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1
Spikes
Jazz sat in the sporting goods store beside her dad. Piles of track shoes lay heaped around her. All of them had spikes.
She felt as if she were surrounded by a bunch of those small man-eating fish that live in the Amazon River—the ones with the tiny, gnashing teeth.
"Dad," Jazz explained again, "these are so cool. But I don’t need spikes. Coach wants us all to have plain running shoes. And my old ones are worn out."
"You’re going to be great at track," said Dad. "Just wait till we get home. I’ll show you how to—"
Jazz tuned him out. Ever since Jazz signed up for the track team, Dad had been excited about helping her. So excited he didn’t listen.
Jazz looked to the salesclerk for help.
"We have some really nice running shoes," said the clerk.
"She doesn’t need running shoes," said Dad. "She needs track shoes—with spikes."
The clerk shrugged his shoulders at Jazz.
"You can’t get a fast start without spikes," Dad explained.
"Dad," Jazz exclaimed. "Coach said no spikes!"
"But . . . but," Dad sputtered. "Track shoes have had spikes for a hundred years. They were invented in 1920!"
Dad always knew stuff like that.
"Well," said Jazz, "in the 1960 Summer Olympics, a man won a gold medal and set a world record— running barefoot."
Jazz knew stuff, too.
"Really?" said Dad, his eyes opening wide. "No shoes?"
Finally! Dad heard something she’d said. "Right," Jazz nodded. "And for track, my age group wears running shoes. No spikes."
"Oh," said Dad. "Okay." He motioned to the clerk. "I guess we need to see your running shoes, please."
Jazz squeezed his hand. "Thanks, Dad."
"What if I talked to your coach about changing the spikes rule?"
"Dad!" exclaimed Jazz.
Everyone in the store stared.
"Do not go to my coach," Jazz whispered. "Not about rules. Not about spikes. Not about anything. Okay?"
Dad sighed. "Fine. But I do know about running. I can help you. I—"
Jazz pictured their den at home. A trophy case covered one wall. It was filled with trophies of runners, pole-vaulters, and hurdlers. Her dad had won them all.
But Jazz didn’t want a jillion trophies. She just wanted to sprint on a track team. Because when Jazz ran, she felt just like a lightning bolt.
Fast. Strong. Sizzling.
She was glad her dad cared about her sports. She just wished he didn’t care quite so much.
Excerpted from Track Attack by Betty Hicks.
Copyright 2009 by Betty Hicks.
Published in August 2009 by Roaring Brook Press.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.
