“On your marks!” The starter’s voice sprung into the air, rising to its crescendo. Collins steadied himself, poised for the race that would catapult him to stardom. The rhythmic chants and roar of the effervescent spectators reminded him of his powerful bass booster playing at its maximum volume. He could feel the earth quiver underneath him and for a moment, he thought an earthquake with a 7.0 magnitude on the Richter scale was about to hit the stadium.

It was his first championship finals and after losing out in the two previous semi finals, he was resolute in capturing the much elusive trophy. Collins knew his rivals all too well, as he had competed against them in the past. The one athlete he feared the most, who had also defeated him on two occasions was Joe, who also happened to hold the national record. “You can do it Collins,” he murmured, reassuring himself. By now, tiny drops of sweat trickled down his cheeks in the cold winter morning. His pulse rate had reached critical limit and his adrenaline level had clearly risen – ready for the big race. He could even hear his heart thump despite the boisterous state of the supporters.

“Set!” The starter’s voice echoed once more, this time rudely intruding into his thoughts. Collins heaved a deep sigh – the next sound he was going to hear would be the gunshot. He took one last glance round the stadium and realized he had not noticed the glittering silhouette of the trophy carefully positioned beyond the finish line – a trophy that would soon be his. He let out a tiny smile and momentarily let his imaginations run wild. He pictured himself beating Joe to the prize and winning the coveted trophy. Collins suddenly paused – he thought he heard a section of the crowd call out his name repeatedly or maybe it was one of his numerous hallucinations so far today. “Good luck boy.” He recalled his mother’s final two words just before the race. He nodded his head in satisfaction; he was surely going to need that luck.

Unexpectedly, the deafening sound of the gunshot filled the air – the race had begun. Collins got off to a flying start and found himself in a superb position, second only to his greatest nemesis, Joe. The gunshot had clearly brought the crowd to a fever pitch and Collins felt he was not only racing against the athletes but also against the vicious force of the sound waves. “Collins! Collins!” The crowd screamed. Now he was certain he was not hallucinating; the crowd was indeed cheering him up. Collins had no idea how he derived the impetus to overtake Joe sixty metres into the race and found himself in pole position. He found himself taking giant strides towards the finish line and a lightening picture of the trophy once again flashed in his head.

Collins was already ten metres to the finish line when the worst happened. He felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the back of his thigh – he had torn his hamstrings. “Aw!” He growled. In the twinkle of an eye, Collins was on the floor of the racetrack and one after the other, the athletes ran past him. His aspirations were slowly slipping away from his grasps and he could do nothing but moan – if only he could make them stop. The race was over within seconds and Joe emerged as the winner. The fever pitch state of the stadium had been reduced to eerie silence. Collins was hoisted into the medic cab and driven away, his gaze still intently fixed on the trophy. His mother’s luck had certainly deserted him. He was going back the same way he came – ‘trophy-less.’