Diary of a Cheesy Kid

Sooner or later the let-loose sidewalk colts will cross the streets. Running, they will run into each other. And sooner or later, as surely as noses drip downward, it will no longer be enough to merely run. They must run against something. Against each other. It is their instinct.

“Let’s race!” one will shout, and they race. From trash can to corner. From Sugar Cube Corner to the mail office.

Their mothers holler at them for running in town, where other ponies walk,  so they go to the alleys. They take over the alleys, make the alleys their own town.

They race. They race in July and they race in January. They race in the rain and they race in the snow. Although they race side by side, they are actually racing away from each other, sifting themselves apart. I am fast. You are slow. I win. You lose. They forget, never to remember again, that they are pups from the same litter.

And they discover something: They like winning more than losing. They love winning. They love winning so much that they find new ways to do it:


Who can hit the pole with a stone?

Who can eat the most cupcakes?
Who can go to bed the latest?
Who can weigh the most?
Who can burp the loudest?
Who can grow the tallest?
Who is first . . . first . . . first . . . ?
Who?
Who?
Who?
Burping, growing, throwing, running— everything is a race. There are winners everywhere.

"I win! I win! I win!"

The townsquare. The backyards. The alleyways. The playgrounds. Winners. Winners.

Except for Cheese Sandwich.
Cheese never wins.
But he doesn’t notice. Neither do the other colts.

Not yet.