The felt beneath my fingers is soft. My old poker table back home never felt like this, even when it was brand-new. This is the good stuff, the real professional stuff. And it's never been used before today. We're breaking in it right now. I guess I should have expected it – new tables for every match. Nothing but first-class treatment here at the 2008 Beijing Olympics. A long way from the weekend games around my table at home, or the casinos, or even the national tournaments. For a guy to be here, playing for his country's pride, that has to mean he's the best, right? I keep telling myself that, anyway.

Across the table, Wong, who's dealing for the last hand, is grinning at me. Not a nice grin. The kind that makes me remember how badly China's beating us in the overall rankings. Phelps can't do it all. Team USA could really use a gold here. I smile right back, hoping the tension isn't written all over my face. Appearances are more important than ever now.

I'm supposed to keep my eyes on my opponent, but out of the corner of my eye, I'm watching the other table, where John is squaring off with his opponent. Does he feel the stress, too? Doesn't look like it, but maybe he's just got the better poker face of the two of us. I sure hope he's feeling cool and calm. I sure hope he realizes just how much is riding on this.

I hope he's remembered the signals.

I square my hand up and tap it gently on the table, once, twice, three times. A few feet away, John does the same. I breathe a little easier. Wong's smile suddenly looks forced to me. What's he feeling right now? He picks up the deck in his free hand and puts a fourth card on the table. The turn. Both our eyes are fixed on that now, and John is for the moment completely forgotten.

The turn is good, for my hand. Real good. The five of diamonds. Suddenly my lousy hand is starting to look an awful lot like a low straight flush. The odds of the fifth card, the river, being the ace of diamonds I need is, of course, astronomical - that's why it's a hard hand to beat. But if everything was going the way it was supposed to, that wouldn't matter.

I lean back in my chair and strain my peripheral vision to see John's turn. It's the same as mine. The five of diamonds.

Suddenly, panic grips me hard in the chest, twisting my guts up into a knot. This is ridiculous, I'm thinking. This is never going to work. There are millions of people here, millions more around the world, watching this, and we think we're going to get away with this? They can see the cards on the table. They can see our hands. Their television screens are full of odds calculations. Nobody's going to believe this for a second.

Bet's to me. I can't put it off any longer. I've made my decision. Blaze of glory. I shove my chips to the middle of the table. All in. Everything I have against everything you have, Wong. Let the chips, as they say, fall where they may. As the stacks slide across the felt, I can hear in the silence of the auditorium the same sound from next to me. John's doing the same thing. I hope he's doing it with more faith than I am.

There's a bead of sweat on my brow, as Wong's hand goes to the deck. It heads for my eyes as his fingertips touch the top card. It stings, but I don't lift a hand. Every muscle in my body is frozen. Time itself has stopped as I wait for the card to turn over. This is worse than any other game I've ever been in. You never know what you're going to get on the river, and I thought that was bad. But knowing what you're supposed to get, and not knowing if it's going to happen or not... That's the worst.

And then he turns over the card. And it's the ace. I made my flush. I throw my hand on the table with a whoop, all those beautiful red cards, and I'm yelling and screaming and crying all at the same time. Next to me, John's doing it, too. We are laughing and pounding each other on the back, and our opponents join us - opponents no longer, just the four guys of Team USA jumping up and down, knowing we gave it our best, and hoping and praying that we will bring home the gold in Synchronized Gambling.

“And we’ll leave the finals of the cat-tossing to go out to the main stadium where Geoff Motsaball is standing by. Geoff, what’s going on out there?”

“Well, Mike, it’s a sensation out here. The eighth heat of the one metre dash has just been run, and like all the other heats, it appears to have ended in a tied result! All eight men have gone through to the next round, which means with the exception of Hyatte from Norway who missed the start, sixty-three of the competitors have gone through. An absolute boilover here at the track!”

“Thanks for that, Geoff, and we’ll return to the main stadium later tonight for the hundred metre sprint on their hands. A real crowd-pleaser that one, made all the more... Hang on, there seems to be something happening out at the cat-tossing, so we’ll go out to John Sumpoil. John, what’s happening out there?”

“Mike, an absolute shock out here. After tossing what appeared to be a cute ginger tabby a world record distance of fifty eight metres, American thrower Ike Ikeson has been disqualified! His coaches are lodging a protest, but we believe the officials are adamant on this one. Ike Ikeson, winner of the last three world championships has been disqualified!”

