The athletes emerged from the staging area onto the dusty track, ready to begin their heat in the 100 m run this past Saturday — one of dozens of heats as hundreds (thousands?) competed in the Special Olympics state track meet. Sophie was the smallest.

Waiting to race, she was tiny next to her competitors, all of them several years (and inches) ahead of her, each looking official in their team’s tee shirt, with a big number pinned to the chest. (Sophie’s oversized tee reached so far down past her shorts I had to double-check to be sure she was actually wearing shorts.) Volunteers hovered around the runners, making sure each was ready, and just before the race was to begin, a woman dashed to the fence where I stood watching.

“Is she supposed to be wearing her shoes on the wrong feet?” she asked, pointing to Sophie.

OH FUCK, I thought.

“Oh no!” I yelled — unable to get to her, stuck on the other side of the fence. No problem. Like a pit team around a race car with a flat tire, suddenly Sophie was surrounded, the shoes removed and replaced, lightning fast. The runners took their marks.

I’m sure those volunteers were thinking what you’re thinking. What kind of lameass mother sends a kid to Special Olympics with her shoes on the wrong feet? They might also have been asking why Sophie was an hour late.

Good questions. And I realize that here I appear quite guilty. I am notoriously late to everything. I can arrive 15 minutes early to an event and still manage to walk in an hour late. I’ll be late to my own funeral.

But this time, it was not me. I swear it wasn’t. In fact, I’d been planning this day for a week — I knew exactly what time I’d drive Annabelle to ballet (9:15), what time Sophie’s friend would be dropped off to ride with us (10:45), and what time we’d leave the house (11:25) to ensure we’d get to the stadium long before the suggested arrival time (11:45) to make the time the girls were to report to the staging area (12:30). I’d triple-checked with the coaches in the preceeding days to be sure nothing had changed.

You might think I’m silly, but to me, this kind of thing is sacred. You do not fuck with the Special Olympics. Schedules are color-coded, you have to register, we had practices for months beforehand. It’s the Olympics, after all. It’s a big deal. It’s a big deal to Sophie, too.

And in a world where your kid steals your deodorant to use as hair detangler, writes “I hate you” on the special ed teacher’s white board and gets invited to fewer and fewer birthday parties, yeah, it’s one corner where I have some control. I can get her there on time, she can race, we can go out for frozen yogurt. Simple, right? Not this past Saturday.

My phone rang at 10:40. It was the guy who heads up Special Olympics for the city of Tempe, Josh. Josh is super nice. He’s super laid back. Like, really super laid back. When I tried to sign Sophie up for Special Olympics in the first place, it took me six months (and an email cc’ed to the mayor) to track this guy down. I figured maybe he had some significant health challenges (now that I’ve met him, it’s clear that he’s just laid back).

After two days of state competition (the meet began Thursday night) I was, frankly, digging the laid back thing, following encounters with an uptight security guard, some overly perky volunteers (“Your daughter is just so cute!”) and the Thunderbirds, the uber-polished, modern-day Masons who wear conch belts and golf tans and hand out medals at the awards ceremonies.

Laid back was looking good. Til the phone rang.

“Hey, where are you guys?” Josh asked.

“Where are we?!” I replied, my voice rising with each word (I am not ever laid back) as I suspected what this must mean. “Why? We don’t have to be there for an hour. We have a 12:30 race. You said so. I checked. A bunch of times.”

“Ohhhhhhh.” Pause. “Uh oh.” Deep, audible sigh. “That was my fault.”

“What was your fault, Josh?” I asked. “What?! You mean Sophie missed her race time?”

“Well, yeah, it looks like it.” Another sigh.

I then proceeded to — what’s the technical term? — freak the fuck out.

I’m not saying I was nice, but long story short, I guess I was effective. I told Josh that wasn’t acceptable, that he needed to talk to someone, that I would talk to someone, that someone needed to talk to someone. (Actually, I said even worse. I’m sure you can imagine.) He protested and I persisted, even put Sophie on the phone (remember, I’m not saying this was my finest hour) and finally I said, “Okay, Josh, we are going to hang up and you are going to call me back when you have this fixed.”

I still can’t believe it worked. Ten minutes later, the phone rang.

“If you leave the house right now, Sophie might still make her heat,” he said.

So I skidded into Sophie’s room, where she and her friend were playing, hollering, “Sophie put your running shoes on! Tatum, help her! And have you both gone to the bathroom????!” on my way to stuff water bottles, sunscreen and hats in a bag.

We hustled out the door and, even with my Mr. Magoo driving skills, made it to the stadium in record time. Josh had instructed me to pull up alongside the fence and call for the Tempe coaches, who ran out to grab the girls. I plucked a rubber band from my wrist and handed it to a coach to put Sophie’s hair back, wished the girls luck, and raced off to find a parking space.

I made it inside the stadium just as Sophie was emerging onto the track. Once the shoe incident was settled, she took her spot, looking so serious. She’d told me she was a little nervous. The 100 m run is exciting in that (unlike with the 50 m dash) there’s enough time for some drama, and this was an exciting race. Sophie took the lead immediately, pulling out ahead of her (relatively) giant competitors, ultimately falling back but giving the eventual third place winner a real run for her medal. I’ve never gotten so excited at a sporting event, I was screaming and running along the track, waving my arms.

Ray had made it just in time to see Sophie race, but the rest of our friends couldn’t get there in time. We’d told them 12:30. She finished a little after 11.

I texted and called, warning them they’d missed the race, but people still showed up — Sophie’s best friend Sarah, her beloved kindergarten teacher Ms. X, and our dear friend Kathy, bearing a tiny, pink-frosted cake for the athlete. When Sophie took the stage to take her fourth place ribbon, waving like crazy, we might as well have been in London or Sydney or Barcelona, rather than Mesa, Arizona. She brought down the house.

Afterward, we wandered around the “Olympic Village”; the girls ate snow cones and practiced throwing basketballs. I looked up, and there was Josh.

I was impressed he came over to apologize, and I told him so. “It’s over now,” I said. “I’m just glad the girls got to run. I know it didn’t happen on purpose. I hope it doesn’t happen again to anyone else.”

Josh looked at the ground. He wasn’t done apologizing. “When the girls got here today,” he said, “Sophie ran up to me and said, `Josh, I’m sorry I’m late!””

He looked up, and I could have sworn he had tears in his eyes. “I tried to tell her it wasn’t her fault, but I’m not sure she understood.”

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just nodded.

I don’t think it’ll happen to anyone again. Not on this guy’s watch.