***

“The Winners’ Circle” is a quietly luminous short story that explores the endurance of
friendship, the tender ironies of aging, and the unspoken poetry of daily ritual. Set against the
golden calm of a Southern California spring, the narrative traces a single morning in the life of
Herald, a retired man whose life has settled into the rhythms of nature and memory—until two
unexpected phone calls stir up echoes from a long-past victory stand.

*** 

The Winners’ Circle

By Harry Arabian 

The morning began like any other—a sun-drenched spring day promising warmth and small miracles. As Herald stirred his apple cinnamon instant oats, the unmistakable blur of wings caught his eye through the kitchen window. A Rufous Hummingbird, radiant in its coppery-orange shimmer, hovered near the yellow Angel’s Trumpet flower that had just bloomed. It was the first sighting of the season—a signal it was time to hang the feeder.

He smiled to himself. The ritual was simple: dissolve sugar into water, rinse the red feeder, hang it where the light would catch the bird’s iridescent flash. Herald had read the guidelines once, but he’d come to prefer the art of waiting—the mysterious way the avian gossip network spread news of nectar.

Just as he secured the feeder on its hook outside, the phone rang. He walked back in and picked up.

"Hi, we're trying to reach Herald," came the voice.

"This is Herald," he answered, expecting it to be the utility company again. Recent storms had been causing blackouts in the neighborhood.

But then came a chuckle: “It’s your old buddy Teddy. Third-place Teddy, from the Field and Track team. Remember the 1971 yearbook? I’m the kid on the right. You’re in the middle—the champ.”

Herald froze, hand still on the receiver, gaze drifting toward the wall of photos near the kitchen table. There it was: the black-and-white photo of three skinny boys on the podium. Teddy in green, Jerry in red, and himself, the winner, in white.

“Wow, what a surprise. You were wearing a green T-shirt that day!” Herald said.

“And you were in white, Jerry in red,” Teddy confirmed. “I was so mad about losing—I didn’t talk to anyone that day. But Jerry gave me your number. I told him we’re taking a family vacation to Southern California. Three generations packed into a rustic cabin at Crystal Cove.”

“That’s walking distance from me!” Herald laughed. “We should meet. Finally settle that decades-old score.”

Teddy chuckled. “Tuesday might work. The youngsters are off to Legoland, so maybe my wife and I can sneak away for coffee.”

“Perfect. Nine a.m. works. Gives me time to feed the pets,” Herald added, just as he caught sight of the hummingbird feeder—a tiny duel underway as one bird chased another away with furious fluttering.

As the conversation ended, he sat down with his now-cold oats. Still good, he thought, taking a bite. The birds were locked in an aerial ballet outside the window. Then the phone rang again.

“Must be Teddy again,” he muttered, reaching for the phone.

“Hi, Herald,” said a voice.

This time, Herald instantly recognized it. “Jerry! Well, it must be marathon day,” he joked.

Jerry laughed. “Close. It’s the first week of my retirement. After 40 years of teaching math in Riverside, I finally hung up the towel. We’ve moved to Huntington Beach to be near my wife’s family.”

“You’re in Orange County now!” Herald said. “Let’s meet up. Tuesday at nine, Pelican Plaza near Crystal Cove.”

“Sounds good,” Jerry replied.

“I’ve got a real surprise for you,” Herald added, grinning as he imagined the look on Jerry’s face when he saw Teddy.

Afterward, Herald stared out the window once more. The hummingbirds darted and zipped in bursts of bronze and ruby, vying for their share of sugar water. His coffee was gone, oats nearly finished. He composed a quick text to Teddy with directions, confirming the plan.

Two calls in one morning, both from ghosts of a time he hadn’t revisited in years. What were the odds? Maybe the birds weren’t the only ones returning for spring.

Tuesday morning arrived, bright and crisp. Three men stood in Pelican Plaza, each a little grayer, a little rounder, holding a yearbook worn at the edges. Laughter echoed across the café patio as memories spilled over coffee cups—races, rivalries, and reconciliations.

Teddy raised his cup in a mock toast. “Third place never felt so sweet.”

Time had flown like the birds Herald admired each morning, swift and shimmering, but the moment they shared grounded them in something rich and enduring.

Three boys from a podium in 1971, now three friends in 2025—champions still, in their own way.