“Any word on the reason, John?”

“It would seem that the cat he has been using is in fact a duck in a pretty convincing cat suit!”

“A duck?”

“Yes, Mike, a duck. And so... hold on. Another sensation! Russian Ivor Ivorskinski has also been disqualified!”

“Not another duck?”

“No! A goose!”

“So, John, what does this...”

“The officials are running around everywhere! The Bulgarian has now been shown the door...”

“A duck?”

“Yes. A mallard to be precise. Oh, and now the Chinese competitor is gone! He had an eagle. And... and the British hope is also out!”

“What sort of bird did he have?”

“No bird, two bats under a skin. This has been an absolutely tragic day for the world of cat tossing. This proud, historic sport has been reduced to an utter mockery as the officials chase the last of the extraneous wildlife out of the park. It seems a poor Nigerian has also been kicked out, but he was coming last and it seems that his cat skin filled with butterflies just was not up to par. The new leader board puts the Australian Bruce O’Bruce in the gold medal position. And we can now cross to Tyson Gumption with the new leader.”

“Thanks, John. So, Bruce, what are your feelings right now?”

“Well, Tyson, I’m a bit shaken, y’know. I mean, all these cheats! And we’ve been against ‘em for years! Cor blimey, if this don’t beat all.”

“Have the officials checked yours?”

“Yeah, yeah, mate, they’ve checked everyone’s. But no fear here. My cat’s a dinky-di as the best of ‘em.”

“You couldn’t bring yourself to cheat like that?”

“Nah, mate, I just hate cats so much.”

“And it’s back to you, John.”

“And it’s back to Mike at the central broadcast station.”

“Thanks, John. And we go back out to Geoff Motsaball at the main stadium. What’s the news, Geoff?”

“In a sensation down here, the entire third heat has been disqualified in the one metre dash for jumping the start! Video replay has shown the indiscretion, which means we now have fifty-five in to the finals. The Jamaican world record holder is protesting, but I don’t think he’s got a hope. That video evidence is pretty close to being almost conclusive. Mike.”

“Thanks, Geoff. And we go back out to the cat-tossing where Bruce O’Bruce is having his final throw. Thanks, John Sumpoil.”

“O’Bruce is in the wind-up position. He leans back with the cat’s tail firmly in his grasp. Now he has to throw before the cat gets too angry and latches onto his arm, which is, of course, a foul. He spins once. The cat’s yowls are now echoing through the arena; this looks like it’s going to be a big one. Two spins. The cat’s claws are reaching for his hand. It’s trying to get him! O’Bruce lets go! What a throw! The cat is sailing through the air with its legs outstretched. What a magnificent sight! Its cries can be heard three miles away, I’d say, and that’s bound to get bonus artistic merit points. It lands and the judges run over to measure the distance. The cat attacks one! What a move! That’s gotta be an extra bonus as well! And barring an earthquake, I don’t think O’Bruce can be beaten for this gold medal now. Back to you, Mike.”

“Thanks for that, John. We’ll to a commercial break now, and when we come back, we’ll go out to the pool for the first heat of the men’s twenty mile dog paddle.”

I dipped my brush into the paint can and started painting the fence. It'd been a long time—the kids used to do this, but they're grown and gone, now—and I'd forgotten how the hours pass in mindless daydreaming.

~*~*~*~*~

"Who wants watermelon?"

We ran for the back door. We'd been rebuilding a fort in our sandbox in anticipation of another attack by Godzilla, but on a hot summer day, watermelon was a better choice.

"Fence Olympics!" cried Billy.

"Great idea!" I said, and we ran even faster.

At the back door, mom handed us slices of watermelon, sweet and ripe. "Here you go, boys. Now, take it over by the fence and eat it!"

We sprinted away from the farmhouse to the far corner of the yard, stopping only to grab a croquet ball on the way.

"Black!" said Billy, as he reached the fence.

"Red!" I said, holding my ball aloft. "Where's the blue one?"

"Under this bush," said Mark, as he retrieved the ball and displayed it triumphantly. He was the littlest—he had to be sneaky.

"Since when do you play Fence Olympics?" I asked. "Besides, no fair! You can't hide the balls!"

"There's no rule against it," said Billy. "And he can play if he wants." As usual, Billy sided with Mark, keeping me in my place. We sat on top of the white fence, spitting watermelon seeds and watching the horses graze in the field.

