Free Running the Rift by Naomi Benaron Page A

kept the class late, so he needed to hurry or Coach would be mad. Charging toward the door, he nearly collided with Coach.
    â€œI thought I’d find you here,” Coach said. PLAY TO WIN, his football jersey proclaimed. He handed Jean Patrick a pair of green Nikes.
    â€œWhat are these for?” They felt as light as air in Jean Patrick’s hands.
    â€œTry them.”
    Jean Patrick slid a foot into the sneaker. His body tingled. When his toes hit something hard, he tried to force them in. Coach laughed. “I forgot. There are socks inside.”
    The socks were thin and soft, and with them on, Jean Patrick’s feet slipped into the shoes as if gliding through butter. He took a few prancing steps. The soles were springy; he almost lifted from the ground with his toe-off. The sides held his heels like a firm hand.
    â€œKo Mana. Like this I could run forever.” He fingered the strange fabric, waiting for Coach to explain.
    Coach explored a space between two teeth with his toothpick. “They’re yours, so get used to them. I’m taking the team to a meet in Butare next month—a real track. I want you to qualify for Nationals next June in Kigali. This year you’ll have some true competition. It’s going to be staged as a two-country meet: Rwanda and Burundi.”
    Nationals—the first solid step on Jean Patrick’s Olympic journey! He tasted the word like the first bite of a pastry, savoring the anticipation of the sweet in the center, made all the more tempting by the thought of extra competition.
    Coach squeezed Jean Patrick’s toes. “A little big, but at the rate you grow, they’ll be fine by next week.” He relaced the shoes. “If your Inyenzifriends would stop making trouble, it wouldn’t be such a struggle to get you recognized.”
    â€œThe RPF are not my friends. I don’t want to make trouble. I just want to run.”
    â€œLet’s go,” Coach said. “You ride with me. We have a few things to discuss.”
    O N THE WAY to practice, Jean Patrick flexed and pointed his foot inside the Nikes—
his
Nikes. First the shoes and now this place of privilege in the cab. Each time Jean Patrick stole a glance, Coach’s eyes were on him, Coach’s mouth frozen in his familiar, inscrutable grin. He knew Coach was toying with him, knotting the silence into a noose of anticipation. Coach sped up and passed a slow-moving car, barely avoiding a head-on collision with a bus. Jean Patrick’s stomach rose to his throat, and instinctively he gripped the door handle. The bus horn’s wail followed them.
    Coach laughed. “I want you to concentrate on middle distance—specifically the eight hundred. Those stocky Hutu guys have more muscle in one calf than you have in your body, and they’ll pound you into the ground for shorter sprints. You won’t slow down no matter what I tell you, so you’ll fade for anything longer, but with your determination, twice around the track you can hang on and win.”
    A cloud of dust swirled toward them, and Jean Patrick rolled up the window. It was Umuhindo, the small rainy season, and in the hills, women planted beans, peas, and maize. Through the haze he picked out the treetops along the far wall of the stadium, then the rusty galvanized panels over the seats, the walls, and finally the white line of a goalpost. The afternoon sun stained the brick walls pink. Even after four years, this first glance caused an extra little skip of his heart.
    â€œI like the eight hundred, but I can win any distance,” Jean Patrick said, touching a fingertip to his Nike swoosh for luck.
    Coach parked the truck in a scrap of grass. “Let me do the thinking, eh? You just run.” He took his stopwatch and whistle from the glove box, committed to forward motion before his foot hit the ground. The rest of the runners headed toward the track, feet swishing through the dirt.