On the final stretch (prt 1)

It's feels like I'm running the 400m race all over again. But this time I'm not a Letter Men jacket wearing, think-nobody-can-beat-me, too cool for school,hot shot track star at Buena Park High School. Ha, I'm far from it. I am now a button down shirt wearing, hope-I-can-get-a-job, 603-Research-class-fearing, social work intern at the University of Southern California who, at the end of his career hopes to not receive a medal for "Most Valuable Player", but a dipolma for "Most Promising Future". Now pay attention.

As I come around the first turn, I'm plotting strategy in my head. You know, like any conscious person would do. "Easy does it Bobby, easy does it, they won't know what hit them", I repeat to myself; the subliminal message causes me to grin a little. As I entered into the first straightaway, I hear the sounds of heavy spiked cleats punturing the hard, chalked ground below me. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I notice no one else in sight. I think I'm in last place.

The aggresive pounding of my heart is seemingly synchronized with my heavy breathing. My vision becomes slightly blurred. Sweat trickles down my entire face like a thunderous rainstorm against a window pane. I'm not sure I'm going to make it to the finish line.

Suddenly I hear voices, familiar sounding voices. It's Coach Hirsch. "NOW Gilmore! NOW!" "Let's GO, let's GO!" he screams, running along the inside perimeter of the track. Although I was in last place approaching the final stretch, coach knew like I knew, that the race was far from over. Coming on strong into the final stretch, I turn on the afterburns. They were the same afterburners that had earned me the nickname "The Roadrunner" and made me the all-time record holder for fastest 400m time in school history (48.13 secs). The collective gasps of my seated onlookers in the bleachers told the entire story. Just when it seemed that all was lost and as though I'd surely finish in last place, I began catching up--and I was catching up fast. I don't think my opponents believed it either. I suddenly began weaving my way through the tall athletic bodies of my opponents like a master seamster. Delirum and dehydration consumed my fraile, 130lb frame. "Get em son, get em son!" my parents cheered in unison from the stands. With 50 yards to go, there was only one more person to beat; Ronnie Harrison, last year's CIF 400m 2-time defending champion. 30 yards to go, I was gaining on him. 20 yards, we were neck and neck. 10 yards to go...I was giving it 150 percent. As our exhausted bodies reached the crimson colored finish line tape, I closed my eyes, leaned forward like coach had taught me to do in such a situation, and hoped for the best...