Thoughts from Science Bowl 🥣 by Fiona L. '27

“Fiona, next round, you should use your thumb to push the buzzer, not the palm of your hand.”

“Really? I always thought it was faster. It’s, like, a more powerful movement for me. So I do it with more force.”

“Just trust me. It’s a lot much faster with your thumb. Just always keep your thumb above the buzzer, so you’re always ready to buzz in.”

“Okay.”

Apart from that advice, J was silent as we walked through the corridor to the final round. I looked around the room, at the wood paneled walls, the windows rough with light. We didn’t belong here. Everything here was prestigious. Prestigious chairs, prestigious chalkboards, prestigious emergency signs around every corner. We were just a first time team from an unknown high school, blissfully unaware of the cutthroat competition of the South Bay. How our opponents had trained day after day after blistering day, all for just a chance at victory.

Even the air here felt elite, spiced with fog and pine needles and ambition.

Our final round would follow the same routine as all the others. First, an ice breaker. It was meant to make us relax. We had no chance of winning, but when I glanced at my teammates, I saw the determination etched on their faces. I knew that we all looked to bring a piece of this competition home with us, no matter how tiny.

“Who’s your favorite supervillain?”

We buzzed in to give our answers. Four on one side, four on the other, verifying that all the buzzers worked. I was in the “captain” spot on my team, a symbolic position that changed every round. All I needed to do was report our team’s answers for bonus round questions and sign a scoresheet. Yet something about it made the round feel distinct. Crisp, in a way.

“My favorite supervillain is the Joker”

The previous rounds hadn’t gone very well for me. I forgot the answers to questions I found easy during practice, I blurted out the answer before my team position was called, and I gave so, so many wrong answers. In one round, our coach told me to sit out the next round, switching me with our team’s alternate, who was two years my junior.

“My favorite supervillain is my homeroom teacher.”

I had first started attending science bowl meetings because my friend did. These kinds of clubs were rare for my high school, where most students preferred to participate in mock trial, theater, or athletics. We were an unassuming group of nerds gathered in a biology teacher’s classroom, attempting to excel in something we didn’t know the first thing about. But it was fun–to spend my lunches showing off my skills or learning something new or laughing with people I never thought I’d miss so much.

“My favorite supervillain is my dad.”

After that, all it took was a shuffling of hands and papers until the round began. My heart rattled in my chest. Toss up, physics. A question about the centrifugal force–wait, a trick. I knew this. I buzzed in. “A Captain,” the moderator called out. Maybe it really was faster with my thumb. Acknowledged, I could give my answer. “Zero,” I announced. “That is correct.” My heart snagged on the gap between her words. I exhaled a sigh of relief as my teammates celebrated. My team huddled together as we discussed the bonus question I had won for us.

Toss up, energy. Bonus, energy. Toss up, chemistry. Toss up, biology. Toss up, physics. Four points for every toss up, ten for every bonus. The sound of chalk tallying each win and loss. The whole hour went like this, some toss ups successfully granting their team a bonus question. Some toss ups went unanswered, reduced to just a mark on the scoresheet. I buzzed in for question after question, lectures from my AP classes resurfacing in my mind. Imaginary numbers, momentum, Vieta’s formulas. I never thought I’d remember it all.

“A Captain.”

“A Captain.”

“A Captain.”

I remember my position being called over and over, each time bringing a rush of adrenaline into my veins, the moderators opening the floodgates for the pouring of information from my brain, then the knife’s fall of “right” or “wrong”. I felt like one of Pavlov’s dogs. It was exhilarating. Somewhere down the line was at this moment that I realized how badly we wanted it. How badly we all wanted it.

“You answered more questions this round than in all your others combined.” I had barely processed the end of the round. Slowly, my surroundings came into focus: the cold back of my chair, the sweat lining my palms, the biology teacher’s proud expression.

The round ended when I shook the other captain’s hand and signed my team’s scoresheet, all of it a daze as the last thirty minutes played again and again in my mind. Had I really done it? Had I finally broke my streak of bad rounds? 

I looked down at the scoresheet, only examining it closely after I had already signed. There it was. 86 vs. 72. We won.

Author’s note: This post was adapted off of a Vignette I wrote for CMS.587/11.125, Assessing and Evaluating Education. This Vignette was meant to describe a positive assessment experience (where the definition of assessment has been widened from its traditional usage to include recitals, group assignments, and even academic competitions). So, I chose an “assessment that I had a good experience with.” Science bowl. I feel like I’m in such a strange position with my attachment to this extracurricular. I only participated in my senior year. I never became very good at science bowl, nor did I ever go to nationals, yet the memories themselves: of our weekly practices, of our trip to the local competition, at the attempt towards an improbable greatness, still ring more sweet than bitter in my mind, hallmarks of a high school experience I’ll never get back. Science bowl isn’t something I help organize at MIT, nor is it something I talk about or bond over with other MIT students. But it’s something I found fun, and something that I, inadvertently, associate with the simplicity and homeliness of my high school days.