Oranges at the Olympiatrics

About a week ago, I got a text from Tabby, which included the line: "Seniors frm all over CT r having a sports day on de 4th including ur ladies wish u culd c dem."

Yesterday, I put on a hoodie, drove to Vygies Stadium in Athlone and went to the Olympiatrics. My ma's were having a jam when I arrived over lunch, cheering their teams on. "Ntombezaan, you came!"
"Ewe ma, and I brought some oranges."
I explained that when I was in high school, during my short-lived hockey career, we would get orange slices at half-time. "I'm not really sure why to be honest," I tell them, "I think it's just a tradition to eat oranges when you play sport."
I shrug and hand over my tupperwares and the women agree to eat my carefully cut up quarters. "For energy!" shouts Ma'Ellen.
"Enkosi ma, yes." I agree.

They're sitting in fairly organic rows in the stands; many of the flat plastic seats have been broken or dirtied over time so they've just camped out in the most comfortable way they can. I flop down to Ma'Regina. "So have you won anything yet?"
"Ye-es." she tells me.
"Which races?" I ask.
"The Egg and Spoon race and the Sack race. We came second and third."
"So no trophies or medals yet?" I tease her.
"Heh, ntombezaan, we're doing well!"
"Mmm," I answer.

I walk down to the edge of the track where Tabby is organizing competitors and getting everyone lined up for the Dress-up Race. The two commentators are calling over the music for missing competitors and clubs. Elderly people, some more sprightly than others, are calling back. Tabs hands me a crumpled schedule for the day: "Hold that," she instructs me. I wait for further explanation, but she's too busy corralling participants, shouting rapidly in Xhosa as she does, uncompromising in her directions and answering most suggestions with "huh-aaaah!" So I page through the schedule to see what's coming up. There's the Pass the Ball Race, the Novelty Race for club leaders, and the Relay Sprint. Say whaaat; a sprint...?
"Yes," Tabs answers my concerned question. "The sprint."

About an hour later, the relay teams are taking their positions on the track. I'm apprehensive. Some of the team members limp a little to their starting blocks, some are stripping off layers of scarves and jerseys, readjusting their glasses, tugging their socks and folding them over their sandals. Tabby starts giggling, holding onto my arm and pointing to our team's fourth runner. It's the old man who hangs out at the bungalow some days, "but he's so fat!" squeals Tabs, "how's he going to run?" I have to admit, while I would've phrased the question differently, I shared her sentiments and shook my head a little. "I dunno Tabs, maybe he was an athlete when he was younger?" Our speculations are brought to an end by the commentator's count-down: "One, two, three" and his "GO!" is matched with the small bang of the starting gun.

We're not doing too well over the first three legs, which doesn't stop us from jumping and shouting "MASINCEDIIIIIIIISWE!" like small children, but things aren't looking good. But then, hey, then, Ma'MP hands over to our final runner and our fortunes change. Our happy surprise culminates as he wins us third place.
"But he is so big!" exclaims Tabs, "how can he run so fast?!"
He really is a big, big man. Round, round, round, like Father Christmas.
He's waving his arms above his head now, the champion of the race.
Tabs and I join the throng walking towards him and the other three on his team. "Take his photo! Take his photo!" shouts Ma'Monica. His glasses have sweat-slipped down his nose and he shoves them up with the back of his hand, clearly enjoying the shouts of congratulation pouring down on him.

I give myself a black mark for my prejudice, for thinking that you can be too old, too fat, too wobbly, and too un-athletic to come third place in the Olympiatrics Relay Sprint. I forget sometimes that human potential is defined by what we can do, not by what we can't.