The Upset
Tuesday, April 28, 2020
The National Hero was a walking, running contradiction. Loved but unlovable; admired but unadmirable; too fond of the former, too naive to the latter to be aware that his reputation was waning. He was 35: not quite young, not quite old, but old enough to no longer be afforded the long leash of youth.
He had been contracted to run a race on the south coast of England. It was a half marathon and the timing worked well with his schedule. The money was good: a £400k appearance fee (which required him to appear at press conferences and some community outreach events - small fry), plus the opportunity to double that assuming he won. There would also be sponsor bonuses on the line for winning and running any kind of record - personal, national, European or world. All in, he was looking at a seven digit pay day.
There was no doubt he would win. As part of his contract, his business manager had insisted he choose the rest of the elite field, and with an eye on a European record and a sizable bonus for himself at stake, he had assembled a group of elite but anonymous Kenyans and Ugandans to shepherd The National Hero all the way to the finish line. They would give the impression of competition, but they would ultimately demure breaking the tape. The public wanted a race, but they wanted their man to win.
The Africans were each paid £8000, plus expenses, with the opportunity to earn more for those who stayed the course the longest. They were young, fast and motivated. They all agreed to do a good job. They all knew the rules.
The first kilometer went off in 2:52. A swarm of elites and sub-elites ran together, bumping and nudging each other, but steering well clear of The National Hero, who ran as if there was an invisible force field around him. Kilometer two was faster, 2:48. That was all it took to shrink the group to 16. By the time they reached 10km in 28:14, there were only seven runners remaining. Six Africans, one Briton. At 10 miles, which they passed in 45:29, The National Hero surged. He looked around and saw he was followed by only two of his handpicked competition. They went with him and went past, keeping the pace high, as was their job.
With just over a kilometer to go The National Hero began to feign exhaustion. The motorbike cameras zoomed in on the anguish and crusted mucus on his face. He steeled his expression, grimaced and fought back on. They were still three, a Kenyan and a Ugandan leading the way, wearing identical kit from their sponsor, the Briton wearing a National singlet, making him easy to distinguish.
With 500m to go, the Kenyan glanced back and pushed on, hard. Too soon. The Ugandan reeled him in at 300m to go, then accelerated himself. The second they passed, the Kenyan looked like he had run into a wall, his deceleration was so sudden.
The National Hero followed the Ugandan, their exhausted but exquisite strides in perfect harmony. At 80m to go, he made his move. He drifted out of the slipstream and began to sprint. But so did the Ugandan. For five or six seconds they strained, inseparably to the finish line. And then, in the final meters, just as the Ugandan was preparing to allow the Briton his rightful win, the Briton tripped and fell. The crowd gasped. The Ugandan’s momentum was too great and he crossed the finish line in first place with a look of horror, anguish and surprise on his face, captured forever by the photographers beyond the line.
The National Hero picked himself up and scrabbled the few centimetres across the timing mat. He had a record, but not the win. The public didn’t care much for records so much as they cared for winning. There were cheers, but they were muted; the usual euphoria was strangely absent.
The Ugandan sat at the press conference, placid and bemused. No one asked him any questions.
No one quite knew what to make of the ruckus. It was sordid and strange, murky and mad. If this was the dirty laundry The National Hero chose to air in public, what did his dirty laundry look like behind closed doors? The public lapped up the scandal. And yet somehow, far from cheapening The National Hero, it raised his value even further.
The following year his manager demanded a seven figure appearance fee and he got it.
The National Hero pulled out of that race after 12km. Far enough to fulfill his contractual obligation, but not too far to interfere with his training.
The reigning champion, by contrast, did not receive an invite to defend his title. In fact, he hadn’t been invited to any races since the upset.
He had been contracted to run a race on the south coast of England. It was a half marathon and the timing worked well with his schedule. The money was good: a £400k appearance fee (which required him to appear at press conferences and some community outreach events - small fry), plus the opportunity to double that assuming he won. There would also be sponsor bonuses on the line for winning and running any kind of record - personal, national, European or world. All in, he was looking at a seven digit pay day.
