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The Final Round
by Gemma Galeoto

Suddenly the doors burst open and crowds of students made a mad rush for the white wall where postings were made. The clamor increased as boys and girls dressed in professional suits pushed and shoved to find out if they made it to the next round. I was among the crowd, trying desperately to write my room number and opponent on a yellow post it before being shoved out of the line of vision. “FINAL ROUND,” my sheet said. “LINCOLN-DOUGLAS DEBATE, ROOM ESB 109- GARETH OLDS VS. GEMMA GALEOTO.” My heart beat rapidly, and I put on my best contender face. I could do this. My teammates and coach blended into a blur of faces and loud voices shouting that I could do it. “You’ve made it this far!” they shouted. “Beat him down! We’ll all be there with you!"
I took a deep breath and stepped outside with my debate box. The mob of students had shifted and split--blurbs of high schoolers headed in different directions with the same determined look that I hoped I wore on my face. The cologne I had put on that morning had long since faded into something mixed with sweat and was now fairly non-existent.
     My heart pumped so loudly in my ears that I blindly followed the pack of teammates that had come to watch me win. The door to the room opened and I walked steadily to the front and sat down. Faces assaulted me. It seemed as if everyone I knew was there--my best friend, my coach, all the freshman debaters, the university recruiting coach, the guy who liked me-- they had all come to watch me. This was the last round of my high school career--this round would determine who was the best in the state, who would go to the Nationals--
who was undefeated. Advice everyone had given me flashed through my brain like near death experience. One of our judges chuckled; “This oughta be the most polite round we’ve ever seen!” My opponent and I looked at each other and recognized in the other what we felt ourselves: under the polite exterior there was a “kill” determination that had gotten us both to the final round in the first place. We smiled and began.
     The round went back and forth. I attacked him and nailed my points down. He hammered into me; we gave this last round our all. We both knew that one would fail and fall. Neither of us wanted to be that one.
Finally the end came-- we shook hands that were damp with exertion and thanked the judges, each of us silently willing them to vote for us. My friends patted me on the back, and I walked back to the room with the white walls, where we would find out who won. In there, it didn’t matter how many other people you had defeated or how many other tournaments you had won. It didn’t matter if you were valedictorian or bottom of the class. All that mattered was how the judge felt that day. One person’s vote could end your whole career.
      The awards ceremony rolled around so slowly I thought I would never hear them call my name. “Will the final debate round competitors please come to the front?” My team cheered and the haze that surrounded my steps grew thicker as I waited to hear my fate. As I stood up in front of the 400 or more people, my entire debate career trickled before my eyes. I remembered my very frist class where I ended up crying and running out.I remembered my first tournament where I only won one round. Now I was standing at the regional level, having made it past all the crying and giving up, to the final round. No matter if I won or got second place, it was still a far step from where I started.
     “ This was a good round.” The university coach proclaimed. “I know it was a tough decision for the judges. For second place, we have… Gemma Galeoto.” My team clapped dutifully and I smiled as they snapped my picture. My smug opponent hugged me, and I received lots of congratulations as I walked back to my seat.I knew the decision wasn’t right. Everyone else knew too. The university coach said he knew I should have won and the one judge who voted for me sent me a look that said clearly “I’m sorry, I tried.”
     But it was alright-- I was finished forever-- I could breathe now. My heart stopped racing, and I could see clearly. I even congratulated my opponent. My coach pulled me aside to give me a pep talk and to tell me how proud she was of me. At the end she said, “Oh by the way, Gareth isn’t registered under the National Forensic League. That means you’re going to Nationals girl.” I cradled my second place medal in my hand and smiled. Second place isn't always the first loser.