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runner and one other. In the chaos of the exchange, Manny took the baton in fourth place, about two yards out of third and another two yards ahead of Serrano. Nobody passes me, he thought as he set out in a full sprint.
    The baton, light as it was, provided a nice counterweight as Manny leaned into the first banked turn, focused on the bright blue jersey of the runner just ahead.
    On the backstretch, he could hear Anthony and the others yelling his name. Manny’s breathing was fierce. Hug that inside lane, he remembered.
    One lap gone, and he could sense Serrano just off his shoulder. Manny ran harder.
    Serrano went wide on the turn and pulled alongside Manny, his legs and arms churning. Manny moved out slightly, too. He had caught the runner in front of him, but he needed to get past before Serrano boxed him in.
    Suddenly the three of them were running abreast. The runner in blue accelerated. Manny matched his pace, but his arms and legs were growing tighter. As they headed into the final turn, Serrano was forced to move into the third lane in an attempt to get past the other two runners. They came onto the homestretch inches apart.
    Every step was an effort as Manny sprinted for the finish. He could see DiMarco waving his arms, and Manny grimaced as he extended the baton and his teammate grabbed it.
    Manny collided with the runner in blue and they held each other up as they stumbled off the track. “Nice race,” Manny whispered.
    The other runner just patted Manny’s shoulder, too tired to speak.
    DiMarco managed to hold onto fourth place. Serrano’s team had a speedy anchor who moved up to second.
    Manny recovered quickly, but his throat was dry and scratchy. He walked over to the pile of clothes where he’d left his sweatsuit.
    Serrano was sitting on the floor near Manny’s stuff. He had his shoes off and was massaging his left foot. He wasn’t much taller than Manny, but he had large hands and feet to grow into. His hair was extremely short, shaved almost to the nub.
    Serrano nodded to Manny. “You guys from Jersey?” he asked. He had a soft but intense voice, and he kept his eyes right on Manny’s.
    “Yeah.” Manny coughed. His throat was dry and sore.
    “Never heard of the Hudson City Chargers.”
    “We’re brand-new.”
    “I figured,” Serrano said. “Otherwise I’d know about you. I check all the results online. Find out who my competition is.”
    “You ran awesome tonight.”
    Serrano shrugged. “I do okay.”
    “You ever run here before?”
    “Like for three years,” Serrano said. “I got a bit of a rep. People know me.”
    “You the Armory champion or something?”
    Serrano smiled. “Got third in the 800 at the Metropolitan championships last winter. The top two guys moved up to thirteen-fourteen, so I guess I’m the favorite this year. But there’s lots of fast people who come here. White guy Patrick Bertone from Brooklyn was right on my butt last year, and this Nigerian from Flushing, Oscar Kamalu. Maybe you?”
    “Hope so,” Manny said.
    Serrano reached up his hand and Manny shook it. “Kester Serrano.”
    “I know. Manny Ramos.”
    “The Armory rocks,” Serrano said. “This meet tonight is kind of low-key, but wait till you see the place in January, February. Everybody is here then. From all over the city; it’s like the United Nations. Asian dudes. Brothers. You got Jamaicans. Dominicans. Long Island people. And everybody’s fast.”
    “Can’t wait.”
    “Yeah, we’ll be seeing each other,” Serrano said. He stood and reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt, pulling out a pair of thin-rimmed glasses. He blew on the frames, wiped them on his shirt, and put them on. “You think tonight was quick?” he said. “Just wait, Manuel. You ain’t seen nothing. ”

7
    Basketball
    M anny slept in on Saturday. It had been after midnight when they returned from the meet. Sal hadn’t budged when Manny entered their bedroom, but he was waiting when Manny woke up that