29 Sports Day Drama

Kamon squinted at the giant banner strung across the school gates. 

SPORTS DAY 2025 – GO, FIGHT, WIN!

The words were splashed in bold, glittery letters, and underneath, smaller ones read: "Participation is Mandatory!"

Kamon groaned. "Why do they always force us into these things?" 

Tee, her younger brother, bounced next to her, brimming with excitement. "Because it's fun! You're just mad because you have to run." 

"Correction," she muttered, adjusting her backpack. "I'm mad because I have to sweat." 

As they reached the schoolyard, students bustled about in their brightly colored team shirts. The air buzzed with excitement—cheerleaders practicing their chants, the sound of sneakers scuffing against pavement, and the sharp blasts of a whistle as Coach Pravit barked instructions. 

Kamon trudged toward the sign-up booth, her mood souring with every step. A table labeled TEAM REGISTRATION stood in the middle of the chaos, with teachers ticking off names. 

"Name?" 

Kamon sighed. "Kamon." 

Mr. Niran, clipboard in hand, glanced up. "Ah, Kamon! You're on the tug-of-war team." 

Her eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?" 

"You heard me." He checked the list. "You're Team Blue." 

Kamon stared at him. "You expect me*, a person of grace and dignity, to engage in a barbaric display of brute strength?" 

"You tripped on a flat surface just last week," Tee reminded her. 

"Exactly! Which means I am not qualified for this kind of activity." 

Mr. Niran wasn't listening. "Next!" 

Reluctantly, Kamon joined her team on the field. The rope stretched long and thick between them, coiled like a snake waiting to strike. 

"Okay, everyone, we need a strategy," declared Rina, the team captain. "We're up against Patcha's team." 

Kamon groaned. "Of course it's Patcha." 

As if summoned by the mere mention of her name, Patcha strolled onto the field, leading the rival Red Team. She smirked. "Oh, Kamon is competing? This will be fun." 

Kamon forced a smile. "I'm just here for the school magazine." 

Patcha blinked. "Wait, *that's* why you signed up?" 

"Obviously," Kamon scoffed. "A great school event needs a great picture of me." 

Patcha shook her head, amused. "Let's hope your athletic ability doesn't ruin your big moment." 

Kamon flipped her hair. "Oh, don't worry. I was born for the spotlight." 

As they prepared for practice, Kamon took her position. The whistle blew, and everyone yanked on the rope with full force—everyone except Kamon, who immediately lost her footing. 

Her sneakers skidded on the dirt. Arms flailing, she tried to regain balance, but the force of the pull sent her tumbling forward, right over the rope. 

A split second later, she was on the ground, tangled in the thick, scratchy fibers. 

The entire field went silent. Then— 

"ROPE RUNNER!" someone shouted. 

Laughter erupted. 

Kamon sat up, dazed. "What just happened?" 

Tee sprinted over, grinning. "You just set a new school record for the fastest way to lose at tug-of-war!" 

Kamon groaned, rubbing her face. "Perfect. Another legendary moment in my life." 

Patcha strolled by, arms crossed. "I'll admit, that was impressive. I didn't think it was possible to lose a practice match that fast." 

"Go trip on a pebble, Patcha." 

Patcha smirked. "See you in the finals—Rope Runner." 

Kamon sighed. "I hate this day." 

Just when Kamon thought things couldn't get worse, the teachers made an announcement: 

"Due to a lack of participants, all students must also join the cheerleading team!" 

Kamon froze. "Excuse me?" 

Minutes later, she found herself in the middle of a group of students, forced into a ridiculous formation. 

"This is cruel and unusual punishment," she muttered. 

Rina clapped her hands. "Alright, everyone! Simple moves. Just wave your pom-poms and chant!" 

Kamon raised an eyebrow. "That's it?" 

Rina grinned. "Oh, and lift someone up for the finale!" 

Kamon's soul left her body. 

"LIFT SOMEONE UP? WHO?!" 

"Me!" Chanon announced, hopping forward. 

"Absolutely not." 

Too late. The routine began, and Kamon found herself in the middle of a disastrous attempt at coordination. 

By the time they reached the final stunt, she was already regretting every life choice. Chanon climbed onto her shoulders, and for one blissful second, everything seemed fine. 

Then— 

"Wobbling! Wobbling!" Chanon shrieked. 

"You're moving! Sit still!" Kamon yelled. 

"I AM sitting still!" 

"STOP PANICKING!" 

"YOU STOP PANICKING!" 

Then, predictably, everything collapsed. 

Chanon tumbled down, knocking into Kamon, who crashed into three other cheerleaders, creating a domino effect of disaster. 

Another round of laughter echoed across the field. 

Kamon lay on the ground, staring at the sky. "This is why I avoid sports." 

Later that afternoon, Kamon was taking a break when she heard a familiar, irritating voice. 

"Hey, Kamon. Need help standing? I mean, given your track record today." 

She turned and saw Wichai, one of the boys from Class 4B. 

"Very funny, Wichai," she said, crossing her arms. "Are you sure you want to challenge me right now?" 

He smirked. "What, are you gonna challenge me to another tug-of-war match? We all saw how that went." 

Kamon narrowed her eyes. "You know what? Let's make this fair." 

She glanced around and spotted a chair nearby. She dragged it over, stepped onto it, and stood tall, now slightly taller than Wichai. 

"There," she said smugly. "Now we're even." 

The crowd around them burst into laughter. 

"Are you seriously using a chair?" Wichai scoffed. 

Kamon shrugged. "Gotta use my advantages." 

Tee ran up, wiping away tears of laughter. "This is gold! Someone take a picture for the school magazine!" 

Wichai shook his head, laughing. "You know what? I respect the dedication." 

Kamon smirked. "Good. Now bow before me." 

