One of these contestants, Tyler Hodges, has come to win.

He won his school spelling bee to get here, fighting off the flu and a conservatory of stomach butterflies to do it. And he hopes to do it again tonight.

There's something about the stage that sets everyone in the audience on edge. It sits in the middle of a large room in the middle of the career center; with its makeshift restaurant in the far left corner and its kitchens in the right, it normally serves as the center's cafeteria. But tonight, it's a battlefield, littered with mines-- the table full of trophies, the microphone, the stood where the man with the soft lilting voice will sit, they're all in place. Most of the chairs in the makeshift auditorium are filled, and the room is spookily quiet. It can only mean one thing: spelling bee anxiety.

If you've never attended, or worse, been involved in, a spelling bee, you have no idea what such an event can do to the psyche. It's just a spelling bee, most people say. But for many kids it ranks as the third most terrifying event in the course of human events, lagging only slightly behind nuclear war and coming to school in nothing but your underwear. It's more than just a spelling bee, it's a battle, a war, a fight to the death. It's Mr. Rogers holding a gun to the back of your head and demanding that you spell "ignominious."

And yet, every year, kids throw themselves into the fire. And the rest of us are in awe. The rest of us have spelling bee anxiety.

The judges come out and take their seats, off to the side where no one in the crowd can see them. They are not popular at spelling bees. On stage, the organizer of the Ashland County spelling bee, Karen Didich, rearranges the trophies one last time. The stage is flanked by two American flags, evoking the patriotic tradition of gathering our children in a county career center, putting them in front of a microphone and demanding on-the-spot spelling from them.

The throng of people waiting for the spelling bee to begin are nearly silent as the minutes tick by. Parents jab at the program with trembling index fingers, pointing out the name of their warrior to those around them. Some people yawn. Some scratch themselves. One child scoffs to another at those who will soon grace the stage, saying they could easily outspell them, and proves it by spelling the word 'government--' incorrectly. Spelling bees are not as easy as they look.

There is a great rumbling from the crowd as the contestants mill out from their secret location and take their seats to the right of the stage. As is the tradition with sixth-graders, the boys have dressed themselves in black jeans and sports-related paraphernalia, while the girls apparently got together before the show and decided to come to the spelling bee as runway models this year. Some of the children wave, but most look concerned. There are a lot more people here than they had anticipated.

It is going to be a long night.

Towards the end of the second row of contestants is Tyler Hodges, a Taft Elementary school sixth grader with a penchant for video games and architecture. He is slim, compact, and unassuming, with large squared-off glasses and a head of limp brown hair. He is dangerously serious for an eleven-year-old boy.

Despite his busy schedule-- on top of the normal sixth-grade terrors known as Science Fair and Book Report, Tyler is also involved in his school's gifted program, SEARCH, as well as his church choir and a variety of sports-- he and fellow county spelling bee contestant Peter Holdren have practiced daily for this big moment. A book of words a day at school and an extra page at home kept Tyler in fighting form.

But now, sitting in his seat in the second row, Tyler's not so sure of himself. It's spelling bee anxiety again-- as long as he doesn't get out on the first word, he'll be fine. After all, this isn't just Taft Elementary school. This is the entire county.

The contestants sit relatively patiently as the event's announcer gives thanks-- the winners will receive savings bonds donated by National City Bank of Ashland, and everyone gets a trophy from the Ashland Times-Gazette just for being brave enough to compete. The Times-Gazette also gave the bee a great deal of publicity, publishing photos of every contestant. It is the third picture of Tyler to appear in the T-G in as many days. If he wins the spelling bee, he knows, he will be in it a fourth. Tyler, it seems, is a publicity hound; the only question he had for me during our first meeting was when his story would appear in the paper.

The practice round commences, and the tension grows denser. Tyler alternates between talking to boy and girl sitting on either side of him, both friends from church, and practicing his breathing techniques-- just in case. The girls in the front row complete their words and sit down; not used to their short skirts and tight blouses, they sit awkwardly, open-legged, affording the audience a good view of both London and France.

Tyler's word is 'comet.' He spells it correctly and returns to his seat, relieved.

But that was just practice. Now the real competition begins.

For the audience, it is like having picnic seats in a war zone. On the left sit the children, rigid-backed and tense; across from them, the judges and the announcer, ready to strike out at any time. In between the two is the table of trophies, the treasure, the loot of the evening.

Contestant after contestant approach the microphone, spelling their words correctly and sitting down with the same solid thump of relief. Most of the girls tower over the microphone and have to stoop to spell their words, while the boys must stand on tiptoe to reach the mike's black bulb. (Brandon, a minuscule boy with a black spiked hairdo and a Michael Jordan jersey, simply does not reach and needs the device adjusted for him. The microphone adds yet another layer of terror to the evening.) Tyler is nervous; his trip to the mike grows closer and closer, and no one has misspelled a word yet; someone's turn is due.

Tyler's word is 'absent.' He spells it, looks around and leaves, unscathed. A few minutes later a contestant misspells the word 'shone.' Tyler looks satisfied.

Round two progresses similarly; spearhead becomes sperehead, simile becomes simily, and the number of contestants dwindles. When Tyler spells 'salami' correctly, his mother snaps a picture. Round three, Tyler spells 'neighborhood.' His face is red with tension. He no longer talks to those around him; no one talks. Planetary, planatary; affliction, afliction; those slain by the sharp edges of misspelled words take their seats behind those who remain on the battlefield, looking beaten and sad. One girl starts to cry, but wipes her tears away quickly. If there's one thing more embarrassing than losing a spelling bee, it's crying about losing one, at least in public.

Round four.

Tyler approaches the microphone with trepidation. There are only seven other contestants besides him. He tugs at the bottom of his Taft Elementary sweatshirt and looks at the announcer.

"Tyler," the man begins in his soft, melodic voice. "Spell 'accelerate.'"

Tyler looks around. "Accelerate. E-X-C-E-L-E-R-A-T-E."

The judges shake their heads. Tyler has lost the spelling bee.

He bites his lip and turns, resigned, to go to his seat behind the remaining contestants. He doesn't talk; no one takes. People begin to fidget. The glaring, salmon-colored Howard Johnson-style walls of the career center begin to grate on the eyes, and plastic yellow chairs begin to chafe against the floor. The audience is getting restless.

By the sixth round only two contestants, Vicki and Michael, remain. They battle back and forth; martyrs, squiggle, equidistant, opulent-- by now, Tyler's head is in his hands; he no longer has to listen. Ruminate, antithesis, inconvenient-- the microphone breaks, and a man with a chef's hat comes from the kitchen to fix it. Tyler doesn't look up.

Michael wins with the words 'exuberant' and 'synthetic.' Tyler doesn't clap; but he's happy for him, he knows him from church. He doesn't clap because he's disappointed-- he should have known how to spell accelerate! When a spelling bee is over, the contestants always should have known-- that's the glory of it.

As the crowd wanders away before the seventh and eighth grade spelling bees commence, Tyler sits alone in a chair by the stage. As I approach him, he looks up at me with sad, watery eyes, and asks, "is this going to be in the paper?"