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墨書 Inktalez
In October, with the crisp autumn air, everyone had become somewhat familiar with the new school, new teachers, and new environment when the school suddenly announced a three-day holiday for the autumn sports meet.
For someone like me, who grew up in a mountain village, this was my first sports event. Although I didn't qualify as an athlete, I took on the role of a cheerleader, watching intently and cheering for my classmates while receiving a thorough introduction to sports.
The first event was the men's 60-meter sprint. It was said that the teachers had debated for a long time whether to set the distance at 60 meters or 100 meters. Finally, the Head of the Physical Education Research Group made a decisive call: the playground of Third Middle School wasn't large enough; with only a 250-meter track, the sprint had to be conducted on a straight path, limited to 60 meters.
This initial competition introduced me to three pieces of sports equipment I had never seen before. First was the starting blocks, placed about a meter behind the marked starting line. Six metal devices were arranged side by side, with slanted iron plates covered in black rubber that had several deep grooves etched into it. The teacher in charge shouted "On your marks," and after some warm-up exercises, the athletes crouched down one by one, placing their right foot on the rubber strip, their bodies slowly tensing as they awaited the call of "Set." At that moment, their bodies instinctively leaned forward in anticipation. Just as I perked up my ears waiting for the sound of "Go," the teacher raised his hand holding a gun and pulled the trigger. With a loud bang, the athletes shot forward like arrows released from a bow. It was only when a classmate from town explained that this was a "starter pistol" that I understood its purpose. The runners sped past like a gust of wind, and I noticed that some of them had shiny metal spikes embedded in their shoes. Were they cheating? Seeing my puzzled expression, our class's sports committee member preparing for the second group revealed his shoe soles, which also had spikes. He explained that these were special racing shoes designed for better grip and speed.
Next came the long jump event. For someone like me who had just attempted the Standing Long Jump during gym class not long ago, this event wasn't too unfamiliar. What amazed me was that in addition to the Standing Long Jump, both long jump and triple jump were included in the sports meet. While different approaches and distances for long jumpers left me somewhat dazzled, it was the continuous takeoffs and landings of triple jumpers—especially the final jump's momentum and height—that truly left me speechless.
The first day's events were few in number. While I was astonished by this enlightening experience, I didn't pay much attention to how many victories our class achieved until I overheard some classmates discussing an inconspicuous detail: one girl who signed up for the women's 50-meter sprint didn't show up for her event, leaving many boys embarrassed. However, our homeroom teacher, Teacher Zeng, didn't comment much on it.
The second day's events began with throwing competitions. As a child in my mountain village, I often gathered with friends to throw stones in open spaces; however, witnessing such formal athletic competitions was a first for me. The shot put seemed straightforward enough—just a round stone—but when I approached to try holding one, I realized how wrong I was. This shot put was significantly heavier than any stone I'd thrown before; if I hadn't mustered extra strength at that moment, I might have dropped it on my foot! To my slight relief and restored dignity, it appeared that athletes didn’t use much technique; they simply pushed it away with force. The best throw barely exceeded nine meters. The discus reminded me of cymbals used during village celebrations; it resembled two cymbals tightly glued together. Drawing from my previous experience with shot put, I prepared to lift one for a try but made another mistake based on prior knowledge: its weight was noticeably lighter than shot put! Besides being wrapped in iron on its edge, its core was surprisingly wooden—a misnomer indeed to call it discus.
As we prepared for competition, teachers acting as judges and enforcers dispersed groups of students gathered around and set up long warning lines before finally announcing that the competition could begin. The participating athletes did not disappoint under their classmates' eager gazes; they grasped the discus with fingers spread wide and pivoted on one foot while spinning rapidly before releasing it toward the throwing line. After four or five spins at increasing speed, they launched it into flight; it soared through the air before landing softly on the ground with a shallow white mark left behind. The judge measured it with a tape measure and announced a distance of 26 meters and 85 centimeters.
The javelin throw was the last event of the throwing competitions and attracted many spectators. Watching as students hesitated near the throwing line due to fear of being hit by sharp javelins caused by their classmates’ throws saved teachers from having to shoo them away. Unlike discus throwing, javelin allowed for a running start; athletes sought their optimal starting positions while classmates gathered along both sides of the runway to cheer them on during warm-ups. The actual competition turned out somewhat tedious; combined with rising cheers from basketball finals happening nearby, I left midway through only to later hear that someone achieved over fifty meters.
On the third day of competition came what our class hoped would yield good results: long-distance races—men's 3000 meters and women's 1500 meters. For us rural students facing town students for the first time, this event seemed less about technique; we had walked daily to school before high school and had developed strong legs over time—our own "Iron Plates." Teacher Zeng didn’t dampen our spirits but allocated half of our class's spots for participation; however, due to my small stature, I could only watch.
The race quickly began with over ten participants per group; given its length requiring twelve laps around the track, both competitors and judges appeared relaxed at the starting line without worrying about minute differences in positioning affecting outcomes. In those initial laps, aside from one athletic standout among us rural students who surged ahead firmly establishing control over first place while town students lagged behind leisurely as if not competing at all—by lap six or seven several rural runners began slowing down despite their efforts to maintain pace as town students closed in on them until two or three overtook our entire group entirely. In those final two laps only one rural student remained in contention within first place; after an intense sprint he finished fifth in his group. Later our PE teacher informed us: long-distance running also requires skill and training—knowing when to maintain certain speeds is crucial; if you charge out too fast you might struggle just to reach the finish line.
As we moved into women's races next door at Class Three students erupted into noise: that town girl many had high hopes for missed yet another race after her absence on day one! Many classmates questioned her decision: “If she wasn’t going to show up why sign up? And why does this keep happening?” Not fully adapted to this new environment myself I kept silent while observing another group of classmates from some rural area where they previously attended middle school grew increasingly agitated until they decided collectively to confront Teacher Zeng demanding answers. Only after their fervor subsided did I vaguely learn that this girl happened to be experiencing her menstrual period during those days making participation in such strenuous events unwise.
This incident provided me not only an introduction into sports but also an awakening regarding female biological characteristics beyond physical activities.
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