Once the watermelon was gone, we climbed down and walked to the corner post for the start of the contest.

"I still hold the record!" said Billy.

"Not for long!" I retorted.

The fence was a traditional white three-board horse fence, with a post every ten feet. It ran for two hundred yards around the perimeter of the yard, separating the farmhouse from the fields, ending at the driveway.

We'd played this game for a month, trying to walk completely around the yard on the top of the fence. Last week, just before Billy and I had gone to scout camp, I'd figured out the best way to get past the overhanging apple tree, and Billy had used that technique to go all the way to post twenty-five, which was broken and wobbly. Now that we were back from camp, records were going to fall.

"OK, Mark. You got the blue ball; you get to go first," I said.

Mark climbed up on the first post and stood up, balancing carefully. It was the first time Billy and I had seen him up there.

"Take your time," said Billy.

Mark cautiously stepped onto the top board and walked to the second post.

"One!" said Billy.

"Watch out for the crack in the next board!" I teased.

"Ignore him, Mark; there's no crack," said Billy. "You get a do-over if Tommy makes you fall."

"I'm not going to make him fall," I said. "They're just words....BOO!"

Mark didn't even flinch. Instead, his face scrunched up with concentration, he scampered along the top of the fence for two more posts.

"Two! Three!" said Billy.

"Bet you can't do five," I said, but Mark didn't stop, and walked with increasing confidence down six more sections, not even pausing to steady himself at each post.

"Holy cow!" said Billy. "Look at him go!"

The next board was under the apple tree. Billy and I had to get under the tree branches by stooping very low, but it was difficult, and we often fell. Mark was shorter; he simply crouched a little and kept going.

"Easy for you to do, shrimp," said Billy, but there was respect in his voice.

"That's OK," I said. "He'll fall off at the wobbly post."

Mark continued while we walked along beside him.

"Twenty-four!" said Billy. "Broken post next!"

Mark paused, and then, arms out, he ventured out toward post twenty-five, stepping slowly, looking straight ahead. He carefully stepped over the broken post, and smoothly walked to post twenty-six.

"A new record!" I cheered.

Mark kept going across front of the yard, up beside the other side of the house, and across the back. He didn't stop until he reached the driveway.

"Wow, that was great!" said Billy. "You are the Olympic Champion fence walker of the family!"

"I practiced while you two were at camp," said Mark.

"Good for you!" I said. It was the first time I remember feeling respect for him.

~*~*~*~*~

I smiled at the memories.

The next day, trying to get under the apple tree, I fell and broke my arm. Fence walking was forbidden from then on.

Mark's record was never broken, not even by my own kids when we moved back here—they weren't allowed to fence walk, either.

I stopped painting and took out my cell phone.

"Mark? It's Tommy. Do you remember the Fence Olympics, fifty years ago?"

"I'm going to throw up again," Phil announced, clutching his swinging hammock as the cabin tipped and swayed.

"Please don't!" Jenny said. "I can't take any more of the captain screaming at us. God, why did I sign up for this?"

There was a loud boom from somewhere outside, then two more. The room shuddered.

"Guys!" a familiar voice shouted. It was Max, their producer, a man they had come to dislike intensely. "Come on! Get your gear! It's show time!"

Phil reluctantly hoisted his camera onto his shoulder. "I hope I don't get puke on the lens again."

"Just try to avoid the microphones," Jenny said, putting her headphones on. "This equipment's expensive."

Trying to keep their balance as the great sailing ship heaved in the churning waters, cameraman Philip Smith and sound engineer Jennifer Prince, both employees of NBC Television Studios, dragged themselves up to the deck.

"Get a move on, ye scurvy swine!" Captain John "Firebeard" Rafferty bellowed to his men as he waved a cutlass in the smoke-filled air. "I haven't got all day, ye swabs! If I don't see Tennyson's flyblown head hangin' from the bowsprit before supper, thar'll be heII to pay!"

To the right, across a stretch of turbid, shark-infested sea, the HMS Victory lolled back and forth, its wooden hull cratered by cannonballs. A seaman leapt overboard and tried swimming away from the melee; Phil steadied his camera on Firebeard as the captain drew a weathered flintlock pistol and shot the retreating man in the back.

"No matter how many times I see that, I can't get used to it," Jenny said.

