Runner
Richard Crawford — 7th Grade
I… am a shoe. Wait, I know what you’re thinking; “An autobiography of a shoe will be terribly boring.” Well, you may be surprised. Anyway, I was a brand-new shoe when I was bought, a running shoe of high quality. I was proud of that. Most shoes would be. I talked with fellow shoes everyday (which humans cannot hear) and waited to be bought.
One day, a man came in needing shoes. He was quite um… let’s just say, big in his middle. He had grease like stains all over his yellow T-shirt. He had slightly long shaggy brown hair. He had blueberry purple shorts with a six-inch tear in the left buttock that he didn’t seem to care about. All of us running shoes wanted to be bought by a runner. So naturally, nobody wanted to be bought by this man. I sat there feeling smug as a chatter of worry came about in the other shoes. I was sure this man would not buy me. I knew this because this was obviously an inactive man who did not need expensive running shoes such as myself and my soon to be partner shoe. So, I was not worried. Then, a very odd thing happened. The store clerk told this man, who was definitely not a runner (or anyone who would have any use for a shoe like me for that matter), that I was a high-quality shoe. This was true. However, why he was telling the man this? I was now slightly worried. Then the two men came over to look at me. Sure enough, I was being brought to the counter to paired with my partner shoe. He was buying me! My plans for life were over. I was going to live a life of laziness. Some of the shoes in my section behind me laughed, some shouted out “I’m sorry” and “Good luck!” We reached the counter without me noticing in my inner monologue of horror. This was the first time I had seen what I looked like. We were navy blue shoes everywhere but the tongue and laces which were bright red.
Partner shoes’ most accurate human equivalent is brother and sister. The right shoe is the brother, while the left shoe is the sister. I am the right shoe. For your sake, I will call my partner shoe my sister.
We had a short conversation while the man and the clerk talked. I spoke first, “Well, we may as well get acquainted. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.” Her first words to me were, “I hope this man does not buy us. We will never get any running done.” “You’ve taken the words right out of my mouth.” I then said, “I can’t believe this fat hobo is buying us.”
We were bought for one hundred-fifty dollars. The man took us and set us in the back of his old rickety car. We were young shoes. I ignorantly started to yell at the man. This was useless. The man could not hear shoes talking. This did not stop me from saying “YOU FAT SLOB. YOU BOUGHT SHOES YOU DIDN’T EVEN NEED TO MISUSE AND TORMENT THEM.” I did not yet know that shoes were considered objects. People don’t think for a second that we have feelings. However, people do own us.
We stayed there for some time, so I may as well talk about the man’s apartment. We entered the man’s home. It was in an apartment complex. I feel it relevant to tell you that his apartment was owned by another man. This man charged him rent money, so he could stay there. The reason I feel this an important detail is because of something peculiar that would happen later. It was incredibly messy. There were pizza boxes and turned over bags of chips everywhere. The man sat down and turned on the TV. He said we were comfy. We did not care for being comfy. We wanted to run, if I may speak for my sister. My sister did say something that made me think that, apart from me having common sense, in my defense, “Is he so ignorant that he thinks we are house shoes?”
I hated this man for some time. We just simply sat around doing nothing. I had been right in my assumption that this man did not need us and was not a runner. He only got out of the house once a week to take out the trash, which might have explained why he bought shoes he did not need for one hundred-fifty dollars. One day my sister said, “It’s beginning to be quite comfy. I like to watch TV and to relax.” I was about to shoot back to say she was lazy. However, I could not disagree.
My sister and I began to enjoy each other’s company. I got to know how much she hated the smell of feet. I was fine with feet if they had socks. Bare feet hurt shoes. At least hairy feet, they scratch. To discourage this, I used some of the little movement shoes have, to blister the man’s feet. After this, the man always wore sock. The blistering of his feet helped me to let go of the anger I still had at him for not running, or from buying us, it does not matter.
