Bad egg

In honor of the Easter holiday, and also in honor of the fact that I will be spending it in Butte, Montana with some of my more…um…rambunctious family members, I would like to share with you all an Easter story that still haunts me to this day. And no, it has nothing to do with the creepy bunny from this childhood photo:

It was Easter weekend 1997. My mom and her sisters decided to take all of us cousins to the park for the big Easter egg hunt. I was excited, because I had a pretty solid history in the competitive egg-hunting department.

My secret was my speed. I knew that if I could get a clean, quick start off of the line, the other kids didn’t have a prayer. I had considerable practice with this technique, as I used it on a daily basis to snag one of the coveted playground swings at recess.

When we arrived at the hunt site, I was a little taken aback by the turnout. There were kids everywhere—so many, in fact, that the field was divided into age groups. I was assigned to the third through fifth grade group—a bit unnerving, as I was at the bottom of the age range. Still, I was confident of my ability to outsprint an 11-year-old on any given day, especially when there were candy-filled plastic eggs on the line.

When I got to my group’s starting area, I staked out a spot near the front. Even at the tender age of nine, I knew enough about race strategy to avoid getting boxed in by slower runners. I did a quick warm-up of easy plyo jumps and light stretching. As the starter walked to the center of the field, I lowered into a starting stance, left foot forward and basket tucked beneath my right elbow. It’s go time, I thought.

In lieu of an actual starting gun, the race starter raised a can of Silly String in the air, yelling, “Three, two, one, HUNT!!!” I barely caught a glimpse of the ribbons of neon pink and orange exploding into the sky as I launched myself forward.

I immediately spotted a purple egg nestled beside a small fir tree about thirty yards away. I kicked it into high gear, smiling to myself and thinking this would be the first of many eggs on the day.

I saw a flash of red in my peripheral field of vision a split-second before I hit the ground. I looked up, stunned and covered in mud, as a chubby boy in a red ski jacket speed-waddled to the tree and stole my purple egg. After placing it safely in his basket, he turned back and flashed me an evil smile between his pudgy cheeks. Then he waddled off, presumably to tackle and rob more unsuspecting nine-year-old girls.

By the time I finally collected my wits and stood up, I knew my situation was hopeless. All of the eggs in my immediate vicinity had been harvested, and I was way too far behind to catch up. Even if I had started sprinting, the hunt would have been over by the time I reached the other side of the park.

With my hopes of egg-hunt glory dashed against the rocks, I trudged back to the starting area, feeling despondent, dejected, and a bit foolish for underestimating the dirty tactics of the hardened school kids of Butte.

I don’t plan to participate in any Butte egg hunts on this lovely Easter Sunday. But if I did, you better believe there’d be some chubby fifth-graders in the mud—and lots of eggs in my basket—by the time I was done.