My parents used to tell me I should be among the best in my age group.
Not that I could be. Should be. Like it was already decided and I just had to show up.
"God gave you a gift, Darius," Dad would say after timing my sprints in the backyard. "Wasting it would be disrespectful."
They never said what would happen if I wasn't the best. Probably because they never considered it possible.
Three years since they died and I still heard their voices every time I laced up my running shoes. Every morning at five when I did my drills alone. Every time I pushed myself harder because nobody else was going to push me anymore.
Today though, walking toward Westfield's track facility, I wasn't thinking about disappointment or waste. I was actually looking forward to something.
It had been two years since I'd competed properly. Two years since I'd lined up against other people and got to find out who was faster. My old school didn't have a track team. The one before that I'd only been at for three months.
But Westfield had a real program. Real competition.
Time to see if my parents were right.
The track was packed.
At least seventy kids stood around in various states of athletic wear. Some had matching warmup suits. Others wore basketball shorts and random t-shirts. Girls stretched in groups near the high jump pit. Guys stood around trying to look relaxed while sizing each other up.
Zephyr found me immediately.
"This is insane," he said, bouncing on his toes. "Look how many people showed up. I heard only twenty make the team."
A whistle cut through the chatter. Sharp and loud.
"Listen up!"
The man walking onto the track looked like he'd stepped out of a military recruitment poster. Buzz cut. Thick neck. Arms that suggested he could probably throw any of us over the fence.
"I'm Coach Dormer. You can call me Coach. Some of you know me from football season. For those who don't, here's what you need to know."
He stopped in the middle of our loose circle. Looked around slowly.
"I don't care about your middle school times. I don't care if your mom thinks you're fast. I don't care if you've been dreaming about this since you were five."
A few kids shifted uncomfortably.
"What I care about are results. Today you'll run. I'll time you. The fastest kids make the team. Everyone else can try again next year."
Zephyr had gone quiet. His bouncing stopped.
"We'll test three distances. One hundred meters. Two hundred meters. Four hundred meters. You get proper rest between each. No excuses about being tired."
He pointed at the track.
"Sprinters on the straightaway. Distance runners to the outside lanes. If you don't know which you are, figure it out."
We started moving. Most kids headed for the sprint area. Only about fifteen went toward distance.
"Too many sprinters," someone muttered behind me.
Coach Dormer blew his whistle again.
"Four laps warmup. Then dynamic stretching. Move."
We started jogging. Zephyr fell in beside me, already talking again.
"Okay so my plan is to really focus on my start for the hundred. That's where races are won, you know? First ten meters. I've been practicing my drive phase..."
I let him talk. Watched the other runners instead. Some girls up ahead had smooth, efficient form. A couple guys near the back were already breathing hard.
After warmups, Coach Dormer lined us up for stretches. High knees. Butt kicks. Leg swings. The stuff my parents had taught me years ago.
"Alright, hundred meter first," Coach announced. "Eight lanes, so we'll run heats. I'll call names."
He had a clipboard now. Started reading off groups.
"Heat one. Morrison. Jackson. Williams..."
Eight guys lined up. Coach walked to the finish line with his stopwatch.
"On your marks."
They crouched.
"Set."
They rose into position.
"Go!"
Most of them ran like they were being chased. All effort, no efficiency. The winner came in around twelve seconds. Not terrible for a freshman. Not good either.
More heats. The girls ran too. Some of them were actually faster than the guys, which seemed to surprise a few people. Not me. Speed didn't care about gender.
"Heat seven. Swift. Chen. Turbo..."
"It's Zephyr," Zephyr corrected.
Coach looked at him.
"Did I ask?"
"No, sir."
"Then shut up and run."
We lined up. I took lane four. Zephyr was in lane six.
"On your marks."
I settled into position. Not the perfect form my parents had drilled into me. Just casual enough to look normal.
"Set."
The track felt good under my spikes. Familiar.
"Go!"
I let myself run.
Not full speed. Maybe eighty percent. But eighty percent of my speed was still different from everyone else's hundred percent.
The finish line came up fast. I eased off the last few meters, coasting through.
Coach Dormer stared at his stopwatch. Looked at me. Looked at the watch again.
"Swift. Ten point nine."
Conversations stopped. Everyone turned to look.
"Wind aided?" some senior asked.
"No wind," Coach said. Still staring at me.
Zephyr jogged over, breathing hard.
"Dude, you destroyed us. I didn't even see you after the start."
My heat time had been more than a second faster than anyone else's. I shrugged.
"Good start, I guess."
Coach moved on to the next heat, but I caught him glancing back at me.
After everyone ran, Coach announced a twenty-minute break before the two hundred. Kids sprawled on the grass. Compared times. Made excuses.
"Ten point nine as a freshman," I heard someone say. "That's varsity level."
"Bet he can't hold it for two hundred though."
We'd see about that.
The two hundred was set up the same way. Heats of eight. This time I was in heat five.
"You gonna run hard again?" Zephyr asked while we waited.
"Just running."
"Right." He grinned. "Just running. Like in PE."
When my heat came up, I decided to push it to eighty-five percent. The curve felt good. The straightaway better.
I finished alone again.
"Twenty-two point one," Coach announced.
Now people were really staring. A couple seniors who'd been acting confident earlier looked worried.
"That extrapolates to a forty-eight second four hundred," some kid with glasses said.
"Nobody asked for math," his friend replied.
Zephyr ran a twenty-six point something. He was thrilled.
"Personal best! The track here must be fast."
The track wasn't fast. Zephyr was just excited. But I didn't correct him.
Another break. Thirty minutes this time. Coach wanted us fresh for the four hundred.
"Last event," he announced. "Four hundred meters. One lap. This separates real runners from wannabes."
The four hundred was my parents' favorite test. Long enough to require speed endurance. Short enough to demand pure power. They used to make me run it twice a week. Said it built character.
I hadn't run one in months.
"Heat three. Swift. Anderson. Reeves..."
I took lane four again. Liked the view better.
This time when the gun went off, I went out at ninety percent.
The first curve felt like flying. The backstretch opened up in front of me. I could hear footsteps behind me for the first two hundred meters.
By the final curve, I was alone.
The home stretch was where most people died in the four hundred. Where their form broke down and their bodies quit.
Mine didn't.
I crossed the line still accelerating.
Coach Dormer didn't say the time out loud. Just wrote it on his clipboard. But the senior holding the backup stopwatch wasn't as discrete.
"Forty-seven point eight."
The track went quiet.
Nobody runs forty-seven as a freshman. Nobody who isn't nationally ranked anyway.
Zephyr was the first to break the silence.
"BRO. That was INSANE. You were flying! Actually flying!"
Coach Dormer walked over. Looked me up and down.
"Where'd you run before?"
"Different places. We moved a lot."
"Who coached you?"
"My parents, mostly."
He nodded slowly.
"Practice starts Monday. Three-thirty sharp. Don't be late."
He turned to address everyone.
"I'll post the roster tomorrow morning. Twenty names. If you're not on it, better luck next year."
Kids started dispersing. Some excited. Most disappointed.
Zephyr was practically vibrating.
"We made it. We definitely made it. You just ran the fastest times I've ever seen in person. This season is going to be legendary."
I watched Coach Dormer walking away, still writing on his clipboard.
Real competition. Real races. For the first time in two years, I'd get to see how fast I really was.
My parents always said I should be among the best.
Time to find out if they were right.