Since the man was always alone, we never got to know his name. That was, until, we saw his driver’s license. His name was Mathew Garfield. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but Mathew was a complete dead-beat by human standards. He hung about his home eating pizza and other greasy foods while not having the self-respect to clean his stained shirts and take a shower.
One day, Mathew got a phone call. “Yes, umm, okay.” He said. The last word had a little bit of something in it. Maybe anger? Suddenly he was spouting out some foul language and chucked us at the wall and kicked us. His foot brushed past me kicking the wall with his bare feet on a second kick attempt. More foul language came out much louder before a cry of outrageous pain. He then threw us again against another wall. My poor sister began to cry. The way shoes cry is odd, we obviously have no tears. However, we make the same noises as people when we cry. I was close to crying. I comforted her the only way I knew how, “I’m sorry.”
A few hours later, Mathew came back. He was noticeably angry. He walked half slouched with a frown that couldn’t have curved down any further. He stomped his feet so thunderously that you would have thought his feet would go through the floor. “STUPID LANDLORD!” My sister was done crying. Then, Matthew did the peculiar thing I mentioned earlier. As I said, he paid rent money to someone. Someone else owned the walls of his apartment. What left me confused is that he took a random hammer off the floor and began smashing holes in the walls. The walls made a sort of crunching sound. CRUNCH Ccchhsshh CRUNCH. Matthew picked us up and threw us. We landed in a trash can. I went unconscious.
When I woke up, we were being carried in a trash bag. My sister said, “It smells horrid in here. At least we are together. What’s the point of throwing us shoes around?” “I don’t know, but I’m worried about going to a landfill. I’ve heard things get buried and burned and lost from memory. I want to live.” Then, we were thrown.
I guess what had happened is that our trash bag burst on the garbage bin. We saw Mathew leaving as his fat belly jiggled. I couldn’t tell if he was still angry. My sister sobbed, “Now what.” I tried to calm her to no avail. I finally said, “Someone will find us.” She shot back, “MAYBE, I don’t want anyone to find us! Stupid people just throw us and kick us even though they had no reason to buy us!” I now realized all the anger had been balled up inside her. She was obliged to let it out on me for the next few hours with loud complaints.
We now sat motionless by a garbage bin. We were in a dark alley. My sister and I sat right beside each other parallel to the front of the garbage bin. She had so mercilessly decided to be quiet. A small furry creature crawled from under the garbage. It was grey with a pink nose and feet. It started to nibble at my strings. It felt so good to me. Then a thought came to me, “No one will grab us if we have chewed strings.” I flinched with a good jerk and the furry thing fell off onto my sister. The big toe part of my front was leaning on my sister. The rat was nibbling on my sister. She made sounds of relaxation. “STOP! No one will get us!” “Good.” She simply said. I screamed as I pulled myself up onto my sister. The pain wrenched as I pulled slowly up further and further. I ached as I finally pulled myself up. I then fell as I rolled a few times completely out of my control. I rolled the creature off and spooked it. The creature scurried away.
I was tired for many days. This was the most I had moved in my life. Shoes are not designed to move fast by themselves, ironically. I couldn’t find the strength to speak.
We stayed there for some time. I tried to count the days. I eventually lost count at about six months. I estimate that we were there about one year. We talked about shoe things. How tightly pulled shoelaces made us uncomfortable, and what we wanted in a new owner. Well, at least we talked about the first part; she refused to talk about people, obviously depressed. “Why don’t you want anyone to find us?” She didn’t respond. “Hello” I prodded gently. She sighed, “I just don’t.” “Why!” I demanded, getting a little angry. “Don’t you realize we will be here forever if no one finds us? For goodness sake, THINK! Do you want us to die alone in this alley?!” She went silent.
People came and went. They never seemed to see us. I started to doubt whether we looked in good enough condition for anyone to want us. This thought may have pleased my sister. I couldn’t have known, we weren’t talking. I hoped I had gotten through to her. The notion of never being found didn’t please me. That was it I thought, “Nobody is going to find us. We will spend forever alone and never run a single mile. At least until we die, and then we certainly won’t be running.”
