For a Girl, J.T. D'Arelli [reading fiction txt] 📗

high schools all across America. There was even TV coverage — ESPN would tape the races for replay on one of their secondary channels.

I was nervous and a little intimidated. And yet, I was also thrilled. This was where I belonged — what I was born to do. I warmed up carefully, going through the stretches that were part of my pre-race routine. It helped to calm the jitters. I kept working on my focus while the other events were taking place — the sound of cheering as some athletes realized their dreams. And the groans as some athletes did not.

Before I knew it, it was final call for the girls' mile. We cleared security and made our way down to the high-tech synthetic surface of the track. Coach Bradford turned to me then.

"Stephanie, I want you to know how proud I am of you. No matter what happens today, you're one of the bravest, strongest kids I've ever known. You go out there, do your best and you'll be a winner."

As sudden tears came to my eyes I realized this would be my final race for my Coach. God, we'd come a long way together! In a way, he'd been the father I'd never known. I gave him a huge hug — then he gave me a playful pat on my butt — clad in those cute panty-shorts I'd grown to like so much. I giggled and headed onto the track.

By virtue of my 4:49 earlier this season, I was placed in third position from the inside rail, right next to Melody McCarthy. She attempted a staredown — I didn't bother. I just looked at her — gave a big grin to show she couldn't intimidate me, and took my place at the starting line. The two fastest girls, Laura and Beth, were on my opposite side, the other six were stretched out along the rest of the tape.

We were introduced to the crowd, and I spotted my mother, Hal and the rest of my friends in the stand. I didn't wave — I was already sinking into the trance, the focus that I embraced at the start of every race.

Then, without further ado, the gun went off.

The mad scramble began. I knew with a field this good the pack would be close together for some time. With every girl here a sub-five miler, it would take a while to sort the wheat from the chaff. I laid off the lead group, avoiding contact as much as possible. There was a lot of jostling and bumping of elbows as the rhythm of the race was set.

The pace was very, very fast — many of the girls were caught up in the excitement and had pushed out hard. Maybe too hard. That was fine with me — I wasn't the least bit worried as I finished the first lap in 6th place.

It was the time that mattered — "70 seconds," Coach Bradford called out.

Perfect. Even better than I'd hoped. When I was a boy, my target time for the mile was 60 seconds per lap — with four laps that would put me on a 4-minute mile pace. Those days were gone of course — my new goal as a female was 70 seconds — which would translate to a 4:40 mile.

As we began the second lap, I could sense some of the girls in front of me were tiring — the pace was too swift to sustain. I waited until the backstretch to move past two of them — never pass on the curve — why run farther than you have to?

That put three girls in front of me — Melody — who was leading, Laura from Virginia (rather nice butt on her!) and Beth from California. We were the four who had broken the 4:50 mark this season, which made us the likely contenders for the title.

As we finished the second lap, I was pleased with the time: 2:21. The pace had barely slowed and that was playing right into my hands.

Coach Bradford and I had meticulously rehearsed this. The one thing we didn't want was a slow, tactical race. Often, especially in the Olympics, the top athletes hold back — racing for the title, not the time. That meant a leisurely jog for three laps, followed by a frantic sprint to the finish.

The problem with such a strategy is that it leaves far too much to chance — the lesser runners are right there with the big guns, which means anything can happen at the end. In the men's 1500-meter race at the 1992 Olympics, the entire field was still bunched together for the last lap. During the chaotic dash that followed, the defending world champions and record holders lost to an unknown from Spain, who quickly became a national hero — since the Games were taking place in Barcelona.

So my goal was simple — don't just race the other girls, race the clock.

Race Mary Decker and her 4:42 national record.

Burn everyone out — if they want to keep up, make them pay. In pain.

As we started the third lap, Melody began to slow. Beth and Laura eased off as well. The rest of the field was far behind after two laps at this speed, so it was down to the four of us.

Time to get busy.

As we entered the backstretch of the third lap, I put on an enormous surge and pushed past all three girls. I kept my stride steady as I took the lead — focusing on maintaining the pace necessary for the 4:40 mile that was my target. I heard a roar from the crowd as they realized this would be no stroll through the park. Many of the fans were very knowledgeable and they could sense what I had in mind.

Melody, Laura and Beth now had a choice to make. Hang with me, and endure the pressure — or relax and hope I'd crash later.

All three came after me. This was going to be a slugfest. I entered the homestretch of the third lap and began to feel the pain. I was breathing okay, but my legs were quivering. We flashed past the wire and got the three-lap time: 3:30.

