When I was a senior in high school, I made it to the city championships for the 100-yard dash by losing every race. I was on the track and field team, and since I couldn’t clear hurdles or throw a shot put past my toes, I became a sprinter. And I was FAST!– as fast as any flat-footed white kid you know!
If you placed 1st, 2nd or 3rd in any track meet, you got to be in the early heats of the city championship for that event. I, of course, lost every race in every track meet. But in one meet there were only 3 of us in the race, so I got 3rd place, even though I lost. I advanced! Sweet!
The day of the championship came, and I was ready to go, in my red sleeveless top and super short running shorts that would have made Miley Cyrus blush. I, of course, being a modest kind of guy, always wore long red compression shorts underneath, ever since a girl I knew came up to me in the middle of a track meet and said “nice legs!” in a tone that said “your legs have never seen the sun, have they?” (Incidentally, it was the same girl who said “nice pants!” to me at school once, and caused me to never want to wear my M.C. Hammer pants to school again. Go figure! We can talk about my high-school fashion sense later, back to the race.)
As I recall, there were 2 heats, and only the top 4 of each heat advanced. That way they made sure that only the very FASTEST runners advanced. When my heat came, I lined up and waited. The official said “on your marks!” I put my feet on those things that sprinters put their feet on (or on those things on which sprinters put their feet, if you don’t like to dangle your participles). “Set”…I came up off my knees, my weight shifted to my twig-like arms. “Bang” the gun went off…then “Bang” again! I had barely reacted to the first gun shot when the 2nd one rang out. We weren’t anywhere near gang territory, so I knew someone must have jumped the gun. They were automatically disqualified (DQ’d). So we lined up again. This time the same thing happened, two gun shots, someone else was DQ’d. We lined up a 3rd time, and when the gun went off, I ran my hardest, but I still got last place. But two people had been DQ’d, and there were only 6 of us to start, so I automatically advanced to the final heat. Sweet!
Later that day it was time for the final heat, after they had given us time to rest from all the extra exertion (starting a race 3 times can be exhausting).
Picture the scene:
The crowd is watching as the runners line up. The background music starts, with a solemn rat-a-tat military drum beat, and few solemn trumpet notes. The camera is zoomed in on the underdog lining up, looking down and shaking his legs. In slow motion you hear the official yell “on your marks” and watch them line up, sweat dripping off the underdog’s nose. “Get set” and they slowly move forward off their knees, their weight shifting forward to their arms. “Bang” and you see smoke come out of the gun.
You see them start the race in slow-mo, then switches to real time, then back to slow-mo. The underdog is behind them all. Then you see a close up of his face. The scene cuts to a montage of his past failures, him trying and losing, over and over, last place, falling down, getting up, scratched and bleeding, running up stadium steps in the rain. Back to the race, you see the look on his face in slow-mo as he grits his teeth and lets out a yell. You watch as he becomes the embodiment of Eric Liddell in Chariots of Fire, he pulls out energy from deep inside and begins to pass his opponents as the music rises.
Now it’s just him and the leader. The music intensity inceases as they approach the finish line. You see a close-up of the two of them, and can see each of them propelled forward with each step. He’s gaining, catches him, and right at the finish line he leans forward and catches the tape with his chest right before his opponent. The triumphant music soars. He has won! All of his effort has paid off! The crowd comes rushing in, they lift him to their shoulders. His coach runs over to him and says “well done kid, I knew you had it in you!”
*Sound of a record being scratched*
Everyone turns to look. Someone says “hey, that slow white kid is still running.”
And then I cross the finish line.