One day a man was walking past us. He stopped, “Shoes?” he asked inquisitively. He walked over and picked us up. “These are nice!” He threw some worn shoes off of his feet and into the dumpster. The shoes said nothing to us. They were about to the point where shoes die. He put us on and tied us. He walked a few steps, apparently liking the feel of us. I was so sore it was painful at first. We got in his car. It looked relatively new, it was not rickety like Mathew’s. He then drove us out of town and to his house. The house was in a humongous section of woods. My sister and I hadn’t talked until this point for months, “This person looks like a runner” “Ahuh.” She said, barely paying attention.
I, in stark contrast to my sister, could barely contain my excitement. Someone was going to run with us in all likelihood. He had the build of a runner. He had strong muscled legs. He looked a tad big for a sprinter, maybe a marathon runner. I would enjoy either, I would prefer a sprinter, that’s what puts the most work on the shoes. My sister sighed, then said, “I hope he’s a sprinter” “Oh, so you’re okay with people.” She responded quickly.” No! I just…” She said the last part in a whisper. “You just what? Admit it, you want to run, you want someone to ick us up and run, you need someone to pick us up.” She went silent again.
The house was near the end of houses down long drive-ways with everyone having plenty of room. We started running sprints as soon as we got there. My sister shouted with joy. She apparently was okay with this person. We both had realized we enjoyed running more than we ever could have imagined.
Our owner was a nice man. His name was Jordan Blitz. He frequently held charity events. All his neighbors knew him and were friends with him. I remember one time his neighbor Mr. Parks, his longtime friend, had become bankrupt. Jordan offered on a whim fifty-thousand dollars. Jordan would not take no for answer when Mr. Parks didn’t want to take it. He also had a quick temper. An obviously drunk man once came up to him and viscously shoved him for no reason. Jordan had been eating at an outdoor restaurant. His Rib eye steak landed on his face as Jordan fell flat on his back. Jordan was not someone you wanted to get angry. The man was dressed in blue-jeans and a red Polo shirt. He had a long Jet-black beard. Jordan proceeded to grab the man by his beard, knee him in the gut, and push him stumbling back and slamming through a table. The clear glass of the table crumbled into powder with the man on top of it. The incident miraculously had not breached the weak and thin wall of the news media.
Jordan was a famous runner who had gotten silver medals in the last three Olympics. We were training for the upcoming Olympics in ten months. Once, we were watching TV and he said to himself, “I’m so tired of coming in second.” ending with a sigh. I’m going to win this thing.” My sister and I pushed each other to go faster. We started running on all terrains. Jordan thought this would make running on flat track easier. We ran on hills, beaches, mountains, and through the woods.
We were set to start the Olympics. We were all excited. We even appeared on the news. People all around the country were predicting Jordan to finally take home the gold in the 100m sprint. He was excited as well. Once, we were in a press conference so the media could interview Jordan, and our normally humble master said something uncharacteristic of himself, “I guarantee that I will win Gold. Conference over.” We then walked out as the loud, blinding, and flashing lights of the photographers followed us.
The stress started to eat up Jordan. His shaking hands were like a feather that would not land. My sister and I watched him as he ate. He was losing his appetite. We were still running sprints so frequently we were getting sore.
I had never dreamed I would be the shoe of an Olympic runner. I just thought I would get to run for fun, not compete. My hopes of even that were dampened when I was bought by Mathew..
Two days before the qualification, we drove to a large building called an “airport”. It had excessive lines of security and bag checks. We (after quite a bit of waiting) boarded an “airplane”. It had wheels like a car. However, it was incomparably larger than any car I have ever seen. We boarded the airplane and sat down in a chair. Jordan stretched out putting us under the chair in front of us.