Wow — even faster than I'd expected. As we entered the backstretch of the fourth and final lap — the pain grew. My breathing became labored and my legs were now shaking. But I didn't relent — I concentrated with every neuron I could fire on keeping my form and maintaining the speed. My only consolation was that the other girls were hurting just as bad.

Behind me, I heard a feminine voice curse as Melody broke — the pace had snapped her and she fell back.

One down, two to go.

We entered the final turn. I was gritting my teeth and having to force my legs to reach full stride. Then Laura gasped, coughed and dropped behind.

Two down, one to go.

Beth was right with me as we headed down the homestretch. As the California state champion, I knew she had to be one tough chick.

But I'm a tough chick, too. It hurts, though — God, it hurts! As I raced towards the final hundred meters, I remembered all those years of training: the running in snow, blazing heat, pouring rain. Everything I'd endured, both as a boy and as a girl, to reach my dream.

So I swallowed down my stomach, which was trying to leap up my throat. I made my hands into fists, growled deeply (still soprano), bared my teeth and drank in the roar of the crowd — using that energy to master my pain and gut it out to the end.

Just a little bit farther... just a little bit farther and it won't hurt anymore...

I zeroed in on the finish line, knowing only there would the torture end. All I had to do was get to it... as fast as I could.

And then Beth snapped — I could feel her fading behind. Not much — just a few strides, but that was all I needed. Somehow, I found the strength for a final surge and broke the tape.

In first place.

I did it! I'm the fastest girl miler in the country! Gasping, I nearly plunged to my knees before Coach Bradford scooped me up into a huge hug. I felt like a little doll in his massive arms — I was too weary even to hug him back. But I did have enough in me to smile.

He set me down and pointed to the scoreboard, where the electronic clock had marked my time: 4:39.

My god — I've broken Mary Decker's record. I'm the fastest high school miler in history! For a girl, that is... but I didn't care about the damn qualifier. Elated and overwhelmed, I started to cry as I embraced my coach and basked in the cheers from the crowd.

Beth Hamilton came up with a big smile — she threw her arm around my shoulder. "I knew you were the girl to beat - congratulations," she said. "What a race!"

She'd finished in 4:43 — a new California State record. Laura Swain was there too — her 4:46 was a record for Virginia as well. Track fans would be talking about this one for years.

Melody had finished out of the medals — in fourth place. She had collapsed on the ground. I was very careful not to snicker as I approached her — but my effort at sportsmanship was wasted.

She looked up at me. "I don't care what anyone says. You don't deserve this — especially with those fake boobs."

For my response, I replayed 'Seinfeld'. I leaned over Melody, allowing her to peek down my bra. Which she did — at length, her eyes widening as she saw I was the genuine article. Then I spoke. "They're real... and they're spectacular."

Then I flounced away. I know, I know — it was petty of me, but Lord, that felt good!

I continued to be mobbed by officials, fans and the press as I made my way up to the stands where Mom and my friends awaited me. I put in more hugs than Leo Buscaglia and struggled not to cry as everyone congratulated me. A feeling of completeness, of satisfaction filled me. It had been so hard — but it had all been worth it!

Everyone was still talking excitedly while the boys' mile was run. I watched a little wistfully as Kevin Tilden (remember him from my last race as a guy?) won the National title with a time of 4:02. For all the hoopla over my victory, he'd finished 37 seconds faster than me. Though a tiny part of me was pleased to see my status as the only sub-4 high school boy in 30 years remained intact. But I was happy for his victory and went up to congratulate him afterwards.

It was the first time we'd met since I'd changed. My former archrival looked me up and down. Then he smiled, shook his head and whistled.

"You know, when I first heard you were going to be a girl, I was a little sad — because I knew I'd run better if you were around. But I have to say, Stephanie, that between the way you race and the way you... look — maybe this was for the best."

I smiled and gave the guy a hug. Then both of us went off to be interviewed by the press and to meet all the scouts. Since we had just become the fastest boy and girl milers in the United Sates, we attracted a lot of attention. I gave my phone number to a half-dozen college coaches, all of whom were dangling scholarship offers and other inducements in front of me. The next hour was dizzying, dazzling and delightful.

Finally, things calmed down. Coach Bradford walked my mom and me to our car. Mom looked up at him — they'd met briefly at my hearing, but this was their first chance to talk.

"Thank you, Coach,