(Based on a writing prompt)

            Miles loved to jump. Every day he practiced running as fast as he could, then leaping over whatever barriers he had managed to construct.

            He didn’t jump because he dreamt of being an Olympic track star, but because he loved being set free in the great outdoors. He loved nature, but mostly Miles loved escaping his overly critical stepfather’s eye.

            The year he turned ten, the summer Olympics were held. His stepfather controlled the television, and since he wasn’t interested, Miles never got to see any events taking place in the evening. But whenever his stepfather was gone, Miles watched as much as he could, paying special attention to any event that involved jumping.

            He watched in fascination as runners took off mid-jump, flew through the air, then landed in a pit of sand. Mile then decided to practice the long jump in his backyard. He was afraid of taking that leap, but with practice, he soon felt pretty confident in his abilities.

            He was pretty sure he’d never do the high jump: he couldn’t imagine himself running with a long pole, planting it in the ground, then using it to spring himself high into the air and over a pole.

            What intrigued Miles the most were the hurdles. He counted the steps athletes took in between each hurdle, then practiced in his backyard.

            As he ran, he pictured himself winning a big award, becoming the Greatest of all Time. He’d step up on the podium like those Olympic athletes had done, with a huge smile on his face.

            With great humility, he’d lower his head so that the official could place the ribbon around his neck.

            One day at church, an announcement was made that CYO, or the Catholic Youth Organization, was forming a team from his parish. Miles begged his parents to let him join.

            He had to mow neighbor’s lawns to earn enough to pay the fee, and as soon as he had the money, his mom signed him up.

            After picking him up form school in the afternoons, his mom drove him to the church so he could practice.

            Mile tried everything, but the hurdles and long jump were his favorites.

            Meets were held on Sundays at the nearby community college.

            For the first few meets, Miles came in close to last, but as time passed, and he learned the proper methods, Miles standing improved. He came in seventh. Then second.

            When the final meet arrived, Miles told himself that his time had come, that he would win.

            And so he did, then went on to win the Diocesan finals. From there he went to Sacramento, and won at the state level.

            Several years later when Miles enrolled in high school, he was pretty darn good. As a freshman, he came in first at every meet. Soon he was moved to Varsity, where he kept winning one red ribbon after another.

            Until a runner in the lane next to him reached out and punched Miles in the shoulder. Miles fell to the ground, fracturing his thigh in three places.

            Physical therapy helped regain his ability to walk at a good pace, but he’d never run again.

            The high school coach found a place for Miles on the team: as a mentor for up-and-coming hurdlers.

            While he couldn’t compete, he had the satisfaction of watching his teammates win.

            As an adult, Miles coached a youth track team, instilling in the little kids the love of the sport.

            He was saddened, but not distraught. He had accomplished his dream, then despite injury, was able to inspire others.

            Out of sadness can come joy, if one keeps their eyes open.