We soon got off the airplane. Jordan eventually got his bags. We then left for a hotel. We entered the hotel. Jordan talked to a lady behind the check-in counter and received his room key. Jordan lay down on the bed and turned on the TV. He stayed up until midnight tossing and turning until finally getting to sleep.
It was time for the Olympics. We blew through to the semi-finals. Nobody seemed to have the speed Jordan had.. When we qualified for the semi-finals, Jordan took an American flag and waved it around. The crowd roared.
The semi-finals had eight men. Last names were as follows: Smith, Blitz, Hill, Izumi, Wagner, Archibald, Skitz, and Grubber. Jack Wagner represented England and was Bronze in the last Olympic 100m sprint coming a fourth of a second behind Jordan’s time of 9.99. The runners got to the starting line. A heavy drop of sweat dropped from Jordan’s head onto me. “I’m happy to be your partner.” my sister said. I was about to respond when the runners got set.
We were off. Ichiro Izumi and Jack Wagner were off in front of us by about six feet. About half-way through the race, we did not give up as we struggled to keep up. We gave our best efforts and started to come-back. Slowly the six feet turned into five, the five into two, and we were going step for step with Jack Wagner. We beat Jack by a step. 9.55 was our time. We had set an Olympic Record. More importantly, we were going to the finals. Jack and Jordan hugged. Jack’s shoes gave us congratulations. I could not speak, so my sister thanked them.
We were driving back to the hotel that night when we stopped. When we got out of the car my sister and I noticed we were in the breakdown lane. We were also on a bridge. Outside the bridge there was an overhang going about a yard out. A man was sitting there. Jordan struck up conversation with man. After around 2 minutes of this the stranger said in a loud voice, “I’m done! I’m done man! I’m jumping.” “No! Don’t do it!” The man bent his knees.
Surprisingly, Jordan was able to grab the man by his arm and pull him over the railing. Even more shocking, the man was not mad. Tears were just flowing down his face. It hadn’t taken long for us to figure out what was going on. My sister had figured it out. “He’s suicidal” she gasped out in a shrill voice. Soon the police arrived, Jordan spoke to one of them as he wrote on a notepad, and we were on our way.
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That night we were on the news again. Someone had recorded the heroic rescue on camera. Soon, Jordan turned off the TV, apparently not caring about anyone singing his praises. He tossed and turned for a few hours before going to sleep.
About a week later, it was time for the finals. There were eight men in the race. However, the only two that people talked about were Jordan and Wang Chun. Chun had won gold in the last Olympics over Jordan with a time of 9.90. They were the big guys, everyone had eyes on them. America versus China, not a war though, at least not in the traditional sense.
There we were. The biggest moment of my sister’s and my lives was here. We could hear the crowd roar. Time started to slow down. I could feel the minor movement of Jordan’s sock. I could also feel the world moving round. A second was like an hour. If a shoe could sweat, I would have. If a shoe had hands, mine would have been shaking. Well, at least I notice people sweat and shake when their nervous. They also do it when they are sad, as well as with other emotions. Regardless, I had never been more nervous.
The runners were set. My sister and I were too excited to speak. The race began.
I put in all my effort. I pushed as hard as I could. Chun and Jordan were neck and neck. Out of the corner of my vision I saw Jordan wink at Chun. Then he seemed to run at another level. We were ahead of Chun by 10 feet all the way to 5 meters away from the finish. But that’s when our world began to change.
I had tilted a little to my right. I thought nothing of it until a minute later. This minor mistake caused Jordan’s leg to twist as he fell through the finish. There was shouting, cheering, Jordan’s screams, soon silence, and Jordan being loaded into a mostly white vehicle with a plus sign on the side.
Jordan had been loaded on what I knew to be a stretcher. Jordan screaming soon subsided. He certainly wasn’t okay, but the pain was not that bad when he didn’t put weight on it. We reached a hospital and went into urgent care.
