A race against myself

As I leaned back against my friend’s car, I looked up into the sky, seeing the stars shine above me, hoping that one would come down and bless me with a good feeling, something that only beer wouldn’t do. The sour taste of failure lingered in my mouth, the clear feeling that I hadn’t been good enough. Anger boiled inside me, turning every single cell against me. My jaw clenched, my ears burned hot, and a tear was threatening to come down from my eye. I soaked it up.

“Fuck!” I shouted, slamming my fist on the car hood.

“Man, you’re going to break the car. And I just warn you, I’m not going to be the one fixing it.”

I ignored my friend’s voice and took a sip of beer instead. The cold liquid slid down my throat, offering me no solace. It was hard trying to get all the overwhelming feelings out of my head, making them disappear when the only thing I could think about was what had happened tonight. Not family issues, not the present, nor the future—only tonight.

My effort hadn’t been enough, I was 100% sure about it, and no one could change that fact. If I could do it over again, I could’ve won with a huge advantage, but now it was over. All that time in the gym, on the track, wasted because I wasn’t able to run faster, I wasn’t able to use all that I had learned. I had been clenching to my stupid ego that I didn’t see the big picture.

Seeing all the competitors race past me, meters away from me, my legs giving up halfway through the run and just holding on to my dignity to complete the race.

I hadn’t been good enough.

That was true. But what was worse was having close people watching me either from the stands or the TV.

No. I wasn’t good.

And now tears were rustling down my eyes. I closed my eyes and lowered my head, forcing the tears not to come again. No one could see me like this.

“Hey man, give it a rest, will you?” Christian patted me on the shoulder. “Maybe you didn’t win, and maybe it wasn’t the best for you. But hey, you broke your personal record, that’s good for itself.”

“Wasn’t enough,” I muttered, turning away.

Christian chuckled. “You say it like it’s the end of the world, which it isn’t. There’s always another time, there’s always a second chance. Maybe you didn’t win today, but you could win tomorrow. Tell me what you lost apart from the race.”

I shook my head. “Everything, man. Every. Fucking. Thing. The race, the respect, my dignity, my hard work. No, man, I can’t do it, things will be the same next year. Things won’t be the same again.”

I took another sip of the beer and looked as the fans made their way back home. Cheering and talking about what had happened. “Oh, yeah, you saw Coleman do that 10.70. He ran like hell.” “Mariota was good too, did you see his start?” “Fabulous race by Hierro.”

No one talking about me, about my hard work and determination. Or maybe they were, throwing me looks as if saying, “There’s that idiot that came out last.” Because I was that idiot that had come in last place, it wasn’t me saying it. It was the clock.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Christian. I turned to look at him with confusion, raising my eyebrows. “Maybe you’ve failed an incredible run, maybe others lost respect for you, maybe you weren’t good enough. But doesn’t that make you want to do things better? Be better next year and—”

“There’s no next year, Christian!” I shouted so loud that maybe some fans turned to look at us. “There’s no other year. I’m done with it, I can’t keep coming out in last because I want to. I don’t want to be the last. I want to be the first.”

“You speak of . . .?” he let the words linger in the air, hoping that I would complete them. I didn’t want to repeat it over again. He shook his head “You came first in your school. Second in your state and . . .”

“. . . last in the nationals,” I completed for him, this time.“That’s last three times in a row. Three times in a row and I can’t seem to come out of last.” Christian smiled. “What?” I shouted at him, throwing the glass of beer to the ground.

“That makes you Top 8 three times in a row. Top 8 out of thousands of athletes in the whole country. Do you know how many states there are? Do you know how many kids wish to be in your position right now? Top 8 in the whole country. Wow, Adam. Shouldn’t that be something you should be proud of?”

“Top 8?” I said in disbelief.

“Out of thousands. That makes you less than 1% of the whole country. You’re in the top 1% of athletes in the world. That title is just incredible by itself. And you’ve done it. Maybe next year you can get to top 7, or top 6, or . . .”

“Top 1.”

Christian smiled. “Not so fast, but yeah, you can definitely get to that point.”

I looked into his electric blue eyes, looking at me with excitement, with awe. Maybe he was, just like me, imagining every possible outcome. Becoming the very best of the best in the whole country, something I hadn’t thought about.

His words made me feel like I was back in the sport again, back to the hard work, training every day to become the best athlete in the world. My family would be proud of me, my girlfriend would be proud too, excited to see me on TV, running the best I could.

This seemed like a dream so long ago, and what was I doing ignoring it? Even rejecting it.

I looked into my friend’s eyes with deep understanding, patted his shoulder, and said, “Brother, you’re the very best friend I have ever had.”

“Ain’t that right?”