Faster Than You


When people glance at him he believes in himself. For just those few moments from the time the referee fires the starter piston until he breaks the ribbon at the end. In that moment he believes he can do anything. He doesn't partake in the trash talking before the races, his heart isn't in it. He just does is stretches.

He takes his spot on the starting block. He doesn't lock eyes with his competition. He doesn't look to his coach or teammates for approval. He looks to the crowd. No, not there. No, to the left. He sees him, parents, little brother. Those are the people that believe in him. This isn't a home meet, the rest of the crowd is hostile. They don't matter. He focuses on those three faces. 

The official raises his pistol, and he readies. The bang comes and he's gone. He knows he's supposed to stay close and wait to the end to take the lead. He doesn't care, he's going to keep giving it everything. He's faster than his opponents. He's faster than me. He's faster than you. He knows it and you can't tell him otherwise. When people glance at him, he believes in himself.

Now the race is won, and he's holding his head down again. He doesn't believe in himself anymore. He lives for that moment. The few seconds between start and finish. Gold medals don't mean anything to him. They don't make him happy, and he doesn't see his skills and accomplishments. But for that moment, he feels invincible.

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