I achieved one of the few truly great victories in my life back when I was but a foolish youngster, mesmerized by the high speed, high risk, highly splinter-ridden world of Pinewood Derby Car Racing. The legends are true: In the mid-1980s, when I was a chubby, fresh-faced Bear Scout, I did indeed take first place at my local troop’s derby race. It was an intense night of riding the wooden race ramps in the basement of St. James the Greater Catholic Church’s elementary school. But I emerged in first place.

I’d spent weeks painstakingly carving my sleek little car from the standard issue block o’ pine. Which is to say, my dad spent weeks painstakingly carving my sleek little car while I helped. It was minimalist in design, basically a wedge – a wooden doorstop with the soul of a cheetah, painted slate grey with only the faintest whisper of a racing stripe.

‘Twas all business.

Before the race, another dad weighed our cars, and mine (thanks to an old fishing sinker crammed into the bottom) was exactly 5 ounces, the official weight limit. We’d cribbed the basic design from an older neighbor boy who’d seen some success on the rails. It wasn’t much to look at. But it got the job done.

In fact, if memory serves, we crushed the completion by a tremendous lead. The other fathers’ jaws dropped. My little woody racer had torched their son’s cars, leaving them desolated in red-faced, tear-soaked embarrassment (I may be remembering that wrong). My dad was proud. Sexy raceway models hoisted me onto their slender shoulders and a bottle of champagne was thrust into my sweaty hands (again, my memory is fuzzy). I went to bed that night holding a little blue ribbon.

And then it was on to the big leagues: the all-city finals at London Square Mall.

To make a long story short – cue the guitar-shredding montage music of 1985 – we began round after round, race after race, and kid after kid was left in the dust. Cheers. Shouting. Tears. Cub Scout neckerchiefs flung to the ground in disgust.

Now, this was a whole new scene. The pool of competitors had expanded by a factor of lots and lots. As we strolled in (past the miniature Big Ben), other boys were busy tweaking their rigs. Their faces were smeared with grease, little packs of cigarettes rolled up in their T-shirt sleeves. I’m sure of it.

To make a long story short – cue the guitar-shredding montage music of 1985 – we began round after round, race after race, and kid after kid was left in the dust. Cheers. Shouting. Tears. Cub Scout neckerchiefs flung to the ground in disgust. In the end, I had clawed my way to the final three.

A hush crept over the shopping mall. The cars were gently placed atop the ramp, and the lever was pulled. We rolled down the incline, gathering speed before hitting the flat track at the bottom. The tiny racers flew down the rails. It was over in seconds.

And though fast, my car was the slowest.

We placed third. Which sucked (at the time) because we’d come so far. And both of the other cars (a stupid wooden turd painted silver, and an ugly green thing) both violated the official rules with illegal design tweaks. But whatever, my family was not one to complain. I got a great little trophy which held a place of honor in my bedroom for years.

Knowing it just couldn’t get any better, I quit the Cub Scouts just shy of becoming a Webelos. And I never looked back.

These events stand out so vividly (and, I’m sure, totally accurately) in my memory because I’m not a competitive guy. Sure, I love to win, but when it comes to sports or any kind of race, I’m not that, you know, good at competing. Sadly, I do not look upon the world through the eye of the tiger.

But I know competition can be good. Years after my racing days were over, I found myself organizing monthly poetry slams with my wife – something new to the area. Veteran writers in town scoffed at the idea of competitive poetry, as if one-upmanship with fellow writers had never been a part of their creative journey (spoiler: it absolutely had been). I tried to explain that it wasn’t about “winning.” It was about pushing yourself. It was about producing. It was about throwing something new into the mix just to see what would happen. Only a few of them agreed.

That’s why I try not to care about taking third. In anything. I think you’re lucky just to play the game. It helps you learn stuff. And if nothing else, it gives you a story to tell.