My left foot hits the track hard. My right leg continues to rotate over the eighth hurdle, but I am already crumbling to the ground. “Shit!” My left knee then my right shoulder smack against the red, all-weather track, and I roll into the sixth lane. I glance over just in time to catch the blurred vision of Tarin’s spikes as they narrowly miss colliding with my head, and then all I can see is the piercing bightness of the lowering sun as I peer into the crowded bleachers. Everything is silent. This must be a dream. Oh God, this must be a dream.
I get up, walk to the ninth hurdle, place my hands on it, and hoist myself over. I walk to the tenth hurdle and do the same. This can’t be real. It must be a dream. I slowly jog to the finish line. Such smiling faces. My head tilts down. I cover my eyes.
An official yells out, “Stay in your lanes and come back to the finish line!”
I walk back with my eyes closed. My timer grabs me, asks if I’m okay, but I cannot speak. There are no words. He tells me that his daughter Jamie did the same thing in the 300 intermediate hurdle pre-lims the night before. I want to scream, ”But she just took state in this race!”
He lifts up his stopwatch to show me my time. I look away but not before the number 22 burns into my memory forever. He asks me my name, and when I try to say it, only a sob escapes. He smiles, happy for his daughter no doubt, and says it doesn’t matter; he will look it up.
I turn and walk away. I grab my face in shame as my body begins to tremble. There are no tears yet.
Mr. Blake is at the gate with Tarin. She is so happy. He asks my time. I ignore the question and refrain from hitting him. Neosha hugs me and then Ryan, but I pull away and leave them all.
When I reach the spot where the team is camped out, Gracie embraces me and whispers that her heart sank when she saw me fall. She pulls away and asks me what happened. I shrug, and Joe says that my leg simply gave out. I personally cannot recall.
I have to warm up for the four by one relay, but I grab my Bible and plop down in front of the sign-in booth instead. I open to Psalms and begin to read the highlighted passages. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” My tears drench the page, and it wrinkles. Every time that I open to this page I will remember how I feel at this exact moment.
Tarin sits next to me and points to the passage that I have already read 15 times. I hold back the urge to flip her off. She finally beat me after an entire season, and I can feel her joy.
I get up finally, but only because I have to run. I always lead the four of us in a cheer before each race. I do it out of obligation, but it is hard to have spirit in moments such as this. “Who’s gonna win tonight, everybody knows, cougars, cougars, go team, go!”
I run my slowest all year, and we miss breaking the school record by three tenths of a second. I do not care. It is not my race.
I walk to the place where the 100 high hurdle times are posted. I look at first place, 17.23 seconds. I cry again because I could have beaten Jamie by four tenths of a second, a huge amount in a 100 meter race, without trying.
I walk to Gracie’s blanket, where I lay for two hours, tears stinging my eyes.
Somewhere in the midst of this, my coach comes, drops to the ground next to me, places his right hand roughly on my neck, sticks his face in my ear, and says, “My junior year in high school I was at the state track meet. It was the fastest race of my life, and I could feel it. It wasn’t until I hit the ground that I realized that I had fallen. I didn’t get back up and finish, and I never ran again. But you got up and finished. You went down in flames of glory--Did you run your fastest?” I shake my head yes. “That’s all that matters. Good job. I’m proud of you.” Just as quickly as he came, he was gone.
I bury my face in the blanket once again. Someone else comes and begins to stroke my back. I finally glance up and see Celeste. She says, “I love you.”
There is a long silence before I manage to choke out the words, “I just keep thinking ‘why’?” I loose all control again; my body starts to tremble, but I continue, “If God has a purpose for everything, I would really like to know what His reasoning is on this one.” Celeste is at a loss for words, but her presence is enough.
Approximately a half hour later, I get up, although I can’t remember why. I open my Bible again, and while I am reading it, Celeste returns. Time passes.
Mike rushes up to us. “Oh my gosh! There is a guy over there reading a Satanic Bible!” He points to the fence that runs along the track.
“Which one?” I ask.
He answers, and Celeste and I exchange knowing stares. We get up and hurry to the fence. We stand there for awhile before we ask the guy what he is reading. A conversation develops, and before I know it, the three of us are sitting on Gracie’s blanket reading my Bible.
The guy, Vandell, is so eager to hear the word of God! It is amazing! He does not accept Christ into his heart this night, but when I offer him my Bible, he accepts without hesitation. When he leaves, Celeste and I hug excitedly. We are giddy knowing that the Lord has worked through us.
Hours later, I am thinking over the night’s events. Would I have met Vandell if I hadn’t of fallen? Would I have been there at precisely the right moment to witness to him? Is this the reason why? Somehow I know that it is. After all, God has a reason for everything.
