In 8th grade, I won the Oak Harbor Middle School spelling bee, destroying the defending champion, Curt, on the way to my victory. I went heads-up against some 6th grader. I donǃÙt lose to 6th graders. He misspelled ǃÚgelatinousǃÙ, and I got ǃÚruminateǃ٠to seal the deal.
The victory earned a ticket to the district competition. If I won here IǃÙd be off to nationals in D.C. to fulfill my dream of being on ESPN. My teacher and the school librarian drove an hour out of town to watch me. They probably had higher hopes than I did. Instead, I was the first participant out, eliminated in the first round.
There are a few people in this world that I hate: Randall Knight, Demolition, and the word-enunciator at the spelling bee. ǃ?Sourfulǃ?. Is that even a word? ǃ?Can you repeat the word?ǃ? ǃ?Sourfulǃ?. ǃ?Can you repeat it again please?ǃ? ǃ?Sourfulǃ?. ǃ?Definition?ǃ? ǃ?Full of Sourǃ?.
Well, I guess itǃÙs a word. ǃ?S-o-u-r-f-u-lǃ?.
ǃ?Sorry, that’s incorrect. The correct spelling is…ǃ? Damn.
This debacle stands as the most embarrassing moment of my life. I spelled out a word that I knew wasnǃÙt a word. IǃÙll never have the chance to redeem myself. I promise you if time travel becomes possible, IǃÙll go back as a giant 8th grader, handcuff my former self to some pipes in the bathroom, and annihilate the competition. I daydream about what the second and third rounds would be like. Maybe IǃÙd get to spell more advanced words like ǃÚburritoǃ٠and ǃÚtutuǃÙ. At night the embarrassment haunts me.
The word I misspelled? It fits perfectly: sorrowful.