"Well, he is a pirate!" Max exclaimed, coming up behind them. His wide face was chapped and sunburned, and he had his ever-present Bluetooth headset in his ear. Jenny had to restrain herself from ripping it off his head and flinging it overboard. "Come on, guys, isn't this exciting? Who would have thought that swashbuckling would become an officially sanctioned Olympic event? Phil, don't tell me you'd rather be pointing that camera at some stupid hurdles. Admit it, you love this."

"Yeah, sure," Phil said, fighting to control his nausea as Captain Firebeard's flagship, the Bloodthirsty Buccaneer, veered to starboard. He watched the captain weave strands of hemp into his shaggy red beard and light them with a match, the better to terrify his enemies.

"Prepare to board, mateys!" Firebeard howled. His men scrambled about, hauling coils of rope and readying swords. Parrots squawked and whistled; wooden legs thunked against the deck. "Come on, ye salty bunch of flea-bitten scum! Make haste, or I'll nail yer gizzards to the gunwales!" The captain's eye (the one that wasn't covered by a black patch) suddenly landed on the camera, and he glared at the NBC staffers as though he was seeing them for the first time.

"Avast, ye landlubbers!" he roared. "I won't have stowaways on me galleon! Tell me why I shouldn't keelhaul the three of ye and send yer flayed carcasses to Davy Jones's locker!"

"Because you'll be disqualified," Max explained, just as he had done the day before when Firebeard had threatened to make them walk the plank, and the day before that when he'd tried to maroon them on a sandbar. "You're not allowed to harm an Olympic official or member of the media. Don't you want to win a medal?"

"Booty!" Firebeard said, his eye suddenly gleaming with avarice. "Shiver me timbers, but thar be nothin' finer than the sight of a shiny gold doubloon. If some louse-ridden scab tries to give me an ingot of silver or bronze, I'll run him through wit' me saber and feed his guts to the seagulls."

The other men had attached grappling hooks to the rigging of the Victory and were beginning to board. The clash of swords filled the air. Jenny flinched as a musket ball whizzed past her head.

"Arr!" Firebeard said, brandishing his cutlass. "Mark me words, tonight I'll be guzzlin' me grog from Tennyson's hollowed-out brainpan!"

Phil's camera zoomed in as the captain hurled himself over the railing and onto the foredeck of the crippled vessel, where he began dispatching sailors with his razor-sharp sword.

At last, he faced off against the regal commander of the Victory, the esteemed naval officer Lord Tennyson, resplendent in his blue waistcoat.

"Time to meet yer maker," Firebeard said. "I'll plunder yer barnacled brig before I set her ablaze!"

"We shall see," Tennyson rejoined calmly, drawing his own broadsword and adopting a fencing stance. "On your guard, you stinking sea-dog!"

His head wreathed in smoke, Firebeard unleashed a furious battle cry. He raised his blood-soaked blade and —

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Stephanie cinched her bag up a bit more on her shoulder as she dragged her possessions through the busy Chicago airport. A gaggle of photographers unloaded on her as she hurried through the partitioned walkway, her London gold medal gleaming in the flashing lights. Her publicist told her to don it as soon as they made it past the security barrage.

The windy city greeted her with indifferent gusts as she jogged to the Olympic van waiting to shuttle her to the hotel. A light rain pattered on the tinted windows. She lay her head against one and let out a deep breath that she felt like she had held since somewhere over Ohio.

"You're doing great, Steph," her publicist tried to soothe her as the van sped through the wet streets. "You just have the opening ceremony tomorrow night, then you can relax, take some events in for appearances, repeat your amazing London performance, then it's back home in no time!", she said, trying to get Stephanie jazzed.

The rain slicked hotel building loomed into view like a foreboding charcoal obelisk. One by one the vans released their cargo of Olympic hopefuls both new and old. Stephanie lumbered out of the vehicle with her carry on and made sure her other belongings were taken care of before entering the building and checking in.

She was grateful for a swift credential check and room assignment to escape the lobby with its knotted groups of nervous athletes and performers, each trying to assure the rest of their supernatural level of calm despite sweat beaded features and body tics.

Her publicist bid her farewell as they split off to their separate quarters. As Stephanie closed the door behind her and relaxed, she gasped in shock.

On the large, antique oak parlor table with expertly matched linen was an extravagant bouquet of roses with two miniature Russian flags proudly jutting out of the front and a small card perched at the base with her name calligraphed on it. Feeling a wrenching in her gut, she examined the rest of the suite quickly taking it in with her expert eye.

