Page 60 - The Book Thief

beginning of the hundred. Enthusiastically, he conducted an awkward regimen of

stretches. He dug starting holes into the dirt.

Waiting for his moment, he paced around, gathering concentration under the
darkness sky, with the moon and the clouds watching, tightly.

Owens is looking good, he began to commentate. This could be his greatest
victory ever. . . .

He shook the imaginary hands of the other athletes and wished them luck, even
though he knew. They didnt have a chance.

The starter signaled them forward. A crowd materialized around every square
inch of Hubert Ovals circumference. They were all calling out one thing. They
were chanting Rudy Steiners nameand his name was Jesse Owens.

All fell silent.

His bare feet gripped the soil. He could feel it holding on between his toes.

At the request of the starter, he raised to crouching positionand the gun clipped a
hole in the night.

For the first third of the race, it was pretty even, but it was only a matter of time
before the charcoaled Owens drew clear and streaked away.

Owens in front, the boys shrill voice cried as he ran down the empty track,
straight toward the uproarious applause of Olympic glory. He could even feel the
tape break in two across his chest as he burst through it in first place. The fastest
man alive.

It was only on his victory lap that things turned sour. Among the crowd, his
father was standing at the finish line like the bogeyman. Or at least, the
bogeyman in a suit. (As previously mentioned, Rudys father was a tailor. He was
rarely seen on the street without a suit and tie. On this occasion, it was only the
suit and a disheveled shirt.)

Was ist los? he said to his son when he showed up in all his charcoal glory. What
the hell is going on here? The crowd vanished. A breeze sprang up. I was asleep