Fast Company (8 page)

“No problem.”

They walked a slow lap between the track and the outside wall, with Sherry’s spiked shoes clicking on the wooden floor.

“You ran a good race,” she said after a few minutes.

“You, too.” Manny hesitated for a few seconds before adding, “Very tough.”

Sherry raised her eyebrows. “That’s me,” she said. “Toughest girl in New Jersey.”

“You are who you are,” Manny said. “Don’t compromise because of what others think.”

“I know.”

They reached the shot-put area, back behind the far turn. Anthony and a group of other competitors were waiting for the older throwers to finish. Anthony was slumped against the wall, staring into space. He gave a tiny nod of recognition as Manny and Sherry came over.

“You ready?” Manny asked.

“Very ready,” Anthony said. “This is the worst part, waiting to get started.”

“Yeah,” Manny said. The anxiety before a competition was brutal. You got so keyed up, so worried that you’d fail. Then the event began, and it was such a release just to be out there competing. “Hang in there, Anthony. Stay focused.”

Anthony nodded again and looked at his hands. Even good-natured Anthony was obviously feeling some tension.

Sherry put her hand on Manny’s back and applied some pressure. “Gotta keep walking,” she said. “Do the job, Anthony. We’ll come back and watch you throw.”

They walked a few more yards and Sherry whispered, “He needs to be by himself. No distractions. You know how it is.”

“Definitely,” Manny said. “There’s some things you’ve just got to face by yourself.”

“We’ll catch up with him after he throws. He’ll be a whole different person once it’s over.”

I
n practice that week, Manny could feel his endurance building, could tell that he’d be ready to run faster than ever at Sunday’s championship meet. He ran well ahead of the other Hudson City runners during long intervals, and even managed to outrun Zero and DiMarco and the other speedsters during the sprints.

Late Thursday afternoon he returned from a jog and sat down at the computer in the family room.

“You want to play a video game?” Sal asked, rushing down the stairs.

“Sure, Sal. In a little while. I just want to check out some basketball scores. See how Seton Hall did last night.”

Sal stood next to Manny as he pulled up a newspaper Web site. “You gonna win on Sunday?” Sal asked.

“I don’t know,” Manny said. “I want to. I think I can. But there are some big-time runners in the race.”

“Bigger than you?”

Manny shrugged. “So far anyway. But I’m feeling like maybe it’s my turn now.”

“I’ll be yelling my head off for you,” Sal said.

Manny gripped the back of Sal’s neck gently. “I’ll hear you.”

A bulletin flashed on the screen:
kesterrano has sent you an instant message. Do you wish to accept?

Kester Serrano
? Manny thought. He must be thinking about the race, too.

Manny clicked on the Yes box. The conversation went like this:

The competition would be incredibly fierce. Manny turned off the computer and climbed the stairs to his room. He lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, preparing a strategy. If he could just stick with those guys until the final lap, there was no telling what might happen. Serrano, Kamalu, and Bertone had all run two or three seconds faster than Manny had this winter, and Ryan Wu was also a factor. He’d just have to gut it out, make sure they didn’t open a gap, then kick like crazy.

It sure would be exciting. He almost wished he could be with Sal and their parents, watching the race from the bleachers.

T
he day was cold and clear as Manny and his teammates walked along Fort Washington Avenue past the towering buildings of Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center. Athletes of all ages and sizes were funneling toward the Armory Track and Field Center, dressed in colorful warm-up suits and talking excitedly.

Manny was quiet as they walked along. He had just one thing on his mind. The race.

Only a handful of Hudson City Chargers had qualified for this championship meet—Anthony in the shot put, Manny and Sherry in the 800, Zero and DiMarco in the 400, Calvin Tait in the 200, and Mary Pineda in the dash.

Sal kept pace with Manny as they neared the Armory, wearing his own warm-up suit and carrying a stopwatch. He looked hopefully at his brother a few times, but Manny was all business today.

“I find out who I am today, Sal,” Manny said as they entered the arena.

He’d have a long wait. The 800 was one of the last events, so it would be hours before he’d run. Plenty of time to get ready.

 

Lunch was a turkey sandwich with tomato and mustard. His mom sat behind him in the bleachers and handed it to him, insisting that he eat. “You’ve got to have energy,” she said. “Your race is still a couple of hours away.”

“Okay,” Manny said. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew she was right.

DiMarco was about to finish his section of the 400 meters. Zero had been fourth in an earlier heat, and it didn’t look as if DiMarco would do any better. He was fifth as he entered the final straightaway, grimacing and driving as he tried to pick off the fourth-place runner. He didn’t quite get him.

“Tough competition,” Mom said.

“Yeah,” Manny said with a mouthful of sandwich. “Everybody in my race is quick as heck. Anybody could win it.”

“Including you,” Mom said.

“Including me.”

 

Manny walked down the stairs to the bathrooms about forty-five minutes before his race. He’d seen most of his rivals warming up already—Oscar Kamalu going through some yoga-like stretches over in a corner, Ryan Wu jogging laps around the perimeter of the arena, Patrick Bertone putting in bursts of speed on the infield.

