He held the stopwatch with eager anticipation as I crouched, poised to sprint.
“Ready?” my father asked, his hazel eyes sparkling as the early morning sunlight bathed the pristine fairways of the private golf course. It was our daily ritual — my father, my two older sisters and I sneaking onto the Caracas Country Club golf course before the world woke up.
I waited for the command. And while we were just three little girls and their dad on a forbidden golf course in an exclusive Caracas neighborhood, in my mind, I was an Olympic athlete preparing for the race of a lifetime.
“Go!” he shouted, his thumb pressing the stopwatch’s plunger to record my speed. My tiny frame propelled forward as I surged ahead, arms pumping, my sneakers growing damp with the morning dew. My eyes stayed locked on one of my sisters, stationed as the marker at the end of my race. In that moment, nothing could stop me — no one could be faster. Bright green parakeets perched on the surrounding mango trees were my spectators, their chatter mixing with the cheers of my father and siblings. In the distance, Caracas’ iconic Avila Mountain added majesty to the moment. I didn’t know the exact world record, but at 7 years old, I was certain I had just shattered it.
When I reached my sister, breathless but triumphant, she patted me on the back, offering a proud, “Well done.” Behind me, my father’s voice bubbled with excitement as I turned to meet his gaze, a victorious grin spreading across my face. Just then, the unmistakable buzz of the club’s guard’s golf cart horn broke the spell, its sharp tone both a warning and a playful acknowledgment. It was his usual routine, finding us in the midst of our early-morning races.
My father gave the guard his signature wave, and the guard responded in kind. We gathered our things and wandered off the property, giggling and planning our next Olympic trial. By now, even the guard knew we’d be back — it was all part of the game.
Happy Reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com