The Winner

The Winner

Pops led me into the stadium near the finish line. He picked out a seat three rows up from the track. It was made of hard plastic and blue like the lanes below. The seats were numbered, mine said 2. He set his jacket down on the other seat, 1.

“This is the best seat, son,” he said. “You can see me fly over that finish line.” He rested his hand on the back of my seat and pulled his foot all the way back so that it touched his back. I thought I heard his knee groan. Then he turned and did the same with his other leg.

“The key is to be prepared, son. Prepared for combat,” he said, and bent his body in two, pushing his palms flat on the ground. He stood back up and leaned towards me, stretching his left calf. “You have to know you are the best, then show everyone.” He looked towards the track. “I am the best,” he said, turning back to me. He puffed his chest out. He looked like one of the pigeons outside the school cafeteria.

Pops trotted off towards the locker rooms. I sat back in my seat and studied the track. 800 meters, that’s twice around. It looked like it was more than that. The blue lanes glistened under the sun. The judges were taking the starting blocks from the previous race off the tarmac. A few of the runners jogged around the outside of the stadium on the cut grass. They looked like thoroughbreds, their elastic muscles glimmering with perspiration. I recognized Mr. Rodriguez, my friend Juan’s father. He did a short acceleration near the fence.

Pops was there too. His feet landed lightly on the ground as he strode across the field. His chest was puffed. I thought about the pigeon again. Pops waved to the other runners as he circled around the outside of the track. He deigned to acknowledge each of them, as if he were gracing them with his presence. “I am the best,” he had said.

“Men’s 800m report to the call room,” a voice cracked over the loudspeaker. I watched as the runners gathered near the track. A lanky man handed out the bibs. Pops pinned the number 0001 to his tank top. His chest puffed beneath it.

The runners were called to the starting line. Pops was the 7th on the outside. He must be happy, he said it’s the best place to start; with less risk of getting boxed in by the “slugs.” Juan’s Pops had the unlucky slot, the interior. Pops said that’s where you get trapped, “Hard to break away,” he had said.

The pistol fired. I jumped in my seat. I was still thinking about the slugs.

Pops broke into the lead; he slipped to the inside lane after the first bend. His white sneakers blurred as he outdistanced the others meter by meter, his chest puffing ahead of him.

I sat on the edge of my seat; my heart pounded as fast as Pops’ feet struck the tarmac. I inhaled and held my breath, not daring to breathe – my chest puffing.

Pops was well in the lead as he crossed the 400m mark. I saw his feet fly over the line, claiming it for their own. He glanced towards me, raising his index and pointer in a “V” for Victory. My stomach tightened.

Mr. Rodrigez had been boxed in by the slugs, but when he crossed the 400m mark, he broke free. Never in my life had I seen a man fly. Mr. Rodriguez’s feet disappeared in a fury of motion as he doubled the other runners, his shoulders bent forward and his regard aimed ahead. I was mesmerized by his flight as he bounded down the track towards Pops. It looked like Pops was frozen in place, like the bronze statuette I saw at the MET last year on my school trip.

I exhaled as Mr. Rodriguez crossed the finish line, his feet claiming it as theirs. The lanky man patted his back. Mr. Rodriguez clasped his hands and looked to the sky before turning to see his adversaries finish - some tumbling to the ground, gasping for air.

Pops was the second over the line. He bent his shoulders and spit on the tarmac. Then, he walked off the track. He did not look up at the third row where I waited. I turned away; I did not want to see his eyes.

The lanky man hung a gold medal around Mr. Rodriguez’s neck. It glistened in the sun. He grasped it and held it to his heart. I thought about Juan, he is going to be some proud when he sees it. Then, I thought about Pops, and shuddered.

The stadium emptied out; I made my way towards the parking lot. I hugged Pop’s jacket to my chest as if it were his bruised ego that I was consoling. I kicked at the dirt, the arm of the jacket trailed in the cloud of dust. My skin was clammy. Papa was never second. What did he say about second place? He’d said, “Almost is never enough.” I kicked at a stone; it stabbed a pain in my big toe.

The door that leads to the locker room opened. My jaw clenched as if braced for the punch of deception. Papa stepped out from the dark opening. The sun fell upon him, illuminating the gold medal that hung around his neck. He strode towards me; his chest puffed like a pigeon.

“But” the words prickled the end of my tongue. I scrunched my eyes shut and opened them again quickly – three or four times in a row. Had I not seen the end of the race correctly? Did a button on Pop’s shirt reflect the sun, not a gold medal?

I opened my eyes hesitantly; Pop’s shadow reached out and tugged at my sides. I looked into his eyes; they were like ice. My gaze dropped to the gold medal. It stared back at me blushing before looking down. “How?” I spoke.

“Son,” Pop’s right hand encircled the medal. “When you want something, you take it, you fight for it.” His chest puffed. “I am the fastest, I am the best, I deserve the medal.”

“But Mr. Rodriguez,” the words limped off my tongue.

“He knows I earned it; it is mine.” Pops walked ahead of me, strutting towards the car.

I heard the stadium door open and turned to see Mr. Rodriguez exit. His eye was swollen shut. He turned from me, wiping the blood from his nose on the back of his hand. I watched as he disappeared around the side of the track, into the shadows.