the derby

We moved here just before Jesse turned eight and joined the cub scouts. The following spring was his first pinewood derby. Being as Jesse was our third son, we had had much experience with the inner workings of making the cars and the derby itself. Jesse had done a very nice job on his car, for a beginner. He won his first race! He won the first 2 out of 3, securing for himself the trophy in his age group. But the crowd favored another boy and the cub master bent to their cries for the boys to keep on racing, best out of five. Jesse won that, too, but the crowd cried for best of seven… They kept on racing until finally the other boy came out on top and was declared the winner. Jesse was very disappointed, angry; he’d been robbed. His was the only age group that raced more than three races, it had been very apparent that they didn’t want the new boy to win. I was angry, too. That night I stayed up late to craft a letter to the cub master, letting him know of my disappointment in the way he had handled things and of Jesse’s crushed feelings. It wasn’t a scathing letter, and although it was honest, I regret sending it. I have since developed a wonderful friendship with that cub master. He really is a kind and tender spirit. I’ve come to realize that he wasn’t responsible for what happened; he, too, was probably saddened by the turn of events, that’s the kind of guy he is. Although we’ve never discussed the derby or my letter, I am very sorry that I misjudged him; I am so grateful that he didn’t take offense at a letter written in anger and mailed in haste. It would have cost me a dear friend. Now I consider carefully the way I respond to perceived injustice. I take the high road (the highest I can muster, anyway), and remind myself that regret is a difficult burden to carry.