The next thing I knew my sister and I were in a chair. We were in a room with white, boring tile walls. Jordan was on a bed with his injured leg elevated on pillows and surrounded by clear bags full of something that looked like water, but solid. This was something I had seen Mathew and Jordan put in their drinks. What was it called? What was it called… Ice. That was it. “What’s wrong?” my sister asked. I didn’t utter a word in response. I watched in amazement as a man in a white jacket swiftly yet gently moved around examining Jordan’s leg. His movement was like a hot knife going through butter. He had a strong smell of something I had smelt in public bathrooms that I had seen a member of the staff go into with bottles filled with colored liquid. (Shoes smell threw our laces as well as hear from them. Buckled shoes without laces smell and hear through their straps. Flip Flops and similar shoes, sadly, cannot smell or hear. I don’t know how we see. I can see behind, in the front, left, and right. I guess you humans would say I have eyes in the back of my head.)
Jordan’s mother was there standing beside the bed. She was about five and a half feet as opposed to Jordan’s six feet tall muscled frame. The man began to explain what he was doing, “I’m checking for swelling. I’m also checking for the range of moveme….” “AHHHHOhhhhOH” Jordan Screamed, “I’m also checking for the range of movement. Now, tell me when it hurts Jordan.” “Ow! Ah! EeeeH!” “Now….” The man sighed. “Before I make my diagnosis, I need you both to calm yourselves. I’m sorry to say this, but I believe it is an ACL tear.” Jordan’s mother was certainly not calm. She fainted. “Get Her! No listen, Get her!” Jordan commanded. The man in the white, and a few women dressed from head to toe in blue picked Jordan’s mother up. “Are you okay ma’am?” the doctor asked. “Yes, I think so.”
The man then told Jordan and his mother that there would have to be a surgery. “He might not ever be the same runner again. The surgery will be in three days. After that there will be physical therapy.”
A few minutes later, Camera’s entered the room as Jordan was presented with his shiny gold medal. He then, to my surprise, proceeded to bite the medal! After a short interview, they left. As soon as the cameras turned off, Jordan’s smile went away as if someone had flipped a switch turning off his happiness and pride. It was almost as if it had never been there in there in the first place.
Jordan’s mother took us to Jordan’s house and set us by the brown, leather couch. “Back to the hospital”, she said in a sad, shaky, and defeated voice as a single fat tear almost slide out of her eye then quickly slipped back in as if it was afraid of being seen. She then left us.
We stayed in the dark house for a long time. My sister did at least keep me company. It was dark. There was no TV to keep us entertained. This is one of the worst things a shoe can experience, being left in the dark with nothing to do and nothing interesting around. When Jordan had been here, I was fine. It was as if shoes formed companionships despite not having direct interaction with their owners except for being worn by them and being around them. Food for thought, I guess.
Eventually, Jordan’s mother was back. She took us to a gym. This was where Jordan met with his physical therapist that would help him recover full use of his leg. Today, he was simply meeting with the physical trainer to talk about his schedule moving forward.
I learned that Jordan was not better. I was due for a long, boring rehabilitation process. I saw that he was on crutches. He would not be able to put his weight his right leg, the one I caused him to tear, for a while.
Nothing really happened during those eight months rehabilitation. After a few weeks, Jordan was able to put weight on his injured leg again. We just did exercises with the physical trainer. Months into rehabilitation, Jordan started with some strength training.
After the final day of rehabilitation, Jordan Blitz went home with a huge smile on his face. It was as if he knew everything was going to be fine. Soon though, he got home. His mother’s car was there.
Jordan unlocked the door and opened it for her as she went in. “Jordan, I think you should think about your future.” “Yes ma’am.” “Your Olympic career is not going to last forever. You may not even be in the next Olympics.” I think you should try to apply for some sort of a job at ESPN. You have that degree in journalism” This seemed to put Jordan in a bad mood. The switch that had been flipped at the hospital had been flipped again. His brow furrowed and he mumbled, “Okay”. There was a pause until his mother sighed, “I love you” “Love you too”, Jordan said, barely able to be heard. She then left.
