9.5 Seconds

A track meet

A short story by Kevin Hogg

Priscilla Donahue, president of Track and Field International, gave Henri Olafson a steely glare across her oversized desk. “What are we going to do about Maxwell Pemberton?” she demanded.

“It needs to be a big gesture,” agreed Henri, a senior board member. “I’m sure we’ll think of something by the St. Louis meet.”

Priscilla’s eyes narrowed. “You misunderstand me. I want him out before St. Louis.”

Henri pulled nervously at his graying hair. “Out? Like, out of competition? But he’s our biggest asset. He’s the biggest reason anyone watches track.”

“He’s not our asset,” corrected Priscilla. “He’s his own asset. You’ve seen his recent interviews. No mention of TFI. No gratitude for making his fame and fortune possible. Just bragging about shaping the future of the sport.”

“But he is the future,” Henri reasoned. “He’s beaten his own record in the 100 meters four times. Nobody else is close.”

“What happens if he actually beats 9.5 seconds in St. Louis? Where do we go from there? He’ll get more endorsement deals, and fans will eventually get bored of a one-man show. We need him out of the picture so we can push a new crew and make the races competitive again. Find a new, more malleable, face to carry on Maxwell’s quest.”

Henri shook his head firmly. “I can’t be a party to that. We’re an impartial governing body. We can’t get upset about not being name-dropped in interviews. Let’s just ride the ratings boost while we can.”

Priscilla took a step closer. “If he runs in St. Louis,” she whispered, “your wife will find out all about you and Christina in Munich.”

“What are you talking about? We went to a conference together. You sent us.”

A faint smile tugged at Priscilla’s lips. “Funny that it took two of you to do one person’s job. Almost like someone planned it to get a bit of leverage. Just remember—a seed of doubt may not bloom right away, but it’s always lurking just beneath the surface.”

“But…but nothing happened!”

Priscilla walked out of the room, pausing at the doorway. “Before St. Louis.”

*

The message was clear: Go home. It won’t happen today. But the eager crowd, lucky enough to purchase the prized tickets, was not leaving until history had been made.

Maxwell Pemberton had been the talk of the sports world since his gold medal victory at the Summer Olympics. He had only gotten faster since then, and the record now stood at a previously unthinkable 9.53 seconds. Following his announcement of a “Drive for 9.5,” the press had covered his training nonstop.

And then the downpour. Even with the event in doubt, the crowd remained. They would see Maxwell Pemberton, and no ill weather would stand in their way.

*

“It looks like you got your wish,” scowled Henri. “He won’t be racing after all.”

“Well, the crowd certainly seems to think that he will. Even after we announced that the event was cancelled, Maxwell has them up in arms. If you had done your job, we would still be in control, not being held hostage by someone who thinks he’s bigger than TFI.”

Henri pulled at his hair again. “So, what do we do? We can’t have them run in unsafe conditions.”

Priscilla tightened her lips. “I’ve been getting calls from sponsors. They say they’ll pull their advertising if we don’t make today’s meet happen.”

“They’ve got us in a lose-lose situation,” Henri observed.

Priscilla laughed scornfully. “You’ve put us in a rough place, but it’s lose-lose-lose for you.” She held up a picture. “Your wife will be getting an envelope of very convincing—and incriminating—pictures in the near future.”

Henri stared at the people in the image. “That’s us! But, we never…”

Priscilla smiled. “Funny what one can do with a little technical knowledge.”

Wordlessly, Henri left the room.

  *

Maxwell stood defiantly at the starting blocks, hands on his hips and rain running down his body. Eventually, two stadium employees were sent to hold umbrellas over the 6-foot-10 star, each of them standing on a milk crate. An hour passed, with no change in either the weather or the mood of the crowd.

Hundreds of millions of viewers were waiting at home. The world stood still, awaiting the event while Maxwell continued to stand silently.

*

Henri knocked on Priscilla’s door and let himself in. “I say we run it.”

Priscilla glared at him. “Just let him push us around?”

“No,” Henri sighed. “I think I have a solution that works for both of us.”

*

A makeshift cover was hastily erected over a portion of the track, and staff dried the ground with anything they could find—towels, rags, clothes, and portable fans. Three hours behind schedule, Maxwell and three opponents took their marks. Four more runners had been scheduled; they had left when the race was originally cancelled, but nobody seemed to notice or care.

Despite the delay, every seat in the stands was filled, everyone focused on watching the greatest runner of their time—or any time, for that matter—achieve the unthinkable.

The runners took their positions, and the starter’s pistol split the air. Maxwell’s performance was everything people had hoped for. He quickly outdistanced the rest of the pack and expanded his lead with every step.

As the other runners strove for second place, Maxwell approached the finish line. Just before he crossed, his foot slipped. He flew across the line feet first and landed in a heap. As he rolled onto his back, holding his left knee, the scoreboard flashed his finishing time: 9.47. The crowd jumped and cheered while Maxwell remained motionless on the ground.

His trainer rushed over and examined the knee. He helped Maxwell to his feet and supported him as he posed for the crowd. Even this proved to be too much, and he sat back down. A reporter pushed a microphone in his face. “Maxwell, we just saw you run the fastest race in human history, but what can you tell us about your knee?”

Maxwell grimaced as he looked down at his knee, but he was beaming when he faced the camera. “Look, this race was the singular focus of the past few months, and I don’t want to dwell on the negatives. I want to thank my team, my family, and my fans. We did it!”

Medics came and helped Maxwell onto a stretcher. As he was carried away, Maxwell Pemberton smiled and raised a hand to wave to the audience. Applause broke out again.

A loudspeaker split through the applause: “Upon video review…”

The stretcher stopped.

“The time reported marked when Maxwell Pemberton’s feet crossed the finish line. Under TFI rules, the finish time is measured by when the athlete’s upper body crosses the line. Therefore, Maxwell Pemberton’s time has been adjusted to 9.51 seconds.” The voice continued, but it was drowned out by the booing crowd.

A reporter caught up to Maxwell and thrust a camera in his face. “What do you have to say about this announcement?”

Maxwell was silent for a long time. Finally, he shook his head and said, “They can say what they want.” He paused, but his eyes had lost their familiar glint. “I mean, it’s no big deal. Everyone watching just saw the fastest hundred meters in history.”

More booing came from the audience as the winning time was adjusted on the clock. Maxwell stared at the new time and hung his head. He attempted a smile. “It doesn’t matter,” he told the reporter. “It’s fine, right? We all know the truth. I did what I said I would.” He turned away from the camera and wiped his eyes. Halfway across the stadium, he saw Henri gesturing at the track as a member of the grounds crew bent over it with a towel.

“Wait, what are they doing?” He pulled himself into a sitting position on the stretcher. “What are they trying to hide? Is there something…?”

But, with all eyes on Maxwell, nobody was watching the track. Maxwell and Henri’s gazes met, Henri’s eyes widening as he spotted Maxwell. He looked away quickly, but even at that distance, Maxwell read the guilt in his face.

Another reporter stepped in front of Maxwell, “Is it possible that your career might be ending just one hundredth of a second away from achieving your dream?”

Maxwell waved him aside urgently. “Look, I have to…” But Henri and the grounds crew had vanished into the crowd.

Maxwell’s forced grin was replaced by a look of despair.

The question was taken up by multiple reporters. Was this the end?

Maxwell was speechless. The medics resumed carrying the stretcher off the field, walking faster than before. The final image the stadium’s large video screen showed was a close-up of the fallen hero, tears streaming down his cheeks.