I was three, was I three? Let's just say it for the sake of the story. I was small, I could walk, I wasn't in a diaper. Maybe I was. Three.

My mother ran a roadrace that finished at the track at Phillips Park. I waited at the finish line with my father behind me, a man with a beard and sunglasses shouted the numbers of the runners that were finishing from across the track.

Mom was approaching the finish line and I thought I'd act like I was going to hug her. I knew I wasn't going to do it, I just said "Mommy!" and ran towards her as she sprinted the last 20 yards.

I would have stop, but the man calling out numbers thought he needed to play hero so he stopped mid-yell and made as if to run and catch me, but to do so he would knock over a runner. He faltered and then stopped while my father reached from behind me to yank me back.

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