legs were filled with an unknown power, I surged ahead.
I could hear Chim breathing behind me, the slap of his feet on the track. The sound got fainter as I ran faster—right to the finish line. It was then that I heard a voice, or what sounded like a voice: Well done, David.
From that day on, nobody ever called me Filthy Felthy again.
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