Kayla Rain Goldfarb is in the 7th grade at St. Louis Park Junior High School. Her favorite school subject is math. Out of school she likes to run on the cross country team, play guitar, hang out with friends, and read books. She also enjoys acting and all sorts of musical theater. Writing has become one of her hobbies, and she hopes to continue creating more short stories like “Boxing Has No R’s.”
Prose, Grades 7 - 9: First Place
Boxing Has No R's - Kayla Goldfarb
Montiliesse Jacqueline Lisette DuFram. Who on earth names their kid that and then expects them to turn out normal? Manny and Dianne DuFram, that’s who. We’re not even French (or Canadian), but any time I bring up a possible name change, my parents become inexplicably deaf, blind, and mute to everything regarding such subject. Montiliesse is a very hard name to have if you’re a 14 year old girl who likes to box, which, by the way, I am. I know boxing isn’t the norm for girls my age but when you are growing up with 3 brothers it pays to know how to throw a punch. Boxing is just something I’ve always done and I love it. I also love my coach, Mr. D, who at a first glance (second too) looks more like Santa Claus than the strict-no-nonsense coach that he is. Mr. D will work you until you want to capital-D Die.
One day after a very intense workout Mr. D yelled at me to come to his office. Wiping the sweat from my blond head of hair, I grabbed my gym bag and headed on in. When I saw who was seated haphazardly on the squashy gray chairs my stomach doubled. Smiling like the Brady Bunch were my Mom, Dad, Matt, Daniel, and Sam, all looking like million dollar winners on Wheel of Fortune. While their obvious happiness could have been to my relief, it instead filled my mouth with the acrid taste of dread. I had no idea why I was being called into this room or what eventful news awaited me. I was afraid. Finally, after several moments of awkward silence, Mr. D spoke.
“Montiliesse, you lucky kid. Stop looking so nervous.” I grimace-grinned, still appropriately out of the happy loop. He laughed and continued. “You remember that sports essay I had you write for that contest last month?” I nodded, knowing what he was talking about despite his vague description of “that essay for that contest.” “Well... It won the top 3!” he practically shouted. His volume didn’t do any damage though because my ears were already ringing. The prize for the contest was unbelievable. A full paid scholarship to UMD along with $500 cash. I really wanted to win.
When normal hearing returned as one of my functioning senses, I realized that Mr. D hadn’t stopped talking despite my brief encounter with being deaf. When my brain finally caught up with his words my mind snagged on something he had said. I asked him to please repeat what he just said. After giving me a quizzical, judging glance that only coaches seemed to have mastered, he obliged. “I was just saying that the only thing keeping you from your prize is giving your speech at the event this Saturday.” There it was again. That mystery syllable that had brought me from my soundless wonder. Speech. Definition: The act of speaking. Out loud. In front of other people. Speech. This one little grouping of 6 letters caused me more discomfort than a convention of dentists after Halloween. Settled cold in my stomach, it was ice upon my tongue. I know this probably sounds like some very stupid childhood game of a fear but for me it is nothing but the very worst. You see, I have a speech impediment. One I’ve always had that makes it impossible to pronounce my R’s. After going to countless speech therapists and slurping down many cups of yogurt though straws I just gave up. Now, with something so unbelievably real flung into my life, I had no idea of what to do.
Over the next couple of days I considered bailing out of the contest. I considered having someone else read my essay for me. Every consideration seemed wrong and unnatural. I was truly caught in between a “wock and a hawd place.”
The day of the event I felt sick in the sense that my insides had been shoved onto a roller coaster with no escape button. My brothers, being the 16 year old dorks that they have been known to portray, made sure my mother was informed of their opinion that I was faking sick. Annoying brothers or not, at a quarter to 10 we were all packed into our purple minivan, driving to the event as a carriage would drive its prisoner to the executioner’s block. As it turned out, the event was fully catered and stocked with live reporters, all hungry for a bite of information to be mumbled into some dumb microphone. Luck was decided on favoring every one else, leaving me to chew my nails on fear as the last speaker. How lovely! When the clapping for the previous speaker had subsided, I lifted myself from the chair with sweaty hands and walked (in a rather comatose state) on stage.
And guess what, I rocked! In the immortal words of my Dad, I “swept the audience from their chairs with a string of priceless words arranged by a hand well dressed in talent.” And I did it with every stumbling R that I could bring forth from my heart. One could say I was pretty happy with myself. But I’ve got to admit that my overall personal record on the score board of life is the lesson I learned, teaching me that the greatest flaw I will ever find will be one of my own. I guess I also learned to just let that go and be comfortable with my speech impediment. ‘Cause after all, everybody knows there are no R’s in Boxing!