Raising the bar

Short story I just penned about a young Indian boy competing in the Olympics. Hope you like it.

Raising the bar

 

Atlanta, USA, 1996

Ravi gently moved his hand across his brow, drawing with it a few beads of sweat that had overstayed their visit. The sun was out as it should be, summer in Atlanta was not for the faint of heart. He narrowed his eyes to focus on the obstacle in front of him. The obstacle was a bar. The bar was slightly thicker than an inch. It was delicately placed at a height of 2.4 meters above the ground. The last four years of training came down to running towards the bar and then arching the body over, on this particular day, and on this particular run. He looked left for a fleeting moment, and made eye contact with his coach, Nitesh.  Nitesh smiled back at him, his eyes were cloudy but his confidence shined through, they had trained day and night for this moment, which would make both coach and student immortal….

Rewind….Barcelona, Spain, 1992

The young man walked like he had a sharp object lodged up his backside. His walkman played some heavy metal, connected to his shiny new headphones, they did a good job of blocking the cacophony outside, allowing the listener to focus only on the cacophony inside. He had had too much to drink at the party, the women had been all over him that night, every night. He was tall for his age and of athletic build. Being an athlete probably had a lot to do with it. An hour back he had been having a few shots. Downing tequila, one, two, three, four, no one is counting, except the bartender.

“You are from out of town? Come to see the Olympics, maybe?” the brunette had said. She had one hand on his arm, the other signalling the bartender for more shots

“Yuhhhhhes love. I might win the medal at the high jump tomorrow, be sure to look out for me on TV” said the young man.

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, four, counted the bartender.

Ravi woke up with a splitting headache. Today wasn’t an ordinary day. Ravi Subramaniam, son of Mr and Mrs. Subramaniam, an eighteen year old boy, was about to participate in the Summer Olympics competing in the High Jump. He had to report in at the stadium at 10 for breakfast with his coach. He glanced at the alarm clock, it had been buzzing since 8 am, for an hour now. He picked up the clock and flung it across his hotel room. The clock broke into six or seven distinct pieces, a couple landed on a thick spanish accent. The accent woke up with a shock, got into a pair of jeans, a t shirt and stumbled out the door. Ravi took another hour to get ready and rushed to the stadium to meet Nitesh.

“Good morning Ravi. Glad you decided to join me today, wasn’t excepting you to come. Another night of some social drinking I suppose?” barked Nitesh. His arms were folded and his face stern.

“Sorry Coach. But chill. We got it covered. Have you seen the competition, you know no one can touch me” shot back Ravi as he grabbed a few fruits and a bowl of cereal. He hungrily shoved it down his throat, to keep the whiskey calm and down.

A few hours later, the crowds had filled the stadium. His competitor from Russia had cleared 2.3 m, it was now his turn. He turned towards the crowds and moved his hands together, cheering them on and chants of his name filled the stadium. They loved him, the Champ is what they called him when he had been on the cover of Sports Illustrated that year.

“Champ. Champ, Champ” yelled the crowds with rising fervour.

He turned back towards the bar. He narrowed his eyes as he focussed on the bar that had been set at 2.4m, clearing the bar would guarantee him the gold. He looked towards his coach, and then turned away hurriedly. He took a few steps towards the bar as he started his run. Those would be the last steps he took that day, as the dehydrated, inebriated drunkard called the Champ fell flat on his face. The pool of regurgitated whiskey and tequila on the synthetic Olympic mat would take a few hours of scrubbing to remove.

Chennai, India, 1993

“In my opinion, without this treatment, you have a few more years to live, maybe four. The treatment is expensive and your insurance doesn’t cover it. I wish there was something I could do, but my hands are tied” said the man in the white coat. The man in the white coat was a doctor. Nitesh had given him the number that morning, Ravi wanted to get a health check-up done and he had only one name in his phone address book. 

The champ gripped his chair tightly. The last year had been a blur, his vomit covered face had replaced the GQ covers, his country had not forgotten him but the reason they remembered wasn’t one of pride. The champ was scared. He needed the treatment, for that he needed money, for that he needed a job, family or friends. He had nothing. He had Nitesh.

