Chapter 4 — The Finish Line of Years Gone By

Three days before the regional tournament, Mr. Khuong called Son and Huan to stay after practice, holding a piece of paper with a list of registered athletes from other schools in the area.

"Trà Khê school this year has a new kid who transferred back from the province, with a record of 1500 meters of four minutes and seventeen." He pointed to a name on the list, his voice serious. "It's faster than our school record by a small margin. Don't be subjective."

Son looked at that name, feeling both nervous and somewhat indescribably excited - the feeling of someone who is used to running alone, for the first time having a real opponent to aim at, not just aiming at a stopwatch.

"I will try," he replied.

"It's not about trying, it's about having a strategy." Teacher Khuong tapped his fingers on the paper. "A strong opponent in the first eight hundred meters tends to accelerate early to create a psychological distance. Don't chase it right away, keep your pace, save your energy for the last four hundred meters. Remember?"

"Yes, I remember."

During those three days, the whole team practiced with much more intensity, interspersed with active rest sessions so that the body would not be overloaded before the test day. Khue took careful notes of each session, and began a new habit: every time Son finished a speed run, she would stand at the self-determined finish line — usually just a streak of chalk on the ground — raise her hands high like a referee, shout her achievement, and then clap even though no one else was clapping.

"Why do you clap your hands every time?" Son asked, a bit shy, after a particularly tiring run.

"Because breaking a personal record, even if it's just in practice, is worth celebrating," Khue replied, calmly. "Shouldn't we wait until the official competition to celebrate? So those dozens of sweaty training sessions are considered meaningless?"

Son couldn't argue, he just smiled, feeling strangely warm inside. He wasn't used to anyone paying attention to such small milestones - for his family, only the big milestones were worth mentioning, and most of the time the days passed quietly while worrying about food and clothing.

The night before the exam, Khue called Son - the first time the two talked on the phone, using an old brick phone that Son's mother borrowed, because Son did not have his own phone.

"Are you sleeping yet?" Her voice was a bit small, as if she was secretly calling in a private room.

"No, I'm reviewing the strategy that teacher Khuong advised," Son replied, sitting at the rickety desk, the yellow filament light shining on the page filled with words.

"I have something to say." Khue hesitated. "Tomorrow's competition field doesn't have a standard goal tape. The organizers only use regular ropes, teacher Khuong told me. I think that's a bit bad for an official tournament."

"Yeah, all the small regional tournaments are like that, there's not enough money to buy standard tapes," Son replied, his voice calm because he was used to it. "It's nothing, just touch the rope or cloth and you're done."

"No, I think it should be a little different," Khue said, her voice suddenly determined. "I'll sew a ribbon myself, red, so tomorrow when you cross the finish line, at least you'll have something decent, not a faded rope."

Son was silent for a moment, not knowing how to respond to that strange thoughtfulness. "You don't need to do that, it's a waste of time."

"I want to do it," Khue replied firmly, not giving him a chance to refuse again. "Consider it a good luck gift. Just run well, I'll take care of the rest."

***

The next morning, the district stadium was packed with people, flags were spread everywhere, and loudspeakers played bustling background music. This is a rare standard playing field in the area with a piste track. Although it is old and has a few cracks, for the Vọng Hải team, it is still a more solemn place than their familiar clay court.

Son stood in the warm-up area, clearly feeling the tension building up in his calves. He looked around and saw his opponent from Trà Khê school - a boy half a head taller than him, warming up with the confidence of someone used to much larger arenas.

"Calm." Teacher Khuong placed his hand on his shoulder, his voice low. "You've been practicing for this day for months. Run exactly as you practiced, don't think about anything else." He nodded and walked to the starting line with seven other athletes. From the stands, he caught a glimpse of Khue standing with Huan and Ky, holding a rolled up strip of red cloth, waving at him. She didn't scream like other fans, just held up the ribbon, like a silent reminder: just run, I'll be there waiting.

The sound of gunshots rang out.

Just as Mr. Khuong predicted, the opponent from Trà Khê school accelerated right from the first meters, widening the gap with the whole group. Son held himself back, keeping the two-three breathing rhythm he had practiced for many months, letting him take the lead, accepting to fall back to fourth place in the first round even though his competitive instincts screamed at him to chase immediately.