He saw Serrano in the hallway on the lower level, pacing back and forth, eyes fixed straight ahead. When Serrano saw Manny, he pushed his headphones off his ears and gave a hint of a smile.

“Ready?” Serrano asked, shaking Manny’s hand.

“I am.”

“I think we all are.”

“Gonna be fast.”

“Gonna be
brutal,”
Serrano said. “Championship meets aren’t always fast, though. There’s usually more strategy in the first two or three laps. Could take a big-time kick to win it, like a 30-second last lap or something insane like that.”

“That
would
be insane,” Manny said.

“Could happen,” Serrano said. “Look at the field. You know what the winning time in this meet was last year? 2:16. There’s four guys in the race who already ran faster than that this season. And everybody else is close.”

Manny nodded. He suddenly felt even more nervous than before, partly because he could tell that Serrano
wasn’t.
Confidence was sure to play a big part in the outcome. Whoever wanted it most would win it. Whoever had enough confidence to take a chance.

 

“Runners take your marks!”

Manny leaned forward and glanced at the ceiling, high above the track. To his left was Kamalu, whose forearm jutted firmly into Manny’s. To his right was Serrano, taking a deep inhalation.

“Set.”

Manny clenched his fists lightly. He held his breath.

The gun fired, and there was pushing and grunting as the eight runners bolted from the line. Bertone came cutting in from the outermost lane, streaking toward the front of the pack as they reached the end of the first turn. Manny was fourth, with Serrano on his shoulder.

Bertone’s early charge gave him the lead, but he slowed the pace as soon as he’d established himself as the front-runner. All eight runners stayed in contact through the first lap and into the second, stringing out to nearly single file, but all within steps of the leader.

Bertone continued to lead as they rounded the second turn of the second lap. Manny could hear his name among the shouts of the spectators. He felt strong—almost too strong. The pace was slow.

Manny remained fourth as they neared the midpoint, following Bertone, Kamalu, and Wu. When he heard the time—69 seconds, he felt a surge of energy but also a flash of dread. At a pace like that, it would surely come down to an all-out sprint, and that would play right into the hands of Serrano, Kamalu, and Bertone. All had more pure speed than Manny did. If he was going to win this thing, he’d have to steal it now.

Third laps are where the toughest guys succeed.
Coach had told him that many times this season. Manny was about to find out if it was true. He surged into the turn, moving out to the second lane and flying past Wu and Kamalu. On the backstretch he pulled even with Bertone, then kept going. By the middle of the next turn he was back in lane one, opening up a stride on the field, then two.

“Come on, Manny! Come on!”

Manny glanced to his right and saw DiMarco, Anthony, and Zero at the outside of the track, pumping their fists and hollering. He was running at nearly a full sprint now, and he was two yards clear of the rest. Maybe he could steal this race. Maybe he could out-kick the kickers.

The bell sounded and Manny caught the shout of the timer: 1:41. He was alone out in front, but he could feel the track shaking behind him. The speedsters were in pursuit. That 30-second last lap Serrano had imagined just might come true after all.

His arms and legs were aching, but that didn’t matter at all. Every breath was labored. He moved out slightly from the rail, wanting to make those chasing him work even harder by forcing them to the second lane. He could hear them coming. He could almost feel their breaths.

Down the backstretch, still in the lead. The spectators were all standing now, all urging on their favorites. Manny wouldn’t look back. All of his focus was ahead of him.

He raced into the last turn and there was Serrano, his arms swinging as high as his chin as he pumped and churned and pulled even. Manny kept pace. He knew at least two others were less than a step behind him.

Onto the homestretch, that finish line seeming so close he could touch it. Serrano glided past, about to claim the victory. Bertone was right there, his shoulder bumping Manny’s. Who else was coming? It didn’t matter.

Manny made a final surge and stayed even with Bertone for a few strides, then suddenly pulled ahead. Manny was so close to Serrano that he could have grabbed his jersey, but not close enough to get by. They reached the finish line. Manny was second. He’d nearly done it. He’d nearly won the title.

His first thoughts were confused as he gulped for air. How should he feel? He’d come so close, but he’d lost. Should he be elated or frustrated or both?

His second thoughts were better, as his teammates, his family, and his coach descended on him. Dad grabbed him and pulled him close, and Coach Alvaro rubbed his head.

“Awesome job,” Calvin said. “2:14!”

“Gutsy
race, Manny,” said Sherry.

Anthony smacked him on the shoulder. “You took it to ’em.”

Serrano came over and they shook hands firmly, then hugged. “It doesn’t end here,” Serrano whispered. He pointed at the Olympic flag waving high above the track. “We’ll be seeing each other, Manuel. We’ll be pushing each other to the limit.”

Manny grinned. Serrano was right. He’d had a great season, but this was only the start. There were lots of fast races to come.

He looked around the arena. The spectators were on their feet again as older runners raced around the track, locked in a scorching battle for the lead. All around him, sprinters were warming up for the 200-meter races. Coaches were yelling encouragement. A high jumper was soaring over the bar.

Manny had no trouble sorting out his thoughts just then, no trouble identifying his emotions.

He was proud. He was satisfied. He was joyful.

And above all, Manny was a runner.