Their Last Race 

It was their last day. Their last race. After four years. 
 
All those schedule changes, texts, and arranging rides to the river. Of heat sheets and racing times, of standing at their finish lines and calling out numbers, watching their reactions, realizing that – regardless of what people say – you really can see the wheels spinning in kids' heads.
 
Which brings to yesterday – somewhere south of Atlanta. Two of them crossed their last finish line, maybe ever. Now we're at our tent, in the shade, that sacred shade once you've been baked and broiled for hours. 
 
They'd cooled down, collected their bags, now they're just… standing. This was a goosebump moment, because they couldn't leave, because doing so would be so … final. That's the only word that comes to mind.  
 
Finally, one of them says, "This is it. Four years. Wow. It's over."
 
You walk forward and hug him. Then the other one approaches. You lock eyes for a moment. 
 
"Love you, man!" You tell him. You hug him, too.
 
They both stand there. This would perhaps seem awkward but to you, it wasn't. You got to be a part of their moment, their years, their races and paces and trials and miles. You'll stand as long as they want, though you do want to be back at school by Monday.
 
Finally, they do what they have to do – life moves forward whether we like it or not. "Well, see you guys," one of them says. They walk away, a bit slowly, one of them looks back. At us coaches, at the track, at four years of their gains and pains.
 
You stand. You watch them. You want to reverse time in a way, maybe one more trip to the river, one more time trial just for the heck of it. One more, because your mind – out of four year habit – always knows they'll be at practice on Monday.
 
But they won't.
 
With this said, you watch them walk away, the track slowly but surely behind them as they go into the parking lot. As for you, you must return to the finish line – write out the numbers, call them out. Another kid – two more about to race to be exact.
 
So, you go there – preparing for these two to race. Maybe qualify, maybe not. Regardless, a starting gun goes off and they are off. You write down their numbers. You see their pain. You hope they do well. You holler their splits, read their expressions, watch their gait. 
 
And even during it all, you smile a bit – lucky to be a part of this – and lucky that you're standing at the finish line. Again…