There was no doubt he would win. As part of his contract, his business manager had insisted he choose the rest of the elite field, and with an eye on a European record and a sizable bonus for himself at stake, he had assembled a group of elite but anonymous Kenyans and Ugandans to shepherd The National Hero all the way to the finish line. They would give the impression of competition, but they would ultimately demure breaking the tape. The public wanted a race, but they wanted their man to win.
The Africans were each paid £8000, plus expenses, with the opportunity to earn more for those who stayed the course the longest. They were young, fast and motivated. They all agreed to do a good job. They all knew the rules.
The first kilometer went off in 2:52. A swarm of elites and sub-elites ran together, bumping and nudging each other, but steering well clear of The National Hero, who ran as if there was an invisible force field around him. Kilometer two was faster, 2:48. That was all it took to shrink the group to 16. By the time they reached 10km in 28:14, there were only seven runners remaining. Six Africans, one Briton. At 10 miles, which they passed in 45:29, The National Hero surged. He looked around and saw he was followed by only two of his handpicked competition. They went with him and went past, keeping the pace high, as was their job.
With just over a kilometer to go The National Hero began to feign exhaustion. The motorbike cameras zoomed in on the anguish and crusted mucus on his face. He steeled his expression, grimaced and fought back on. They were still three, a Kenyan and a Ugandan leading the way, wearing identical kit from their sponsor, the Briton wearing a National singlet, making him easy to distinguish.
With 500m to go, the Kenyan glanced back and pushed on, hard. Too soon. The Ugandan reeled him in at 300m to go, then accelerated himself. The second they passed, the Kenyan looked like he had run into a wall, his deceleration was so sudden.
The National Hero followed the Ugandan, their exhausted but exquisite strides in perfect harmony. At 80m to go, he made his move. He drifted out of the slipstream and began to sprint. But so did the Ugandan. For five or six seconds they strained, inseparably to the finish line. And then, in the final meters, just as the Ugandan was preparing to allow the Briton his rightful win, the Briton tripped and fell. The crowd gasped. The Ugandan’s momentum was too great and he crossed the finish line in first place with a look of horror, anguish and surprise on his face, captured forever by the photographers beyond the line.
The National Hero picked himself up and scrabbled the few centimetres across the timing mat. He had a record, but not the win. The public didn’t care much for records so much as they cared for winning. There were cheers, but they were muted; the usual euphoria was strangely absent.
The Ugandan reached out to his fallen foe, but The National Hero refused his hand and shot him a look, replayed endlessly on TV, that could only be interpreted as disgust.
The post-race press conference was a horror show.
The National Hero accused the Ugandan of tripping him, despite ample TV evidence that directly contradicted this. He went on to theorise that the Ugandan had done this as he was angry over some imagined sleight that had occurred at a training camp. Missing money, compromising photographs, drunkenness and angry wives trying to blackmail the Hero through their cuckolded athlete husbands: the story made no sense, but it was no less incendiary for it.
The post-race press conference was a horror show.
The National Hero accused the Ugandan of tripping him, despite ample TV evidence that directly contradicted this. He went on to theorise that the Ugandan had done this as he was angry over some imagined sleight that had occurred at a training camp. Missing money, compromising photographs, drunkenness and angry wives trying to blackmail the Hero through their cuckolded athlete husbands: the story made no sense, but it was no less incendiary for it.
The Ugandan sat at the press conference, placid and bemused. No one asked him any questions.
No one quite knew what to make of the ruckus. It was sordid and strange, murky and mad. If this was the dirty laundry The National Hero chose to air in public, what did his dirty laundry look like behind closed doors? The public lapped up the scandal. And yet somehow, far from cheapening The National Hero, it raised his value even further.
The following year his manager demanded a seven figure appearance fee and he got it.
The National Hero pulled out of that race after 12km. Far enough to fulfill his contractual obligation, but not too far to interfere with his training.
The reigning champion, by contrast, did not receive an invite to defend his title. In fact, he hadn’t been invited to any races since the upset.
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