Of all the places I love to go to, my favorite above all is the track. Some late, humid summer nights I’ll run at DHS or at St. John’s Prep. When you walk through the rusty chain link fence, and step onto the field; it’s like being in another world. As I step onto the rough asphalt, my legs quiver with excitement. I reminisce back to the spring track days of glory. I pull out my ipod and play a mix of thumping hip-hop, techno, and catchy pop music. As I jog around the track, my mind drifts…
It is mid May, and the sweet smell of flowers and pollen fills my lungs. I can see my parents in the stands, and my friends hanging over the fence screaming my name, and cheering me on. I can see the finish line in the distance, and the officials with their timers. I look to my left, and then to the right. I see two of my opponents, but I am not nervous. Like a bunny spotting a nearby wolf, their eyes dart around, and they seem anxious. A man approaches the finish line with a gun, but I am not the least bit bothered. I take my stance, like a tiger, ready to pounce. A deafening crack! fills my ears, and I tear forward. I am sprinting so fast I can’t see straight. The wind whips at my hair, my t-shirt ripples in the wind. I can’t hear anything but the rhythmic thud of my feet, and my heavy breathing. I throw myself across the finish line, leaping as if it was life or death. The two other girls cross the line, looking defeated and sullen. A friend pours a Powerade over my head. The fruity drink trickles down my face and into my mouth, sending my taste buds in a frenzy; like ants scrambling for the last crumb.
“Hey, Emily!” I whip around and see a few members of last year’s soccer team. We were meeting just to run together to get ready for the fall season. After running the timed mile, I do a few sets of bleachers. Each step I take has an echo, and I can hear pounding footsteps behind me. I push ahead faster, my legs feeling like they are on fire. My lungs feel icy cold, and each step is harder and harder. After I am done, I roll a soccer ball onto the neighboring field. The soft, thick grass cushions my feet. I fake, dribble, and do tricks with the ball. I set up the ball on the penalty kick line, and take a few steps back. With a flick of my foot, the ball goes soaring into the net.

I think I have been on that same track a million times. Every sport I play is based from there, or the next field over. In the fall, I stand on the track line to cheer the Falcons football team on. Every Sunday I am there for at least three hours. Every Tuesday and Thursday of last year I would have soccer practice or the neighboring field. In the spring, I would be on the track every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday after school for track practice, plus the meets. In the fall, I go to the high school football games on Friday nights. So many memories flood my mind when I am there. I think of when I learned the perfect toe-touch, and when my stunt group did the highest basket toss I’ve ever seen. I think of soccer scrimmages and endless drills; and of countless laps around the track. I remember inside jokes among friends, and of the countless shiny ribbons I won at the track meets. And most of all, I remember the great times I’ve had there.