Bruce Runright, an Olympic sprinter, sat in a dark locker room alone. Slivers of light creeped around the lockers from one source outside the doorway. Bruce sat on a bench between two rows of lockers. All of them were closed except for the one directly in front of Bruce. He was staring at his crutches, which were propped up next to him. He rubbed his knee, which was wrapped in athletic tape.

Stupid Knee, Bruce thought, had to tear two days before my first heat. He then hit a locker and yelled in frustration.

But then his vision fell to the locker in front of him, his locker, for what seemed like the tenth time in the past minute. It wasn’t the locker that entertained him, but what was inside. On one hook there were a Pair of Red and Blue Warm-ups, consisting of wind pants and a thin jacket, with white writing saying USA across the chest. On the opposite hook hung a singlet, red on top and blue on bottom, again with USA across the chest. But those two things didn’t matter as much to Bruce as the dark blue poster. It was in the middle of the locker, it read Good Luck in England Bruce!! in red and had three pictures pasted onto it outlined in white. One picture showed Bruce as a kid, about 9, with his hair still blonde and his eyes emerald green, at a track meet with a wild grin, holding up a gold medal. The second Picture showed an older Bruce, from his freshman year of high school in Track accompanied with his coach this time. They were holding up a plaque together that read: Washington State Champion ships Track and Field 100m Dash. The third picture was fairly recent with Bruce, his hair darker in this one and his body much more muscular, standing in front of a banner that read: 2012 Olympic Trials. At the time, he had just won the race to qualify him for the Olympics.

But all that wasn’t even worth it now. Sure, the victories were sweet at the time, but all the forced training year after year wasn’t worth this injury. Heck, the athletic trainer had even told Bruce the injury was caused by running for so many years. Overuse in a more basic sense.

Bruce focused in on the picture of his youngest self from 1995. He remembered that day fairly well. It was May eighth; the sun was bright and harsh. Bruce was full of jitters before his first race ever, the start of the gradual buildup to his injury as he would find out years later. Once he got to the arena, he left his mom and went over to some of the other kids. Instantly, they were cold to him, competition formed a wall between them.

He greeted them, “Hello, I’m a new runner.”

None of the kids responded to him, they just went on with their conversation as if Bruce was just a little bit of silent wind. Bruce, feeling discouraged, walked back to his mom, his eyes on the ground and starting to well up with tears.

“Mom,” Bruce said, fighting back tears, “Can I go home now?” He sniffed, “I don’t like it here. Everyone’s mean.”

Bruce’s mom squatted down to his eye level and said, “Bruce, I know you’re scared, but, honey, you’re fast. Faster than all the other kids.”

Bruce wiped a tear away, nodding slowly.

His mom continued on, “Your race is in 15 minutes. How about we go try some warm-ups out?”

Bruce nodded again and followed his mom’s lead. It’s hard for him to say what happened next, all he could remember was that between that moment and the start of the race his sadness subsided and anger took its place and, more importantly, a strong desire to win.

The next thing Bruce remembered was walking up to the starting line, taking his warm-ups off, and staring down the other kids, at the age of 9. Bruce lined up at the starting line and got on the starting blocks like he had been told. He was in box 6 and the sun was shining into his eyes. Bruce tensed, waiting for the gun to go off, he wanted to win, to show these kids up, and especially the ones who had made him feel like an outsider. The gun went off and Bruce exploded up and away from the line, taking his strides how he had practiced at the community center track. He was in first in the first 25 meters, leading by half of a stride. He kept pushing, feeling his legs burning going into 50 meters, now leading by a full stride. But Bruce wasn’t satisfied. He went into the last 25 meters even harder, leading by a full second, and crossing the finish line by a full 2.1 seconds before the runner up. He closed his eyes as his mom ran over, lifting him up to hug and congratulate him, but Bruce never heard her, he was still trying to catch his breath.

That gold medal led to Bruce’s newfound pride, his new competitiveness. Track wasn’t the only thing he had become competitive in now. It transferred to school too. He always had to be right. Bruce would always argue with teachers and students even if he was obviously wrong, he just wanted to prove he was better. But it didn’t stop inside the classroom. Bruce would belittle and bully other kids on the playground and before school. Sometimes he’d get physical if the kid stood up to him; it wasn’t a real great thing for a kid to do to others.

Bruce pulled himself back to reality in the locker room when he heard excited shouts and yells coming from outside the room and down the hall. They were saying something about winning the events that started in two days. The door swung open, the lights turned on, and Bruce’s teammates walked in. They were all talking loudly, but then fell silent upon seeing Bruce.
“Hey, Runright,” one guy, a little shorter with black hair, said, “How’s the knee?”
Bruce stayed quiet and looked regretfully at his knee, blocking out what this guy, Nick, had to say.
“Hey it’s alright, man,” Nick went on, “Just talk when you need it. It’ll help.”
Then Bruce’s replacement walked into the locker room, his thick black hair dripping with sweat. When he saw Bruce his face changed from exhaustion to sympathy.
“I’m sorry, Bruce,” he said, “You should be running on Thursday, not me. Two days man… I’m sorry.”
Bruce again didn’t respond. His replacement, Sam Qualnif, had been his competition for the past year in training. Bruce wanted to hate him, but he couldn’t. After all, this guy was just filling in, it wasn’t his fault. But Bruce still disliked him greatly, along with everyone else.
The other guys were talking about their plans for the night with the races two days away. Most were either planning on sleeping, or doing some last minute training, but not Bruce; Bruce was not going to move from the bench. He didn’t have the want or the need to.
Bruce looked to the second picture on the poster board. It showed him at state in his freshman year of high school (he would go on to win it three more times). It was 2002 and Bruce was wearing a black and yellow singlet, his coach wore a matching shirt that read Hornets Track and Field. Both were grinning widely and looked ecstatic. Bruce’s hair was short cropped and still blonde, and his coach wore a black hat.
In high school, Bruce continued to pick on other kids, always wanting to be the best, but the upper classmen demoralized this feeling and Bruce fell into depression. After Bruce learned to respect the upper classmen, he got better, but his bullying still didn’t stop with others.
On the day of state his freshman year, Bruce craved a win more than ever. The whole day was really just a blur to him, even the race. All he remembered about the day was that he beat out everyone by three seconds and being at the award ceremony.
He remembered standing on the Podium, receiving his plaque, his mom going crazy, and his coach beaming with pride. But Bruce didn’t necessarily like the road to get to state each year.
All the training was a ton of hard work and Bruce felt he never needed to do it, which usually led to him screwing around and then getting yelled at. He often came home from practice wanting to quit and just have some time off, but his mom didn’t like the idea and pushed him to keep running. Bruce wanted to quit track throughout all of high school but he never could, so he kept running all the way through college.

