Eighth grade was my last chance to win the Scripps Howard National Spelling Bee. Hey, the kid who'd won the previous year was in fifth grade; I figured I had a chance by seniority alone.

I'd always been a good speller. In fifth grade, I made it to the regional bee, outspelling all the elementary and middle schoolers that would eventually go to my high school and even outlasting the cute eighth-grader who they sat me next to before I missed "tremulous." I was the second-youngest speller that year (the youngest went out five people later, the freak).

But eighth grade was my year. I wasn't even nervous when I walked into the library that day and sat down with my friends. (Your English teacher selected you, and as we had different classes, pretty much every member of the Nerd Herd was represented.) It went pretty quickly, at first, anyway. By the end of the class period, it was down to me, Michael Brooker, and Robert Ibarra (who I'd beaten three years earlier in elementary school and who forever claimed I'd "cheated and robbed" him of victory).

Well, Robert lasted about two or three more rounds before he misspelled something and ran out crying. But Michael and I went back and forth for almost another entire class period before he missed one. I wasn't sure I knew it, but when I got it right on the steal, the next word was really easy.

The first- and second-place spellers both go to the district bee, so Michael and I got to miss science class for it. Competition in this cluster was a lot less intense than it had been at my old school -- my middle school was in a different district, and we would only face about twelve other kids.

As luck would have it, the bee came down to me and Michael in mere minutes -- again. Our teacher representative groaned when she saw it; she'd been at the school bee two weeks before.

So I was really surprised when, on the third go-round, Michael misspelled "ham."

No, it wasn't actually "ham." But it was ludicrously easy, and I almost felt guilty stealing it from him. But not guilty enough to miss it on purpose. One more correct word later, and I was in the regional bee.

The regional was even bigger than the school bee. One student from every high school district in northern and central New Mexico was in Albuquerque for it, packing a stage at the Holiday Inn Pyramid. (Where the towels are oh so fluffy! I get it, I know the song.) And finally, my nerves kicked in.

Three hours later, five of us remained on stage. And sixty-five words after that, we were all still there.

Then I got up to the mic. The orator, Eyewitness News 4's Carla Aragon, read my word.

"FAHS-jeen."

"Uh ... could you repeat the word?"

"FAHS-jeen."

"Can I have a definition?"

FAHS-jeen is a colorless, volatile liquid or gas used in chemical warfare and organic synthesis.

"Could you use it in a sentence?"

This one took a little more time, but it didn't matter. I had no idea how to spell FAHS-jeen.

I looked around the room a little bit. There was my mom, smiling up at me, willing me to do my best. There was my dad, shaking his head, knowing I didn't know it. There was Carla Aragon, grinning that vacuous news anchor grin. There was no way I was going to get this right. I might as well bite the bullet.

"F...."

When Carla Aragon shook her head, I knew I'd blown it. P-H-O-S-G-E-N-E would haunt me in my sleep that night.

It would have been really easy to write off spelling as a skill altogether after that disappointment. But I always felt that it was important to -- aw skroo it. waz da point, evr1 wrytz lik dis now anwyz.