The Victor

The Victor

He had just won, but three minutes and twenty-one seconds prior, he had not. He was just another competitor. He is no longer a competitor, now, but an Undisputed Champion. He is a Champion that will go down in history as the Victor of this prestigious tournament. It took him seven years to step forward, fully prepared for the trials and tribulations that stood in his way of Victory today.

Five minutes have now gone by since he was crowned Victor. The lights are flashing from every angle of the stadium. The associated press huddles in front of him, microphones listening and recorders taking down every word the Victor had to say.

But the Victor had nothing to say. He watched his fellow competitors walk off the stage in the opposite direction, away from the lights and away from the press. The Victor ran off the podium and approached the group of competitors, their eyes red and dry, as if tears had been there, even if they never feel from their eyes.

“Hey!” the Victor yelled, and in unison the five other competitors turned their heads toward him, lips pursed in straight, no-bullshit frowns.

The Victor knew these men. He watched some of them compete for twenty years or more, on the television, reading their names in the papers, seeing their likeness on the cereal boxes of time. He knew these men, looked up to them, and made idols out of them. He trained with the intent of matching their abilities. It took him seven years.

He looked at them with wide eyes, the gaze of which told them more than the radiance of his composure. No words were said.

One of the competitors, an all-star Victor for the last four tournaments in a row, turned his frown into a smile and made a half-nod towards the Victor, as if to say, “It’s your turn to run the show.” He turned around, followed by the others, synchronized, artistic, and they walked away in a vanguard formation towards the smallest exit in the stadium.

The Victor watched them go until they reached the doorway, the press taking snapshots of him watching the competitors walk away. It was artistic, the lone Victor seeing off those who fought and lost against him.

The hundreds of thousands watching him from the stadiums were chanting for him, praising him, proclaiming him as the new Victor. The chant was earth-shaking in its unison, “Victor! Victor! Vic-Tor! Vic-Tor! Victor! Victor! Vic-Tor! Vic-Tor!” Their chant was everlasting, echoing into the heavens above, a dark-blue void covered with twinkling, sparkling, stars. It would not be bold to think that eyes were watching him even now from those stars, watching and applauding the epic tournament that just concluded.

The Victor looks around for his friends and coaches who watched on the side as he competed. They are now in the center of the field, right behind him, in front of the press, actually. They are clapping their hands, arms around each other with smiles and laughter, unbelieving that their friend is the new Victor. This is such a happy occasion for him and his family and friends.

When he goes home today he will be greeted like a great warrior, coming home from a battle in which he single-handedly overcame the opposition. He will ride a convertible motorcade in the streets of Capital City, paper glitter falling from the tallest buildings, blanketing the city streets with colors of white, blue, red, orange, yellow and brown. The kids watching will cup their hands, collecting the glitter only to throw it back into the sky. The citizens of his nation will praise him as he rides off towards his home, his wife, his son and his daughter, his black dog, his farmland, and his quiet land on the outskirts of town. There he will rest, an act he had not done in seven years.

One thought on “The Victor

  1. The vibrancy of the picture you paint with your words is astounding. I was emotionally pulled through with the Victor on the ride.
    This makes me question what should really be called poetry, prose or just Art.

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