Jordan drove his car for a final exam on his leg to tell him whether his career in sprinting would be over. I had learned that the men in white who smelled like bathrooms were called “Doctors”. It had been a year since the surgery. Jordan would already be behind on his training. That was, if he would be training.
When we got to the Doctor’s building, Jordan walked inside, had a short conversation with a lady behind a counter and sat down. We sat down on a chair that was like Jordan’s brown leather couch only smaller with wooden arms. He picked up a magazine called “Sports Illustrated” from three years ago. Eventually, I heard someone call out “Blitz”, in a loud manner. Jordan stood up and walked through the door.
We entered a room like the one with the bed where Jordan was last year. “What’s up Doc”, Jordan joked as if he was friends with the man. Perhaps he was. The doctor was about Jordan’s age. The doctor chortled, “Here for the X-rays?” “Yes” “Good, good. How’ve you been?” “I’ve been just fine.” “But answer me straight, can I run again” “You can certainly run” Jordan began to smile,” The question is whether you can still run a 9.55 in the Olympics. As for that, the news doesn’t look so good. Your right knee will always be slightly weaker than your left. You are not going to be a competitive sprinter. You can play football, soccer, marathons, or any sport other than sprinting.” Jordan’s smile turned into a frown. The switch had been flipped to another level. “Okay! Why would you say that! You said I could run. Then you say I can’t sprint! You did that on Purpose! We’ve been friends since high school man.” Jordan’s teeth grinded after saying this. “I’m sorr…” “Sorry! This is more than sorry! This is my life!” “I shouldn’t have done that.” The doctor said. Jordan slowly calmed down breathing deeply. “At least tell me why. I’ll wonder the rest of my life if you don’t tell me.” The Doctor showed Jordan some sheets of paper pointing out things and using complicated terms. These papers, I assume, were the “X-rays”. All I knew was that he was explaining to Jordan very calmly that his life was over thanks to dumb luck. Rather, thanks to me.
That night Jordan slipped himself into the gripping and silent darkness of his room and slammed into bed. He bounced of the bed and fell with a THUMP onto the floor. He took us off and threw us directly onto the floor. Luckily, we landed on a soft, thick blanket on the floor. He closed his fist and sent it tearing through the bedroom wall. He slammed down on the bed and sobbed himself to sleep while shaking slightly.
It was morning, I could hear the birds chirp and the neighbor’s roosters’ crow. My sister and I were on the floor. I could hear Jordan on the phone. He seemed to be in a better mood than the night before. Though, it was hard to tell with him being in another room. Next thing I know we were in the car and driving down the gravel drive-way. Eventually we were driving through a city full of traffic. We arrived at an airport. We went through what seemed like miles of security and metal detectors before finally entering first class. Jordan sat down, He buckled his seat belt. He slowly nodded off to sleep with a long continuous soft snore that didn’t seem to stop. “What do you want to talk abo…” my sister was already asleep. I fell asleep as well.
I awakened. Jordan and my sister were awake. “Did you sleep?” my sister asked. “Whole flight.” We then went through the strenuous process of getting our bags and such before we left for a hotel. We checked in and Jordan took the room key-card from the man behind the check-in counter. He set us on the dark green carpet floor. He stripped into all but his boxer-shorts. Jordan gently lay down in bed and went to sleep in a much better manner than the night before. There was no sobbing or shaking.
We stood in the back of a studio ready to go into the set of Fox News. I could see four people sitting on a couch with a window behind them. Two of them were men and the other two were women. One of them announced to the audience that they had a very special guest. That’s when Jordan came jogging out to the people. The crowd cheered for Olympian they hadn’t heard from in a year.
