For me, I see something different, I see that day I was wrested of my folded airplane laurels. Ignorance forsook my title when I let Roslyn, the effervescent Rosie of my heart's garden, attain my long-standing position as Plane Champ of the Third Grade.

The story is short. The contest counted distance only, though style mattered during playground bragging. I always tossed farthest, using the right-wristed side hand whip technique. Ever since anyone could remember, I had won. My reign went back at least two years.

But then Rosie appeared. New to the neighborhood and new to the sandlot, no one knew what beauty stood buttressed against the slide. Ready she was to fling her soon airlofted plane. The rest of us made of planes, but she crafted hers of careful cuts, with origami-quality folds. Shining at the nose of this art was one paper clip, jutting out less that a centimeter. Still, distance counted, and I would take no prisoners.

Rosie threw first. The angle she leaned as she aimed skyward danced with grace in the school yard light. No whoosh or swoosh, only flight on one plane, silent and worthy of the air it breathed. Rosie's follow-through called up a vision of Rollie Fingers pitching for the Padres, but the plane's speed was more like a Nolan Ryan flung fastball.

It landed near the softball field, behind right field, twice or more the distance I ever threw. I tried not to cry as I pushed my plane meekly into a twisted, crashing smash into the grass.

Rosie's smile never left me, but she did. She left, off to another school, having found no competition at mine. With my heart and plane tossing record both broken, I slumped sadly until the next recess.