Fast Company

by Rich Wallace

“Probably. I got no body fat, and I’m strong for my size. Like you.”

  “Yeah. I don’t think I’ll be wrestling, though. I found my sport.”

  13

  Relax and Push

  Manny sat in the bleachers at the Armory the following Saturday and stared up at the giant American flag hanging from the rafters. Zero and DiMarco were warming up for the 400-meter race, but Manny could barely watch. He was more than nervous this time. He was scared.

  This meet was called the New York Road Runners Invitational. Everybody was using it as a tune-up for next week’s Metropolitan Championships. The bleachers were packed with athletes from New York City, New Jersey, and Long Island.

  Manny had scanned the crowd and found most of his biggest rivals. Serrano was stretching with his teammates down behind the high-jump mat. Ryan Wu was seated in the bleachers directly across the track. Oscar Kamalu was in a corner of the arena, sitting against the wall with his eyes shut and headphones on.

  He hadn’t spotted Patrick Bertone, but he did recognize several other quick runners. If he was ever going to run a fast 800, today would be the day. He needed that boost of confidence.

  When the call came for the eleven-twelve 800-meter races, Manny and Sherry got out of their seats and headed down to the floor.

  “Boys first again?” Sherry asked as they walked down the stairs.

  “I think so,” Manny said.

  Sherry gave him a mischievous smile. “Hope you survive to see me run this time.”

  “Count on it,” he said. He was in no mood for joking.

  The roundish official stood near the side of the track with his clipboard. “Listen up, people,” he said. “First section, boys’ 800. Let me know you’re here when I call your name. Lane one: Oscar Kamalu.”

  Kamalu stood up and said, “Here.” Kamalu was muscular for a twelve year old. He filled out his purple jersey.

  “Line up against the wall as I call you,” the official said. He was wearing a white USA TRACK AND FIELD cap. “Ryan Wu?” he said.

  Wu nodded from his seat on the floor, but the official didn’t see him. “Ryan Wu?” he said again.

  “Right here,” Wu said. He looked deadly serious.

  “When I call your name, let me know that you heard it. And smile, Ryan. It’s only a race.”

  Wu shrugged and gave an embarrassed grin. He stepped over to stand next to Kamalu.

  “In lane three, the famous Kester Serrano,” said the official. “Then Manny Ramos. Daniel Singh. Elliott Carballo ... Carballo?”

  There was no response.

  “Last chance, Carballo. There you are. Were you sleeping? Let’s move.”

  When the eight runners had gathered, Manny took a look around. He’d beaten a couple of these guys before, and he knew he could stick with the others if he ran a perfect race.

  “No sign of Bertone,” Serrano whispered to Manny. “He knows we’re thinking about him. Wants to let us wear each other down this week, then surprise us in the championships.”

  “The big psyche job, huh?”

  “Whatever. Good luck.”

  “You, too.”

  They lined up on the track and Manny shut his eyes, goading himself to hang in there, no matter how much it hurt. When the gun went off, he took the lead, making his way to the inside lane.

  Relax and push, he thought as he pounded down the backstretch. He had no intention of leading for long, but he wanted to make sure he didn’t get boxed in toward the back.

  Manny eased the pace as he headed into the second turn, and Ryan Wu moved past him. So Manny was second as they finished the first lap in 34 seconds. That was only a little slower than he’d run the last time, but it made a big difference. He felt much stronger.

  Manny held that position through most of the second lap, but Kamalu raced forward and took the lead as they reached the midpoint in 68 seconds. The runners were tightly bunched. The buzz from the bleachers grew louder.

  Manny was tempted to glance back and check out the others as he rounded the turn. Instead, he kept his eyes on the leaders. Besides, he knew who was sitting just off his shoulder. Serrano. The only one who could be breathing that easily at this pace.

  Nearly everyone in the Armory was standing and yelling now as the leaders moved toward the end of the third lap. Kamalu held the lead, with Wu right on his shoulder. Manny and Serrano were less than a stride behind. The others had begun to fall back.

  The bell sounded and Serrano sprinted past Manny. The pain was nothing compared to last time; Manny still felt strong. It was a matter of speed now. He wasn’t going to die.

  Down the backstretch, Manny stayed with the leaders. Coming off the final turn, Kamalu, Serrano, and Wu were fanned out over the first three lanes of the track, with Manny inches behind. He was tying up, but so were the others. He dug deep, churning his arms. Serrano and Kamalu pulled away, but Manny nearly caught Wu at the finish.

  He stepped off the track and bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for air. He shut his eyes again and felt the warmth spreading over his face and ears. What an effort. He felt all right. He opened his eyes and stood tall.

  Serrano was next to him, shaking his head and frowning. Oscar Kamalu had his arms raised toward a section of the bleachers where his teammates were standing and applauding.

  “Better this week than next, I suppose,” Serrano said. “If you’re going to lose, don’t lose the big one.”

  The runners turned toward the giant score-board at the far end of the Armory, where the times of the leaders were already being posted.

  1-2: 14.7 2-2: 14.8 3-2:16.1 4-2:16.2

  Kamalu had run the fastest time of the winter, but Manny’s 2:16 was also impressive. He shook his fist and said, “Yeah.” He could go another second or two faster. He’d definitely be in contention at the championships.

  By the time Sherry raced ten minutes later, Manny had recovered. He found a spot along the backstretch and kneeled at the side of the track, yelling for his teammate each time she ran past.

  Sherry’s hard work was paying off, too. Like Manny, she stayed near the leaders for most of the race. But she didn’t quite have the finishing speed of the others and wound up fifth.

  Manny hustled across the track, scooted around the high-jump mat, and picked up Sherry’s T-shirt. He caught up to her and handed her the shirt. She kept walking and wiped her face with it.

  “My legs feel like spaghetti,” she said. She dropped to her knees. “I’m dizzy.”

  “It goes away,” Manny said, gripping her arm. “You should keep moving.”

  “Okay,” she said, getting to her feet. “Stay with me.”

  “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.”

  14

  Instant Message

  In 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:kesterrano: Whazzup?

  Mannyman: hey

  K: Bertone went 2:13 the other night

  M: No way. where?

  K: Pratt Institute

  M: FAST time

  K: no kidding. slow track too.

  M: OUCH

  K: he be ready

  M: sounds like it

  K: me be ready too

  M: yu, me, he be ready

  K: yu, me, he, wu, kamalu. we ALL be ready

  M: All of us

  K: See you Sunday!

  M: Can’t wait.

  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.

  15

  The Metropolitan Championships

  The 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.