It's now 2013, and the world stage had shifted again. Bolt was still on top, but not as untouchable as he would've liked. Yohan Blake had made sure of that, pushing him in a way no one else had managed. Close races, losses, real pressure, the kind that forced improvement.
David followed it, but from a distance now.
He was nine years old, in Year 5, and the gap between watching and doing had started to close.
It was a summer day in July, warm without being unbearable, the kind of weather schools always hoped for when sports day came around. David wasn't in a classroom. He stood on a track, red rubber worn slightly from years of use, at a secondary school he already knew he would attend in a couple of years.
Most of the other kids were restless, laughing, talking, treating the day like a break from routine.
David wasn't.
Over the past five years, he had trained properly. Not perfectly, not with access to everything he would have wanted, but with intent. While other kids went through phases of push ups and gave up days later, he stayed consistent. His weeks had structure. Push up variations, core work, back exercises using whatever he could hang from, squats, lunges, hip work. Nothing flashy, nothing advanced in appearance, but done with purpose.
His mother had refused to let him near weights, and he understood why. That didn't stop him. He adapted. Slower reps, faster reps, pauses, imbalance, backpacks filled with books or rice bags to add resistance. It wasn't ideal, but it was enough.
The result showed.
He wasn't just lean. He looked put together in a way most kids his age didn't. Taller than average, more coordinated, movements cleaner, sharper. People noticed it, even if they couldn't explain it.
Today, it mattered.
Sports day.
Parents lined the grass beside the track, sitting on foldable chairs or standing in small groups. Mary stood among them, arms folded loosely, her eyes already on David. She had seen him train, seen the effort he put in, but this was different. This was something measurable.
The teachers gathered the students near the start line, clipboards in hand, trying to keep some level of order.
"Alright, Year 5 boys, 100 meters. Heats first, top two from each go through."
David stepped into his lane without hesitation. Lane four.
Eight kids. Some nervous. Some excited. A few bouncing on their toes like they'd seen on TV, copying without understanding.
David lowered himself into position.
"On your marks."
The others dropped down in messy variations of a start. Knees angled out, heads lifting, hands placed wherever felt comfortable.
David set himself properly. Head down, shoulders over the line, front knee pointed straight ahead, back leg loaded, weight balanced forward. It wasn't perfect, not like blocks, but it was controlled.
"Set."
His hips rose higher than the others. Core tight. Still.
"Go!"
He pushed out.
Not jumped. Not scrambled.
Pushed.
The first steps came low and controlled, his body angled forward as he drove into the ground. The difference showed immediately. While the others popped upright too early, he stayed in his drive phase longer, building speed instead of rushing into it.
By twenty meters, he was already ahead.
David began to jog at this point looking left and right to gauge if he needed to exert more effort. He didn't. To all the parents recording surprise, he stayed like that for the next 80 meters. Giving them the kind of footage best left forgotten for their children's sake.
The teacher at the finish line blinked, then checked the order again. "Lane four, first. Comfortable."
David stepped off to the side, breathing steady, not exhausted. Just aware.
One of the other boys jogged up beside him. "You're fast," he said, half impressed, half confused.
David nodded slightly. "Yeah."
It wasn't arrogance. Just fact.
The heats finished, and the finalists were called back. Eight lanes again. Familiar faces, though the energy had shifted now.
David has 2 big advantages over everyone else, understanding of sprint phases and the basic prerequisite strength to barely hold them.
The others had seen what happened, Mary had too.
She moved closer to the edge of the grass, her posture more attentive now. Not surprised, but watching differently.
The teacher raised a hand. "Final. Same rules. Straight race."
David walked back to his lane.
This time, there was noise. Parents paying attention. A few calling out names. It wasn't a stadium, but it was something.
"On your marks."
He dropped into position again.
"Set."
Stillness.
"Go!"
He drove out again, sharper this time.
The start wasn't just good for his age. It was clean.
By ten meters, he had separation.
By thirty, it was clear.
He could hear footsteps behind him, but they weren't gaining. If anything, they were fading. His stride opened naturally, not forced, just extending as his speed built.
For a brief moment, instinct kicked in.
He relaxed.
Not fully, not like Bolt, but enough to feel the difference. His shoulders dropped slightly, his stride smoothing out.
He crossed the line first.
Again.
This time, by a distance that didn't need confirming.
The teacher at the finish line raised his hand. "Winner, lane six!"
There was a small burst of clapping from the parents. Nothing huge, but enough to carry.
David slowed to a stop, turning back slightly as the others finished. His breathing was heavier now, but controlled.
Mary was already walking toward him.
"That looked… easy," she said, studying his face more than anything else.
David shrugged slightly. "It was alright."
She raised an eyebrow. "Alright?"
He nodded. "I can do better."
That made her pause.
Not the confidence. The certainty.
One of the teachers approached, clipboard still in hand. "You run outside of school?" he asked.
David looked at him. "In a park and at home"
The teacher glanced at Mary. "You might want to look into an athletics club. He's got a natural stride, if the gap against the rest of the boys doesn't show I'll spell it out, he's got talent"