As the sun dipped lower, the final tug-of-war match approached. Team Blue versus Team Red. Kamon versus Patcha. 

"You ready?" Rina asked. 

Kamon exhaled. "Let's do this." 

The whistle blew, and both teams pulled with all their might. The rope tightened, neither side gaining ground. 

Kamon dug her heels in, her arms burning, her breath short. She saw Patcha gritting her teeth across from her. 

"Come on, Team Blue!" Kamon shouted. "Pull like your lives depend on it!" 

With one final heave, the rope lurched in their favor. 

Then—BAM! 

Patcha's team collapsed in a heap, and the whistle blew. 

"TEAM BLUE WINS!" 

The crowd erupted. Kamon gasped for air, then turned to see Patcha still on the ground, blinking up at the sky. 

She reached out a hand. "Admit it, Patcha. I'm not completely useless at sports." 

Patcha hesitated, then smirked and grabbed Kamon's hand. "Fine. But I'm still calling you Rope Runner." 

Kamon groaned. "I knew you'd say that." 

The sound of cameras clicking filled the air. 

Chanon grinned, waving his phone. "Congrats, Kamon! You finally made it into the school magazine!" 

Kamon sighed. "Great. Now my legacy is complete."

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The dinner table was set in the cozy corner of Jirapat's house, the warm scent of jasmine rice wafting through the air, mixing with the savory smell of stir-fried vegetables. Jirapat slouched in his chair, his chopsticks absentmindedly poking at his food as he stared into the dimly lit kitchen. The conversation around the table buzzed softly, but Jirapat was deep in thought, his mind preoccupied with the day's events at school.

"You seem quiet tonight, Jirapat," his mother commented, her voice gentle, though tinged with concern. She was busy slicing a cucumber, her knife slicing through the vegetable with expert precision.

"I'm fine, Mom," Jirapat muttered, barely looking up. His father, sitting opposite him, raised an eyebrow at his son's sullen mood.

"You don't seem fine," his father, Mr. Arun, said, his tone sharp. "You've been avoiding your homework again, haven't you? You know that's not how we raised you."

Jirapat gritted his teeth, trying not to snap. He knew his father could be critical, but it wasn't like his dad had any room to talk. Mr. Arun was often busy with work, coming home late and barely remembering what happened the day before. He was rarely around to help Jirapat with anything, let alone keep track of his grades. The thought made Jirapat's frustration bubble up.

"Well, maybe if you weren't so forgetful, I could actually get some help," Jirapat muttered under his breath, just loud enough for his dad to hear.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Arun's voice grew more serious as he set his chopsticks down, locking eyes with his son. "What did you just say?"

Jirapat straightened up, shifting in his chair. He knew he had to be careful, but the words had already slipped out, and his annoyance was clear. "I said, maybe if you remembered what you told me, I wouldn't be struggling with my grades so much. You always forget things, Dad! You never remember anything I ask you about."

There was a tense silence at the table. Jirapat's mother glanced between the two, her eyes widening slightly. She had always tried to keep the peace, but even she couldn't ignore the underlying tension between her husband and son. Mr. Arun's face hardened, and for a moment, Tee regretted his words. But then, his frustration took over again, and he pushed forward.

"I mean, really," Jirapat continued, throwing his hands up in exasperation, "you tell me something, and the next day, you act like you never said it. You can't even remember what we talked about this morning!" 

Mr. Arun's face turned a shade of crimson, but before he could say anything, Jirapat's mother spoke up, her voice steady but firm.

"Jirapat," she said, her tone a warning, "that's enough. Your father works hard, and he's doing his best. If you have a problem, you should come to him directly, not blame him for everything."

Jirapat's shoulders slumped, and he let out a frustrated sigh. "But, Mom, how am I supposed to get help if no one even remembers what they said?" He gestured to the dinner table. "I'm trying to do well in school, but I don't know what's going on half the time, and it's not like anyone cares enough to notice."

There was a pause, and then Mr. Arun spoke, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "I don't forget on purpose, Jirapat. You know that. I've been busy with work, but that's no excuse. I should be more present for you. I'm sorry if you feel like I don't care about your grades."

Jirapat blinked, caught off guard by the apology. He wasn't expecting his dad to admit his faults so openly, and it threw him off balance. For a second, he softened, guilt creeping in at the edges of his frustration. 

"I just want you to remember, Dad," Jirapat muttered, his voice quieter now. "Remember that I'm trying. I just don't know what I'm doing half the time."

Mr. Arun nodded slowly, his expression softening. "I'll try harder, Jirapat. I know it's not easy. I'm sorry. I'll do better."

There was a long moment of silence. Jirapat felt a weight lift off his chest, though his frustration still lingered in the back of his mind. His mother let out a sigh of relief, and for the first time that evening, there was a sense of peace in the air. The hum of conversation resumed, though it felt more tentative, more cautious.

The tension hadn't entirely evaporated, but for now, Tee felt a little lighter. He had said what was on his mind, and his father had acknowledged his feelings. That was all he could ask for, even if it didn't fix everything. He pushed his plate aside slightly and glanced at his dad, who was now picking up his chopsticks again.

"You know, I still need help with that math homework, Dad," Jirapat said, trying to lighten the mood. "Do you think you can remember that?"

Mr. Arun gave a small, dry chuckle. "I'll do my best, Jirapat. I'll make sure to remember this time. Let's go over it together after dinner."

Jirapat nodded, feeling a little more hopeful now. He wasn't sure how much help his dad could really provide with math, but at least he was willing to try. And that was a start. 

As the evening wore on, the family continued their meal in relative peace, the unspoken understanding between them growing, however fragile it was. Though the scars of their earlier disagreement still lingered, they were, for now, covered by the warmth of shared food and the unspoken promise to try harder.