“There can be no deviation. I don’t want a repeat of what happened with our last opponent. Get a grip on yourself and concentrate. No excuses, no bitching. This will be unlike anything you’ve faced before. The man’s an artist.”
Coach was right of course. He was really good at saying the right thing at just the right time. I’ve sacrificed a lot to get here. My marriage fell apart because of my commitment to my dream of taking gold in the Sandwichlympics. I just barely squeaked out a win in the semi-finals. My ham-handed approach to condiments would have lost the match for me against most opponents, but mine had somehow blundered even more egregiously than I had. My god, what he did with that brioche! The Swiss judge in particular was appalled.
As always, coach nailed it. I need to put that fiasco behind me and prepare myself mentally for my championship match against Pablo Gutierrez, four-time gold medalist, if I’m to have any chance of having the gold medal awarded during the closing ceremony. True, he’s an artist. His sandwiches are the stuff of legend. But he seemed do be on autopilot during his semi-final. Good enough for the win but not anywhere near his usual quality. Maybe he’s getting soft now that he was awarded a government stipend. The fire in his belly is flickering out now that he no longer needs a win?
But I can’t overthink this. The crowd is pumped for a showdown. Many of them probably attended both semi-finals, neither of which were crowd-pleasers. I owe them something they’ll remember for years. That they’ll want to tell their grandchildren about.
Coach is giving me the signal. One minute until the competition begins. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
The three prompt words for this freewrite were generated at
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