The bathroom was immaculate with filigreed Spanish tiles, and aquamarine speckled marble vanity. A large Victorian mirror hung above the sterling faucet set. She grew even more upset at the eye catching powder blue shower curtain with simple but elegant pattern.

Slamming the bathroom door, she marched into the spaciously decorated bedroom with large queen sized poster bed and drift wood blanket chest that gave the room a cozy down home feel, complete with teak rocker laden with matching linen pillows. The room was set off by a high polished heirloom armoire that sat catercorner against the far walls.

Feeling frustrated now, she stormed into the living area, done in an earth tone motif with a skilled blend of modern and contemporary designs, including a few bold, but competent pieces of Asian decor that while risky, worked perfectly in the framework established. She sat dejectedly on the mocha colored couch and stared at the rich, dark wood three-panel screen with intricately beautiful stitch work design popping at every corner.

In a daze now she stood and ambled back to the bouquet, plucking the card from the table and reading the dignified, yet mocking greetings from the Russian Olympian, her greatest rival.

"Greetings comrade! I made it to the host city a few days in advance so I could give you a little treat! I hope you enjoy having a serious eye looking out for you for once. See you at the arena, and good luck!"

As she stared once more around the room, she knew for the first time that her chances of repeating as the interior decorating Olympic gold medalist were diminished by this vulgar display of prowess. Her eyes narrowed as she crushed the card in her sweat soaked hand.

Tension. Tension through my whole body. The tension of
the wait. The short moments that obstinately crawl by,
the varied sounds of my opponents sharp in the sluggish
delay of time: Terrifying; exhilarating.
Legs coiled taut like willow beneath me, muscles quivering in anticipation, head low to the ground, eyes darting from side to side, shivering breath coming shallow and fast - waiting for the gun. My mind is clear; there is only one focus, one goal – the finish. To me this is more than a race this is my life, this is the...

‘Bang.’

The shot bursts in my ears and countless generations of instinct respond. Adrenalin surges, every pent up energy explodes and I'm off; away from the gun, away from the tension, freed into motion. In my own lane at the front of the group it’s like I have a head start; nothing to right or to left only the dark stretch of hot tarmac before me and the cage-like barriers that mark the way. And there are crowds; a vague swell of noise as I pass them, no applause yet though I hold lead position. To them I’m but a gliding blur; a prelude almost, to the following group - a prelude in orange with white socks - liquid fluidity punctuated by the typewriter click of my feet on the hard ground. I’m longing for grass; I’ve always run on grass; this tarmac is too hard, too unforgiving too …dead - nothing like home. Home, now that’s worth running for. All I ever hear is talk of medals, fame and national pride but for me those things have no hold, no charm. This is more than a race to me; I am more than a competitor. I was born for this, I am this event and this event is me. Lose and all is lost but to win…to win is everything.

The gaining patter of feet not my own creeps into my thinking and I push harder against the ground rushing underneath me, straining into the space beyond my nose. Westminster Abbey, Houses of Parliament and London bridge flash past but they’re nothing to me, merely incidental scenery- seen for the first time though I’ve lived far closer to them than most of the group chasing me. Seen for the first time and, whatever the result, the last time also. London 2012; a city so busy yet silenced today by the race I run. No business only watching, hoping, cheering - a festival atmosphere swirling over and around the bubble of iron will and relentless determination on the track.

Blood pounding in my head, legs tiring breathe burning in my throat and yet still I’m ahead. That’s all that matters now. Endurance. Countless corners and roads, a maze made simple by steel barriers coated with a mess of waving arms, red faces, ice creams and mini union jacks; these fill my eyes but my senses are fixed on what is behind. The strong scent of sweat, hot breath in ragged pants close on my tail, grunts and whines of fiercely pumping chests and further off the clatter of far heavier feet than mine.

Stretching, aching, throbbing but moving; holding on to hope, holding on to this priceless lead. Running for the finish, for home, for my family, for myself, for life.
Eyes beginning to water, road markings a dizzying stutter, body damp, feet stumbling on nothing but weariness but still no desire to quit, no temptation to stop or to slow or falter this is it - the glory and the pain. This is urban fox hunting.

(Re: game brief. The competitors in this race are human as specified. The fox is merely the event)