That morning he’d left home, kissed him mom and told her he’d be fine. He’d walked along the hot concrete of the neighbourhood, hot, sweaty air sticking in his lungs. Muscles primed to hit the ground at the slightest noise, he was already exhausted when his neighbour’s beat-up Ford backfired. Kecia’s face, as they frantically scrolled the newsfeeds late last night, flooded his vision. He should be visualising the win, not the tears. In ten minutes, he would go out on the track, waving and smiling at the home crowd, ready for the performance of his life. Scouts were watching.