Feb 13, 2011


The 440 is my race and I could own it outright if I were going up against the snails in my weight bracket like Donnie Tilsbury or Sid ‘Legs’ Wenton or even Sal Swann who runs like a fast four year old girl but fucking Coach Walters decided to put Dave McDonald in the race and the only other event I’m in and it’s going to be iffy. I’m running as a Junior but McDonald’s an Intermediate – shit, he’s a Senior as far as I’m concerned - he’s got a full beard for Christ’s sake. Coach Walters can’t run anything except his mouth and he dribbled some bullshit about not enough runners in Junior to be competitive so he stuck McDonald who’s a good ten pounds heavier in there. I might have a chance in the 440 but I swear I’ll be toast when that 880 comes around. We’re running at the high school arena with that rickety circular track… God, I can feel it now, the boards shuddering under my feet, the jeering crowd right on top of us, my legs like rubber bands after the first curve and my lungs collapsing and bailing as McDonald makes his move to the inside like a gazelle and then disappearing around the final turn… man that guy can fly. There’s an outside chance Walters will let me bump down to Primary, get up against some first year doe-eyed farm boy challenger trying to make a mark and allow me a chance to deal out an old McDonald on his sorry ass.

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