Second Place Finishes & Silver Medals
I ran the mile in my first ever track meet and finished second. Somewhere in the stands, my mom thought she saw me holding back during the final lap. She was right. I was holding back. I’d speed up only as much as the runner in front of me and slow down again when they did. It wasn’t your typical race tactic, but it was simple; I wanted to stay one or two steps behind.
After my race, my mom congratulated me and asked little seventh-grade me why I didn’t kick at the end. She said I was so close and it looked like I could have won the race. I smiled and said but mom, she’s an eighth grader. And, the girl in front of me was also my teammate. Our team was receiving first and second place points for our race whether I kicked or not.
My answer was logical, although not the kind of answer you expect. Had it been an opponent in front of me, I would have done everything I could have to win the race. But, I didn’t see the point that day when it was my teammate. She had been the top miler on the team the year before, and I didn’t want to take that title away from her. She had been showing me the ropes in the mile, and I was content to keep following her.
I don’t remember many specifics for the rest of the season, but that first mile was the only race I held back like that. Another seventh grader joined the mile line up with me, and the two of us pushed each other faster every race. At the end of the season we went 1-2 in the league championship meet, finishing one second apart. Our best times that season were only one second apart, and neither of us worried about being better than the other.
During eighth grade, the two of us were still the top milers on our team. Until, the Sunday before the league championship meet when I realized that we weren’t. Our two-miler and I had ran in a neighborhood one mile fun run that morning. As she crushed the race, I knew that if anyone could win the mile race at the league meet this season, it was our two-miler.
Of course we each had our individual goals for the season, but our team goal was to win the championship together. It was likely going to come down to us and one other school, and we needed the mile to edge them out. My teammate had never raced the mile, but she was up for trying. So the next day in gym class, we asked our coach if we could switch events.
Our plan to win the meet was simple. We would switch events, and we’d get as many girls in three events as possible. We argued that you can’t win points if you don’t compete, and maybe some teammates would surprise us with 5th or 6th place finishes in new events. Our coach said okay, and we felt like mini assistant coaches those last two practices of the season.
Two days later, in my final middle school track meet, I ran the two-mile for the first time. I also high-jumped that day for the only time in my entire running career. We had made no promises about my high-jump skills, but we had guaranteed that I would finish second in the two-mile. I would have a slower time, but it was the same place our usual two-miler thought she’d finish.
That afternoon my fight for second place came down to the finishing kick. In my first track meet I held back to hold onto second. This time I fought like hell to keep third place one step behind me. Later on in the meet my teammate won her first-ever mile race in a crazy battle, and we ended up taking home the championship banner as a team. That whole day is one of my favorite track memories.
Since middle school I’ve continued to rack up a whole lot of second place finishes. I’ve earned enough real and metaphorical silver medals that the rare gold ones get buried in piles of shiny second place recognition. It bothers me every once in a while. But most of the time, I don’t mind second place. When I’m working toward my best, I usually don’t care how my effort compares to other people. I only mind second when it feels like I let myself down getting there.
Over the years when it comes up, I smile and say that I like silver better than gold anyway. And the thing is, it’s become true with time. Ranking just outside the spotlight lets me fly under the radar and quietly do my thing. I’m happiest when I can put my head down and do good work, letting most people be oblivious to my efforts. The people that particular work matters to will notice. Everyone else won’t.
There is something immensely satisfying about second place to me. Something that I think often gets overlooked. When you’ve put in everything you can at that moment in time, second place lets you see that more is still possible. You can be satisfied that you’ve done well without believing you’ve hit the limit of human potential.
Second place lets you keep dreaming bigger. Second place and silver medals show you the map of where to go next.
