The Last Race

Most people awaken from a dream into reality, but to Jack the opposite appeared to have occurred. As though from nowhere he found himself surrounded by a cacophony of chaos and confusion. At first it made no sense, but the reader will have certainly been in a stressful or confusing situation where nothing makes sense and yet, at some deeper level, our minds battle to eventually create reason from surreal madness.

For madness could be the only description for what Jack was experiencing. Sports events were always noisy, frenetic mayhem and, little by little, his mind pieced together some semblance of order. Coming up was the race he had prepared for all of his young life. As a child he had driven his poor mother to tears of anger and fear, for her son was blessed, if that were the appropriate term, with seemingly endless amounts of energy coupled with a drive to expend that energy during his every waking moment. Jack never stopped. His ability to effortlessly outrun his classmates led to him being the star pupil in his school athletics team followed by regional, state and finally national recognition in his late teenage years.

Today was the big one. His training had led to this moment. The pressure was enormous. “You’re the only one can do this son. Don’t stop for anything ya hear? Don’t even look around. Just keep going till yer’ve got there.” A slap on the back as he nodded assent, “Good, now off ya go!”

His senses were on overdrive, even the starting pistol sounded much louder than usual. Jack could hear them cheering him on, his mates waiting excitedly across the line. The rush of adrenalin in his system, his legs pumping, hot blasts of the summer air hitting his face. He pushed hard. His feet felt somehow uneven, probably lost a cleat from one of his running shoes; the ping could distinctly be heard as it flew into a nearby rock. He was having difficulty keeping his grip on the soft earth that had been churned into mud by the thunderstorm only minutes before. The angry rumbling could still be heard in the distance. The track had also been used for many other events earlier that day and so was not in its usual pristine condition.

He could see the finish now and held tightly to the baton. School mates, from juniors to the most senior, frantically waved their arms at him, all yelling encouragement. One or two even looked as though they wanted to run over and drag him across the line but were ordered to keep back by the masters.

If only he wasn’t in such pain, ordinarily he didn’t suffer with the ‘stitch’, as his sports teacher called it. It was usually a niggling and annoying discomfort, but today it had been much more than that from its sudden onset, as though someone had punched him hard in the side of his chest. Thankfully. he had almost finished. Then he was there, crossing the line, he’d won!

“Right, grab him boys, gently now, where’s the message; for Christ’s sake somebody tell me he still has it.”

Jack heard his teacher and dutifully held out his hand to pass over the baton.

“Well done my lad, you’ll get a bloody medal for this, you see if you don’t. Never seen the like, ran like the wind, so you did.”

Jack smiled; he’d always liked Mr. Thompson. It was he who had first encouraged him in his running. Mr. Thompson had held regular training sessions; no matter how hot, cold, wet, or windy, he had helped the team form a true feeling of camaraderie, invincibility even.

“Don’t just stand there like morons, get him to sick bay so they can see to him!”

Jack smiled, Mr. Thompson always seemed to make a fuss of his boys, as though every sprain and leg cramp could be something more threatening. It was only the stitch, and the pain wasn’t so bad now, except he did feel a bit light-headed, and he seemed to be sweating much more than usual and the sweat seemed to be sticky. Then he saw Mr. Jeffries, who always helped in the first aid tent, often administering aspirin for everything. Cramp: aspirin, stomach-ache: aspirin, fever: aspirin. One boy had even been given aspirin for what turned out to be a broken arm.

The school had really gone to town for this year’s sports day it seemed, as Mr. Jeffries now had two assistants who quickly grabbed Jack by the arms and took him to a bed. It was clear that Jack would not be having aspirin just yet as Mr. Jeffries uncharacteristically bellowed: “Any bandages left and how about some of that bloody hot water I asked for hours ago, nobody know how to keep a fire goin’ around here?”

Jack was happy to lie down, that last sprint had really taken it out of him. He had trained hard. He knew the run was important and had given it his best. He’d been told to run like his life and the lives of others had depended on it. A bit over the top he thought, it was only a school sports day after all.

“Stay still son, we’ll get you something for the pain, how about some rum eh?”

Rum! His parents would have a fit if his schoolteachers gave him rum. What were they thinking? He’d just won the last leg of the relay! if anything he needed water; his mouth had suddenly become unbearably parched. Such a short distance, and yet it seemed to be full of isolated incidents like being given the baton by the last runner, who apparently had an odd sense of humour because, as he handed it to Jack, yelled at him to “get the bloody thing to battalion HQ, fast”.

Now he could rest, he’d done his bit and he knew the team would be proud of him. Mr. Thompson was right; he would receive a winner’s medal.

The medal was received by Jack’s grieving parents who proudly displayed it with the others their son had accrued during his all too brief life. This one was different; not for running, football, hurdles, or cricket, but ‘For bravery in the field.’