For as long as her parents can remember, 11­-year­-old Breana Carsey has had this crazy dream. She has always wanted a mommy horse who would give birth to a baby horse, who would then grow up to become a racing champion.

“Absolutely, this was a fairy tale for her from day one. We put it off for five years because we don’t have a farm,” said her father, Brian Carsey, who explained that his daughter has “me wrapped around her finger”．

Her horse was born in the spring of 2013. Breana named it MJB Got Faith for the faith she instantly had in him.

“I really loved him. He’s super soft too,” she said.

But that quick bond posed a real problem for this Dad. See, for whatever reason, Brian thought once he explained to his daughter that her horse could never run in a race—that it was a runt from poor breeding stock—she would just agree to sell it.

“She thought her horse was priceless,” he said. “So I had a chat with my wife and we really got ourselves in a mess here. And I didn’t know how we were going to get out of this. So we took him to the races, the horse that I thought we should have got rid of already.”

Brian was stuck, committed to boarding and training this long shot to end all long shots. And this is not a wealthy family. Brian runs a small company. And Ohio racing, which is harness style racing, is a $900 million­a­year industry.

MJB Got Faith was so slow that it was barely even qualified to compete but then somehow won his first race, then his second, third and fourth qualifying him for the state championship held in Columbus, Ohio.

“And I said to my daughter, ‘If you finish third, you should be so thankful,’” Brian remembered. “She said, ‘Daddy, if he finishes last, I’m going to be thankful. But he’s going to win.’”

This little horse won an important match.

Her dad now has a racehorse whose name is Steve Hartman.

“You’ll have to be quicker off the line to beat Kendall on Friday,” Coach Dugan said. Kendall this, Kendall that. For weeks, I’d been hearing about how fast this kid was — Kerry Kendall from Wilson Middle School. I was tired of it.

Eric came close to me. “I heard that Kerry Kendall trains at a camp with Olympic coaches. Not only that — I heard he cheats. I heard he’ll do whatever it takes to win,” he said. That doesn’t mean he cheats, does it? I wondered.

“Let’s go, boys,” Coach said. When I heard his whistle (哨声), I ran rather hard toward the finish line. I crossed two full steps ahead of everyone else. That should satisfy him. Coach Dugan looked at his stop-watch and nodded. “Better, Alex. But let’s do it again.” And again and again. I couldn’t get any faster. Besides, Kendall trains with Olympic coaches! And he cheats. Why bother?

Practice was never easy, but lately Coach Dugan had been pushing us extra hard. He told us to work harder, because the extra effort marked the difference between a winner and a runner-up.

A gentle wind greeted me as I got out of Dad’s car and headed toward the track. My legs felt strong and ready. Ready? Coach had me more than ready.

Kids from every middle school crowded the infield. I was searching for Kendall. But I couldn’t see anyone extra tall, so I sat on the grass to stretch. “Are you Alex?” a voice asked. I looked up over my shoulder. A tall kid. Kerry Kendall. I nodded. Kendall then sat down next to me, starting to stretch, too. Was he trying to psych me out ( 震 慑 我) by warming up so close? I wouldn’t let that happen. I kept quiet and continued stretching. “Heard you’re fast,” he said. His leg muscles bulged (隆起) like he worked out plenty. “Save it for the race,” I said.

After a minute, he asked, “Is it true you have a private trainer?”

When Kendall turned back, I saw the truth in his eyes.

Chasing a Dream

I will never forget that November day. It was hotter than normal — too hot. My throat felt like a field of cotton, cracked with the summer heat, as I waited for the gun to fire. This was the day we had waited so long for. I looked out at the crowd; dozens of familiar faces flashed across my view. They had come for me. They were counting on me. I saw my dad set his watch, with worry and excitement on his face. Adrenaline (肾上腺素) pumped through my body, and the race began.

For the first two and a half miles, I felt great. I had never before been so ready for something. The weeks leading up to the race were filled with strictly controlled practices and a strict diet. My friends hadn’t seen me in weeks, but they understood the sacrifice required to make my dream a reality.

My dad and I had been working towards this race for three years. It was everything to me, and it was everything to my dad. He was a runner and was excited by my success in running. He made it to every race, even flying home early from business trips to see me run. I always listened for his voice — telling me to relax my arms, calling out my time. He pushed me. He cheered for me. He believed in me. We spent countless hours on the sandy canals. Breathing in the dust of the desert, the blossoms (花簇) of the orange trees, we made our way across the city. We pounded miles and miles into our running shoes, marking with every step the path to greatness.

But without warning, when I was 200 yards away from the finish line, my legs stopped working. My lungs fought to take in enough air, and my feet transformed into cement (水泥) bricks. I still don’t know what happened in those last few moments. Nothing I could do would make them hold my weight. They were as weak as jelly.

Even though I knew my dreams of victory were destroyed, I had to finish the race.

“I’m so sorry I disappointed you,” I whispered to Dad.

Li Hua from Senior 1

Have you ever heard of the position “sometimes backup catcher (替补接球手)?” I hadn’t either. Until this spring.

Since childhood, I have always liked watching baseball match. I especially loved the thrill of watching the catchers grab that game-winning grand slam (大满贯球) at the final moment. I sometimes pictured myself as the catcher, with body moving as swift as a leopard to the outfield and with eyes as sharp as an eagle’s, ready to catch the ball from the pitcher(投球手) with the glove and secure those decisive points.

This spring, my parents brought me to the Centerville Youth Baseball tryouts (选拔). When it was my turn, I ran out on to the field. My parents were surprised at how quickly I returned. “How’d you do?” Dad asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not sure I’ll make the team.” “Let’s wait and see.” Mom said.

After tryouts, Coach Bull yard announced, “Positions are posted in the clubhouse.” Parents and kids stampeded to check the results.

Dad stared at the lineup list for a long time. I couldn’t get myself to look. “So, did I make the team?” I asked him finally.

“You did,” Dad replied. “It says ‘Mike Davis: sometimes backup catcher.’” What does that mean? It didn’t sound great.

We had three practices before the first game. The first day, Is at on the bench beside my friend Emily, and Coach pointed to the outfield. “Mike Davis and Emily Hall—out there. And practice!” Emily and I headed for the outfield.

During our first practice, everything seemed to be in a mess. At the second practice, I showed some improvement, but still missed several catches. I even slipped and fell as it started to rain. I heard Emily chuckle. Coach Bull yard noticed this, and came close to me, comforting, “It’s important for a catcher to catch every ball, especially the grand-slam ball. If you do your best, you’ll see the result in the game.

At home, I asked my older brother James. “Do you think Coach will ever put me in a game as a catcher?” James wrote down and calculated some numbers. Finally, he said “The likelihood that you’ll play in a game before the end of the season is as slim as finding a needle in a haystack.” He looked at me. “In other words, it probably won’t happen.”