“I hate when people do that,” my teammate said as we stretched. “They just feel bad for him. No clap is better than the pity clap.”
All of the runners had passed except for one, and as if to emphasize that he was last, there was a golf cart following behind him.
Besides my team, there were only a few people along the fence. They gave him a hurried clap or two before jogging off to see the top runners finish. Some shouted over their shoulders, encouraging him to keep going.
He was at least fifteen minutes behind the leader’s pace. In cross-country, ten minutes after the leader finishes means most people are starting their cool down runs. Fifteen minutes means they are already back at their tents, packing up to load the bus.
I glanced at my teammate beside me, stretched my leg and looked back at the ground. She must not know my times. When I ran, the pity clap was better than nothing. I’m no stranger to last place, so I clapped for the last runner. He needed to know he wasn’t alone.
Thirty minutes later, it was my turn. The gun was shot, and we were off. It only took five minutes to be completely alone, out of breath and struggling up a hill. Running cross-country was miserable. I heard my heavy breathing as I huffed past silent parents. Their daughters wouldn’t have been this far behind. They glanced away as if to say, “You’re too slow. Why bother running?”
When I signed up for cross-country, I knew there wouldn’t be any first place finishes in my future. Ever. I was running to show my commitment to my teammates, who were now huddled in blankets at the finish line. I wanted to finish what I’d started.
By the end of the third mile I was exhausted. The finish line was in my sights, but my knees felt like they were slowly being ripped apart. My legs were too cold to feel, yet somehow still ached.
A man was standing on the side of the course, the only one not waiting at the finish line. He had his bags in his hands, ready to go, but he stayed there. He wasn’t waiting on someone he knew who was behind me because I was the only one left on the course.
I didn’t know him; he didn’t know me. But the closer I got, the more enthusiastic his clapping was. “Almost there!” he said. “Smile for the finish!”
I ran past him and finished in last place with a huge grin. After the race, my friends’ parents joked that they thought I hadn’t run hard enough because I was smiling as I crossed the finish line. But they hadn’t been there two hundred meters behind me. They didn’t see the man who could have been anywhere else, but still he was out here in the cold. They missed the stranger’s unechoed clapping that pushed me across the finish line.
This encouragement from a stranger let me know I wasn’t alone. Maybe it was pity, but it was still a clap.
