4.

   He squatted, jumped, and stretched his legs all possible ways, but he never took his gaze off the obstacle in front of him. He didn’t know if it did more harm than good, or if it only served to burn up his last remaining bits of energy, but the last thing he wanted was for his knees to hurt mid-run as a result of being cold and unoiled. The barrier in front of him, which was constructed with the hands and feet of his opponents, measured a staggering one foot and five hands tall, which he had to jump over. He needed to prepare in every way that he could.

   He wiped off a bead of sweat right before it could get into his eye. The sun was gentler earlier, like a child peeking shyly from the cover of the village houses and rice paddies. He painted the blue morning sky pink, and watching it from the porch of his grandparents’ house never failed to bring a smile to his face. But now, the sun had grown harsh and tall enough to condescendingly look down on him. His glare was killing him. If he spent any more time, the sun would rise even higher and being above all buildings and trees that could provide protection, would completely fry him like chicken. He grabbed his soiled face towel and wiped all the sweat off his face, neck and back. He just wanted this to be over.

   But an image came to his mind. The moment his line of sight drifted to the top of the tower of hands, he imagined the possibility of botching the jump. He thought of the possibilities of jumping too far from the tower, or an error in his jumping motions that cause him to jump too low, or maybe he would pull up his legs too late mid-air. Whatever poison Fate picked, it would all result in his feet getting caught in one of those hands, the world quickly turning to its side, the short, drum-like sound of skull falling on unpaved street ringing to the deepest crevices of his brain, and just barely hearing and seeing the outlines of his playmates running and screaming for help as he blacked out, maybe for good. Or worse, he would experience a burning pain on the side of his head that would never go away for the next seven days, but it would never burn quite as painfully as the furious sermon his mother would give him upon finding out about the accident, a vile-tongued show of wrath not even his father would withstand hearing.

   But he blinked those images away as quickly as they flashed in his mind. He pulled himself back into the world and put some distance between himself and the tower. Nobody ever dared to jump over this challenge; it was just too intimidating. But he had jumped it before. If he had done it once, he could do it again. But how would he ensure nothing of that sort would happen? Instinct, came the answer. He’d just run, run like hell, and jump when it feels just right. Not too far, not too near. but just right. How would he know? He doesn’t know how he’d know. Oh, and also, he’ll pray. Pray like hell. Even if he hated it. All five of the Glorious Mysteries compressed into three seconds, that’s how intensely he’ll pray. But even with the intercession of the Holy Mother, he still wasn’t sure about whether he’d make the jump. He has made several jumps like these before. But he was never sure of how he makes these jumps. Or if he will even make it now.

   But before fear could take hold, he made a quick Sign of the Cross, and began running.

   It was nothing like those cliché moments in fiction or film where time slowed down and every detail of the fateful moments were perceived in full. In fact, it all happened very quickly.

   All emotions and reservations were washed away by the adrenaline-infused blood rush he felt, left behind in the dust. And then he jumped before the tower of hands and feet. Not too far, not too near. Just right. He was never sure of how he makes these jumps. Never really knew the particulars, like how far he was before the obstacle, or which foot he jumped with, or if he ever broke his speed while running. It was all instinct. But it was right this time. His legs raised themselves in front of him just in time, cleanly flying over the barrier. He felt like a bird in flight for a moment, independent from everything that belonged to world below. He didn’t even feel a finger brush the bottom of his tattered shorts.

   And before he knew it his feet were on the ground.

   He winced when his bare feet landed on a sharp pebble on the unpaved road, but it didn’t matter. He heard his friends laugh and shout and offer to buy everyone soda and cheap candy later on, but it didn’t matter.

   His hands were on his knees and he was gasping and panting and blankly staring at the ground. He was like an athlete in every way. On the verge of collapse after the intense competition, but at the end of the day—victorious.

   He was taken away by his friends later on for their grand awarding ceremony. Marcelo Marcelino, eight years old, winner of the world’s most prestigious Olympic track and field competition. He waved weakly at his million fans around the world as they cheered once again. The officials handed him a gold coin, his prize. Like a real Olympic medalist, he bit on it. His victory tasted sweet, like melted chocolate.