Back in reality, along with feeling awful about the way he used to act, Bruce was realizing how tired he was. He had no want to leave the bench and he really did not want to use his crutches. After an internal debate, he reached in his locker, grabbed his jacket and sweats, put them on for warmth, then curled up on the bench and slept in the warm, dark locker room.
Bruce awoke to the yelling of men and pounding of lockers. The runners were back for their last day of practice. Bruce let out a sigh; he would have to see his teammates again.
One guy, with darker skin, was surprised to see Bruce, “Bruce!” he said, “Thought you’d be back at the hotel restin’ up? Still gonna tough it out, eh?”
“Nah,” Bruce replied, rubbing his eyes, “Trainer made it clear I’m not running. Anyways, I think I’m getting over it.”
“That’s great to hear, man,” The guy said, turning to leave.
“Catchya ‘round, Jamal,” Bruce said with a smile.
He hadn’t lied when he said he was feeling better, but there was still something bothering him, tugging at the back of his mind. Then Qualnif walked in. He avoided eye contact with Bruce, but Bruce watched him as he set his bag down onto the bench then opened his locker. Something told him not to hate this guy anymore, but there was still a nagging that said, “This guy thinks he’s better than you. Take him out, man.”
Bruce looked away, then down and waited for everyone to leave for practice. He straightened his knee and pain shot through it along with his upper thigh and lower calf, making him wince. Bruce closed his eyes and let out a series of grunts before bending his leg back.
When Bruce opened his eyes again, he was looking back at his good luck poster. Once again he took in the blue poster with red lettering and pictures with white trim.
He took a deep breath and tentatively looked at the third picture. It was taken just two years back, at the Olympic Qualifiers. He had left his competitors behind by a scorching 5 seconds. Bruce did a lot of gloating that day; it was painful to remind himself of it, because of the way he acted. Later in the locker room that same day he was talking to the other runners, telling them how no one on the team stood a chance of beating him and asking why they would even try.
Remembering this now almost made Bruce sick, he couldn’t stand a chance with his knee now. He was a real jerk, a real idiot. He took off his warm-ups and hung them back up. Then he grabbed his crutches and made his way outside of the locker room for the first time in 2 days. He thought about joining his team at practice, but even as he contemplated this, he was going to the hotel.

The hotel was across the street from the arena and once Bruce finally arrived at his room he collapsed on his bed and looked at the time. It was 3:15, PM, so Bruce had either slept late, or daydreamed long.
Lying on his bed, knee outstretched, Bruce thought about his injury. What happened ran over and over in his head. He had been running and then -RIP- his knee went and he was lying on the track, face down.
All he remembered was saying, “How can I win now,” and, “Don’t let him take my spot,” over and over again.
Just yesterday, Bruce would’ve been fine with acting like that, but now that he was on the opposite end, looking back on how much time he wasted on trying to be the best, he felt absolutely awful. Not only did he ruin people’s lives, or at least day, he passed up on so much of being social. The only reason he wasn’t an outcast was because he bullied people into liking him.
Bruce thought things over for the rest of the night. He thought about his behavior mostly, and hoped he could eventually forgive himself. This continued until Bruce finally fell asleep.

That night, Bruce had a dream. In this dream, Bruce was in a gray cubicle, which had gray carpeting, a gray desk, and a gray computer monitor. Bruce was wearing a gray button-up dress shirt and black dress pants, along with black dress shoes.
Bruce was typing furiously; he couldn’t understand what he was typing until he read it on the screen. It was an email to his wife stating: Can’t go on that date tonight, sorry, I have to win the sales competition.

Bruce woke with a jolt. Competition. It haunted him from child hood and, apparently, into the future now too. He rubbed his eyes and stood up, putting his weight on his good leg. He looked out the window of his hotel room and saw the sun just beginning to rise.
Today, he thought, Today is the day I change my way. I won’t have that future be mine.
And with that, Bruce walked to the Bathroom and got ready for the day.

Walking, or crutching rather, back to the Arena was hard for Bruce. It wasn’t physically challenging, but mentally. He wanted to change his competitiveness, but something kept holding him back. Jealousy. He walked through the lobby and into the locker room; there were all of his teammates.
As Bruce went towards his locker, his teammates stared at him. Bruce got his warm-ups out and put them on; he looked like one of the team now.
“What are you all staring at?” He said with a smile, laughing and sort of jesting, “You’ve got races to win today, especially you Qualnif.”
The tension in the room eased and everyone went about their business. For the first time in his life, Bruce was finally at peace. Maybe the dream wasn’t the future after all?