Hero

Don’t chicken out, man! This guy can’t beat you, ever. Look at him, look! He can’t win! Number six can’t either. No! This time six won’t beat me, I swear! But… what the hell are you doing, dummy? Stop thinking about the others! Focus on your thing, fo-cus-on-your-thing; plant your foot firmly, no, no, not like that, loosen up, loosen up a bit; now! Squat down, stretch your leg, first spike well planted in the rubber, flex your left leg good, lift your ass higher! … although if I slip again like last time… no, but whatever! Remember what that old guy told you: “hips high”; lower your head, calm down, now calm down; okay, pay attention, calm down, don’t be scared, come on, eh! Listen, look ahead ’cause we’re… easy… easy…, ready…, set…, go!

…And he leaves wearing the same clothes as every day. The worn-out shoes, looking more and more like one big hole; just like his white T-shirt, once colored. On top, the sweater that covers the holes underneath, but adds new ones in a lighter color. The pants, not his size, but at least keeping him warm, with pockets full of breadcrumbs and pieces of old rags. His features aren’t as worn as his clothes, though they’re weathered. His eyes are lively and bulging, and often hide behind his tangled bangs, shielding themselves. His hands are cold as always. As always, his legs are agile and strong, the only possession he can trust because no one can take them away, and they don’t go looking for other owners, like everything else that passes through his hands.

He starts walking, facing a new day ahead, with the challenge of every day.

…And number six is already ahead, damn it! As always, let him go, let him go! Keep his pace, firmly! Sync your breathing; don’t let him get too far! Think that he’s afraid of you, come on, this dummy’s afraid of you! Plus he’s making too much effort, he’ll get tired soon, hang in there for now, hang in there; stick to the line, get close to the line, push push! Don’t worry, you’re in the best lane; 150 meters, already! And my calf’s starting to hurt, no, no! Don’t think about that, forget about it! You’re not in pain, get it?! You’re not in any pain! Clench your fists, push push! …and this guy keeps increasing his speed, come on, he won’t beat you, go for it! Don’t chicken out, come on, wimp!

But today’s not a day for wimps because it starts drizzling. He’s no wimp. The humidity that flattens his hair slides down his forehead and falls, in a single drop, along his nose and cheek. The balconies and scattered trees momentarily block the drizzle, now a bit thicker, as he passes. The wind gets stronger and stronger, and the direction it chooses is exactly opposite to his. Headwind. The wind brings cold, and the water, of course, intensifies it. And the cold seeps through his short sleeves, through the holes in his sweater, through the collar, through all his soaked clothes. He feels and is cold, but, step by step, without rushing, he firmly advances. He walks the same path as yesterday and before. He reaches the church and leans against the usual wall, the one facing the busiest street. There he stays. He’s almost in the middle of the city.

But I still have 50 to go until halfway, 50 meters to 400! … damn, I’m already slacking off, come on, push! … still half to go, don’t be a sissy! You’ve got number two behind you, you’re winning! Push, wimp! Adjust your pace, spread your arms a bit from your body, lift your gaze, lift your gaze! Now, increase, push! Increase speed! A bit more… a bit more, you’ve gotta make it, think about your old lady, think about the others, they’re watching you, push, don’t give up! Less than half the race! Push and then you can rest!

But not now, because noon doesn’t mean food and rest for him, like for others. No. It never meant that. What he does every noon… today too: he sits on the curb and waits. The curb is wet, but it surely doesn’t add any moisture to his pants. The cold has passed a bit, though cold doesn’t give him much trouble. The waiting, that does. Because at noon, nobody passes by. It’s just that, not him, but yeah, people go to eat and take a siesta. Although sometimes a lady runs late with her shopping; then, he stands up: “Ma’am, can you spare me something?” But it’s never more than two or three. Yeah… the waiting tires him a bit, but he can handle it.

Today the fat guy, who eats every day at the bar across the street, didn’t come. Maybe because of the rain. The fat guy always brings him some leftover bread from lunch, but today he didn’t come… yeah…, surely because of the rain. His stomach, which doesn’t understand absences and postponements, complains and makes itself heard. But he, used to this daily rebellion, doesn’t pay much attention to it.

…And if you pay attention, you’ll lose, you hear me? Your revenge will be beating him; he stepped on your heel ’cause he’s desperate, he can’t take it anymore! No! You’ve got no guts! He stepped on your shoe; keep going, beat him! That’s your revenge, beat him ’til he drops dead! Push ’cause he’s right there! One more effort, push or he’ll step on you again, don’t let him catch you! Defend yourself! Run!

“Defend yourself, you sissy!” It’s the six kids who pass by every day on the opposite sidewalk. He always has a couple of stones handy. He moves away a bit and waits. He knows well what to do… if they come at him… a good stone to one and the others won’t come close… although… but, anyway, he’s not afraid; he doesn’t have to be. Plus, because today the rain is his ally. It alone confronts them. He’s grateful, though it doesn’t show, and he watches them run until they’re out of sight.

But this time you don’t lose; that’s it! You’ve got him! Come on, go for it, yes you can do more! Come on! He can’t take it anymore, push! Your last chance, a bit more! Your old lady, think about your old lady, find strength! Come on, you’re catching up! You’ve got him! Push! Body to body… a bit more…, take a deep breath, pass him now! He’s staying behind, yes, he’s staying behind, he’s staying behind! First, damn it! First and 200 meters to the tape! Push ’cause you’re almost there!

But he doesn’t make it, no. What he collected today still isn’t enough for the bag of bread he brings home every day. And he can’t go back without the bread.

The only thing left to do is knock on doors. “Ma’am, do you have anything?”, “Sir, can you give me something?” Impossible to go back without the bread. And the day is ending.

He walks five, ten, twelve blocks, knocking and calling at doors. At this hour, many don’t open, others close with a “no” or with some excuse said just to say something. Every now and then you hear a “later” or “another day”, demagogically postponing the delivery, as if that could also postpone his need to eat for another day.

“Ma’am, can you give me something?” “Here, son, take it,” says, with the shrill voice of a bothered person, the owner of the house he just knocked on, “take it, but tell your dad and mom to go out and work themselves and not send you to beg, you hear?! Did you understand?!” He saw his mom every now and then. She was hospitalized. But dad… he never had one…, at least not that he remembers. “Thank you, ma’am! Thank you very much!” With this money, he’s sure he can get two loaves of bread and some cold cuts.

Happy, he returns home.

The day ends.

End it, end it! Run! It’s yours! The race is yours! Listen, they’re already applauding you, the cup! Glory in your hands! You’ll be in the papers, push, we’re almost there! Finally, the cup! Yes, I’m there! 20 steps… I’m there… I’m there…!

He arrived. Behind the door, as every night, his little sister is waiting for him. She’s five years old. She’s always alone at home from early on. She waits for him to arrive. “I’m hungry.” A loaf and a half with cold cuts are for her. “Here, Nina.”

He sits on the crate, with half a loaf left over, and thus rests from the day. His little sister eats and looks at him gratefully.

The next morning, the newspapers hit the streets and announce with big headlines: “Excellent 800-meter dash champion”; “Achieves unmatched triumph through insurmountable effort”; “New idol and world hero”.

He opens, as every day, the door and lets himself be swallowed by the intense cold of the morning. Nina stays waiting.