For a second he hoped the doctor would break into a big smile, the white screen behind him would separate to reveal a TV crew, and he would end up on primetime tonight, the third page of the daily tomorrow. But there was no screen, the doctor did not smile and there would be no news.

Knock Knock on hard wood.

“Ravi, what a surprise. Its been what, three months since I saw you?” said Nitesh “You don’t look too bad, looks like the doc gave you a clean chit eh”

“You don’t look too bad yourself Coach” mumbled Ravi “Can I come in”

“Sure Sure. You are…were…one of my favourite students. I always have time for you” said Nitesh

They settled into the tiny living room of the tiny Chennai apartment. You couldn’t really see the walls, since they were peppered with medals, black and white photos of the coach in his younger days and Tanjavore paintings of Indian gods.

“I am going to win the gold in the Olympics in Atlanta” said Ravi. His eyes were steadfast and unblinking. His breathing was calm and measured. There are moments when you know that the whole universe is watching you and that you are simultaneously watching the whole universe. It runs like electricity through your veins, yet it doesn’t titillate or excite you.

“What?” exclaimed Nitesh “Do you even remember what happened in Barcelona. You have gone crazy”

“I was crazy Coach. When I partied and drank the night before the Olympics. When I skipped training to go for drinks. I was crazy back then Coach, not any more. I am going to win the gold in the Atlanta Olympics. I cannot do it alone. I need you now more than ever. Please. Please” said Ravi.

Present Day, Atlanta, USA, 1996

Nitesh smiled back at Ravi. His training had been intense since that morning when Ravi had come to meet him at his house in Chennai. Nitesh would push Ravi till his legs cried out in pain and when they were about to break, he would make him sprint for another half an hour. The media had been supportive, reporting Ravi’s transformation as an inspirational story, of how a phoenix had risen from the whiskey infused ashes that Ravi had strewn on the Olympic field in Barcelona.

Time and Science gave way out of respect for that moment. As Ravi sailed over, the universe froze. The Coach and Ravi could almost feel each other stand side by side on some cosmic plane looking at this young strong man arch over the high jump rod. Cameras flashed, people screamed, the country jumped up with joy as the young Indian boy won the Olympic Gold.

He would leave him a note explaining everything, Nitesh thought to himself. Sacrifice. Ramu, the man in the white coat, an actor friend had recited Nitesh’s script word for word to the Champ. The treatment had been effective. He waved to his student, one last time, Ravi waved back as he  pumped his fist into the warm Atlanta sun. Immortal.

 

Reviews

[Warrior]

Great story telling. This did justice in the realm of getting the message across. Great message. There's lot of times where a story can have a great message to aim for, and have a lot of under lining things but then no one gets it, and if no one gets it, then the point has failed. But in my opinion this did well to get the message across. You made it clear, which is why I think it's good. Keep up the good work. What was also great was that I could imagine the story as I read it, and that is also a strong point of stories. The ability to have the reader imagine it because after all we're reading not watching it, but it was as if I was there as I read this, and that is great. Great visuals and great story telling. It had plot and substance. When you add substance to writing it gets that much better. It gets the reader hooked on it and make them feel as if they are part of it. As long as their is that emotional connection between the reader and the story then it's good. The connection you were able to established in the writing gives the reader a sense of comfortably that they are in tune with the writing. So that way when the writing is over, the reader wants more, and wishes it didn't end. I feel the same way when I watched a movie or tv series that I get so attached to, I never want it to end. And for this writing, I didn't want it to end. You had me hooked, and I am sure everyone else who read it was hooked as well. That is good, that is what you want for people to keep wanting more. The way you put the story together makes me feel like my life is different for that moment in which I read your story. I love it, and it was beautiful. Just keep posting stories like this, and you'll have a good following.

[New Theory]

The story is well written and all. It's fiction I get it,
but some of the facts like 1992 - ipod - bose headphones don't fit.

Just my views.