Jordan sat down smiling as he shook hands with them each looking them in the eye one at a time. He sat down on the beige couch. “Well what a surprise, it’s Jordan Blitz. What brings you hear?” one of them asked. “Well.” Jordan cleared his throat. “Here it comes”, I said. “I know.” said my sister. “I’m here to announce my retirement.” Jordan said almost too nonchalantly. “There it went”, said my sister in a monotone voice. The crowd gasped collectively. Our meaning, our life… was over. “As you all know, I tore my ACL last year after finally winning a gold medal. My knee is just not going to hold up at those speeds.” I barley listened to the rest of the interview, remember Jordan talking about his job at ESPN. The rest of that entire day was foggy. I’m quite disappointed that I can’t remember much from that day. I guess I was just too down in my despair. It was more than sadness; it was a loss of meaning. You could say it was an identity crisis.
Jordan, apparently having made at least outside peace with his retirement, walked down the street from the hotel to a store whistling. Out of the corner of my vision I saw an elderly short woman having a fancy bag being pulled away from her by a man in all black with a mask. The man tugged until he grabbed her bag away from her and ran. Jordan laughed and said in a false surprised voice, “Must not know who I am.”
He went from walking to full-fledge sprinting in a half-second. Jordan seemed to be going faster than he ever had in the Olympics. The man grabbed a telephone pole and swung it to keep away from Jordan’s blazing speed. Jordan took a wider angle and had to regain his traction as the man zoomed away. It was then a lot of straightaway. This was just wat Jordan wanted, needed. He ran faster than ever, and just when I was wondering about the leg he had injured, the leg caught. He had caught up with the man. He grabbed and tackled the man. They rolled across the green lawn in front of a post office. Jordan threw a punch so hard that he fell over onto the man when he missed. I noticed what I knew to be a gun the man had pulled out in his hand. I had seen Jordan carry one everywhere. Jordan also had a longer gun that he took into the woods around October through December. I had never seen him use it so I didn’t know what it did or was for. The man used all four limbs to push Jordan off him and into the air. Jordan rather awkwardly fell into a sitting position. The small, black pistol was slapped across Jordan’s face as crimson blood flew into the air and Jordan. Little did I know, this was the last sight I would ever have of Jordan Blitz. Grey, road-colored shorts, navy blue shirt with three bloodied stains. The man scrambled to his feet pulled a trigger on the gun, and a loud noise came out of it. The man left the bag and ran as the elderly woman who had caught up with the fight yelped, “HELP!”
Jordan was admitted to a hospital. However, I had seen him. It was too late.
I now know what a gun does. I remember Jordan had one in his pocket that day. He had chosen not to shoot the man. He could have at least told the man to drop the bag and get on the ground. This shapes my image of Jordan. I had known he was a nice man but, I never thought he would risk his life because he didn’t want to end another. He had known the man stealing the purse was a rotten person. I don’t think what Jordan did was wise, I don’t think it was right, but I know he did what he thought was best, and that, is what matters.
Jordan was dead. This was an odd thought at the time. I remember being packed in a pitch-black box after being alone at his mother’s house for about a week. I also remember being unpacked and put into a glass case that had a plaque with “Jordan Blitz” written on it. Oddly enough, none of his medals were there. Maybe his family wanted to keep them. I never understood sentimental items that people love so much. An item does not mean anything, look who’s talking, I am a shoe. Anyway, I may as well describe my current surroundings.
There was a sign hanging by chords from the ceilings which floated high above us as if it didn’t even exist. The sea green sign wrote, “OLYMPICS”. Beyond it was a short corridor. Beyond that, a sign read, “MLB”. The room represented by that sign had wooden sticks, huge gloves, and shoes with black spikes on the bottom. Our room, however, had shoes and medals galore. My sister and I have been here for quite a long time. A few items have been added to this place. I’m amazed I have kept my memory to the extent I have.
“Look! Jordan Blitz’s shoes.” a little boy has just said. “Yes. He lost his career by ACL tear after he got his first gold medal. Soon he lost his life”, a man I assume is the boy’s father says. “When did he die.” the boy asks sadly yet curiously. “About one-hundred and twenty years ago.”
“It’s been a while since we had a runner to wear us.”, my sister says. “Yes, yes it has.”
