Chapter 19

I’d actually been to the Midland High track before, when I’d done a ride-along with Dad the previous year. Some kids had sprayed graffiti on the stands and then were dumb enough to stand around and admire their work until Dad pulled up in his squad car. Even then, they tried to just walk off instead of running.

This time, the thing that got my attention wasn’t the bleachers, but the area across the parking lot at the track, where ten schools from the region were gathered on the track warming up.

We didn’t look undersized or even more poorly equipped than the other teams, but I’d reviewed our respective records enough to know that we were wildly outmatched.

Next to me, Eduardo kept tugging at the bottom of his jersey.

“Stop fidgeting,” I said.

“I’m not fidgeting.”

He immediately started messing with his race number, trying to smooth out a corner that was already perfectly flat.

“Come on, guys,” Coach Greer said behind me. “Huddle up.”

I shoved Eduardo and headed over to Coach, who was standing next to the bus.

“Listen up. Event schedules are posted on the fence. Check your times, know when to report. This is our first meet. I’m not expecting miracles. What I want is effort and experience. See where you stand against real competition. Warm-up starts now. Two easy laps, then we’ll run through handoffs for the relay teams. Everyone else, you know what to do. Get your muscles warm, stretch, and come find me if you need anything. Questions?”

Nobody had questions. Or if they did, they were too focused on not looking nervous to ask them.

“Alright, move!”

The team scattered, most heading for the track to start their warm-up laps. I was about to start running, but Eduardo didn’t move right away.

“You coming?” I asked.

“In a second.”

I shrugged. This wasn’t a pep talk thing; nothing was going to get him over his nervousness but experience.

Eduardo jogged off with the relay group while I joined the other sprinters to warm up. The jog felt good. I wasn’t nervous, I guess because I didn’t have a lot riding on this. If anything, I was jazzed to just be competing again.

The main thing I learned at this meet was that it took forever to get things organized. After what felt like forever, I ended up behind the starting line for the hundred-meter dash, the first of the track events for the day. Lane assignments had me in four, which Coach said was good for a first-timer.

“Runners, step up to the line.”

I walked forward and settled into my blocks, trying to remember everything I’d practiced. Feet planted, head down, explosive start.

“Runners, take your mark.”

The track went quiet.

“Set.”

I raised my hips and felt my weight shift forward onto my fingertips.

The gun cracked.

I exploded out of the blocks, feeling that satisfying push from the ground that meant I’d gotten a good start. The first thirty meters flew by in a blur of pumping arms and churning legs. At fifty meters, I started to separate from the pack, pulling even with the guy in lane five who’d looked good in warm-ups.

The finish line rushed toward me, and I could see I had a clear lead with twenty meters to go. I hit the line a full stride ahead of second place, pumping my fist before I’d even completely stopped running.

Coach Greer met me at the finish line with the biggest smile I’d seen from him all season.

“Now that’s how you set the tone for a meet. That’s exactly what we needed, Blake.”

“How was my time?”

“Fast enough to win. That’s all that matters right now.”

Which meant slower than my fastest time in practice. At the moment, I didn’t care. The adrenaline carried me through the next hour as I watched teammates compete in their events.

When the 200-meter call came, I felt more confident walking to the line. Winning the 100 had settled something in my chest, made the track feel more familiar, even though it wasn’t home.

I was in lane three this time, with a field that included two of the guys who’d placed in the 100. The runner from Midland who’d finished second was in lane four.

“Runners to your mark.”

I settled into the blocks, but this time the nerves were manageable. I knew I belonged here now.

The gun fired and I came out clean, settling into the stagger as we hit the turn. The two-hundred is a different race than the 100, more strategy, more pacing. You can’t just sprint the whole thing or you’ll die in the final fifty meters, or at least that’s what it was like at my level. I’m sure Olympians just sprinted the whole way.

Coming off the turn, I was sitting in third, exactly where I wanted to be. The two leaders had gone out fast, probably too fast, and I could see them starting to labor as we hit the straightaway.

At a hundred and fifty meters, I made my move. I passed the runner in lane five first, then caught the leader from Midland with thirty meters to go.

This time I won by two clear strides, and Coach Greer was pointing at his stopwatch when I jogged back to him.

“Personal best by three-tenths. You just ran 21.2.”

“Is that good?”

“That’s really good.”

The relay events started an hour later, and I found Eduardo pacing behind the starting line like a caged animal.

“How you feeling?”

“Like I’m going to throw up.”

“That’s normal.”

“Is it?”

“Sure. You should have seen me before my first football game.”

That didn’t seem to help his confidence.

The four by two-hundred was first, with our relay order of Danny, Marcus, Jerome, and me. I watched from the infield as Danny got us off to a decent start, handing off to Marcus in fifth place out of six teams. Marcus lost ground to the faster teams, and by the time he handed off to Jerome, we were running sixth.

Jerome held position but couldn’t make up any ground, which meant when he handed the baton to me, Wheaton was dead last. Not just behind, but nearly thirty meters behind the leaders.

I took the baton and immediately started closing the gap. Everything I’d thought when running the two-hundred went out the window. There was no strategy. No pacing. There was just winning. I had fresh legs and nothing to lose.

At fifty meters, I passed the fifth-place team. Somewhere around the seventy-five mark, I caught up to fourth. The crowd noise started building as they realized what was happening. I was eating up ground with every step.

The final fifty meters became a sprint for second place between me and the Midland anchor. I pulled even with twenty meters to go. The problem was that ignoring the rules and going for it didn’t mean the rules stopped being important. I was slowing as we neared the line. I’d burned everything to make up the deficit we’d been in, and the Midland anchor still had some gas in the tank. I felt, more than saw, him look over at me, and then he kicked it in.

He didn’t take off, but he put on just enough to pass the line ahead of me.

Second place.

I slowed down and then put my hands on my legs and tried to resist the urge to vomit. Not because of the results. I would take second place no problem, especially considering what I’d done to get it. No, you could push your body only so hard before it revolted, and mine was picking up protest signs and putting on berets.