The second round, the distance remained the same. He heard his own breathing mixed with the sound of heavy footsteps on the piste, the vague screams from the stands became as distant as underwater sounds. He focused on a single point: the shoulder blades of the runner in front of him, keeping the distance not too far so as not to lose momentum, but not too close as to waste premature energy.

At the last four hundred meters, as calculated, the leading opponent began to show signs of being out of breath - his steps were no longer as decisive as the first rounds, his shoulders began to shrink. This is the moment that Mr. Khuong has repeatedly warned: when the opponent slows down, that's the time to rise up.

Son put everything he had left into the last two hundred meters. His lungs felt like they were about to explode, his legs felt as heavy as lead, but he still rushed forward, passing third place, then second, and at the last turn, he was on par with his opponent from Trà Khê school.

The screams from the stands became more intense, and in that chaotic noise, he heard - or imagined - Khue's voice shouting louder than anyone else: "Son, come on, we're almost there!"

He wasn't sure if that was really her voice or not, but it was enough for him to muster the last bit of strength he didn't expect he could still keep. In the last ten meters, he passed, his chest touching the finish line half his body before his opponent.

Four minutes and fifteen seconds.

The school record was broken, and even faster than the performance of the strongest opponent in the region.

Son knelt down on the sidewalk, his hands on his knees, his lungs still screaming for oxygen, but there was only one feeling in his head: relief that made him tremble. Teacher Khuong ran over, patted him hard on the back, and laughed loudly - a smile that the team rarely saw from the always serious teacher.

Khue then ran down from the stands, weaving through the crowd, still holding the red ribbon that had not yet been used because the organizers had separate ropes for the official finish area. She stood in front of him, panting from running, her eyes shining.

"I did it!" she cried, her voice choked with emotion. Without thinking, she wrapped the red ribbon around his neck like a homemade medal, then stepped back to admire him. "If you don't have a real medal, just use this one."

Son stood there, still sweating, a red ribbon hanging around his neck, looking at Khue smiling brightly in front of him, and in that moment, he suddenly realized that something in his chest had silently changed, something bigger than the joy of breaking the record, bigger than the relief after the race - something he hadn't dared to name yet, but he knew for sure, he didn't want this red ribbon to leave his neck too soon.

Huan ran over, hugged his shoulders, and shouted without any further meaning. "You're crazy, Son, I'm standing in the stands and my heart is about to fall out! Four minutes and fifteen, that's better than that guy!" Ky stood next to him; even though she was not used to shouting like Huan, she still clapped her hands incessantly. Her eyes looked at Khue with a bit of curiosity mixed with excitement, as if she were witnessing something bigger than a normal sports competition.

Mr. Khuong approached, holding the results sheet that had just been posted on the notice board by the organizers. His voice still maintained the familiar sternness even though his eyes could not hide his satisfaction. "There's another cross-country relay qualifying round this afternoon. Go rest, don't let your emotions distract you." He patted his shoulder once, then turned to instruct the whole team to prepare for the next content, but before turning away, he turned back and said one more sentence, in a lower voice, barely loud enough for Son to hear: "Four minutes and fifteen at this age, you have much more quality than I thought. Don't let it go to waste."

At noon, the whole team sat together under the shade of a tree in the stadium grounds, sharing a few loaves of bread that the parents had prepared to bring. Son took off the red ribbon from his neck, folded it carefully, and intended to return it to Khue, but she shook her head.

"You keep it," she said, her eyes shining with a rare seriousness. "Consider it yours. Next time I break a record, I'll use it again."

"So what if I don't break any more records?" Son asked, half joking, half serious, still holding the ribbon, his fingers lightly rubbing the seam that was still slightly askew at both ends - evidence of a night of hasty sewing.

"Then I'll find another way to celebrate," Khue replied without hesitation, her voice light as if it was so obvious that there was no need to argue. "It doesn't have to be a record. As long as you try your best, for me that's enough to celebrate."

That afternoon, Vọng Hải school's cross-country relay team, with Huan running the final leg, also won a bronze medal - the best achievement in the school's history of participating in the regional tournament. On the bus ride back, the whole team sang familiar songs, everyone was exhausted but their faces were radiant.

Son sat next to the window, the red ribbon still tucked neatly in his chest pocket, occasionally touching it with his hand to make sure it was still there. Outside, dusk was falling over the rice fields along the road, orange-red light dyed the sky, and he thought, perhaps this was one of the happiest days he'd ever had, even though there was nothing major besides a medal that hadn't yet been awarded and a clumsily sewn red strip of cloth.