Rhys was trembling, though he was not sure whether it was out of excitement or fear. Today was the draft for the long walk.
His father had told him many stories about the walk from when he was a boy. His childhood friend, Hank, had signed up for the walk, out of fun, nothing more. What he didn't realize when he signed the form was that 100 teenaged boys went in and one came out. He had a 1% chance of surviving. Rhys' father didn't like to talk about the walk. It made him disgusted how such a thing was nicknamed the "national sport". He didn't like the changes that the Major's son had put in place. He had a severe hatred for the Walk deep inside him.
Rhys wasn't sure how he felt. There was something incredibly exciting about the Long Walk- the thrill of atmosphere, the ultimate prize. He was annoyed that his father wouldn't let him watch the walkers. It's not like they lived in California or anything, they were New Englanders! He shifted his attention back to the screen. "Welcome!" said an all too cheerful man on the screen, "To the draft of the 41st annual Long Walk!" The announcer was wearing a pale yellow suit with a pale pink tie. His hair was bleached blonde and his teeth were abnormally white. His eyes had a sort of blaze about then- a passion perhaps, and it was terrifying. "Today," he continued, "One hundred lucky teenaged boys will be picked to participate in this county's national sport!"
Milk sloshed back and forth in Rhys bowl of cereal. His cherios were getting soggy. However, he just couldn't bring himself to eat. The walkers were about to be announced. Anxiety and excitement whirled through him.
"Aaaand now, it's time! The moment you've been waiting for!" the blonde man said.
It began. 100 names, last and first, read in a random order. One might think that this would be boring, but Rhys was at the edge of his seat. There was something thrilling about the walk, a radiance, which made him want to be picked. He would be famous. He had the chance to win anything he could ever ask for. And all he had to do was walk.
His father sat by the window in the corner, leaning forward in his chair, yet listening to every word that the announcer said. The morning light landed lightly on his old, dark green sweater. Strands of grey hair stood out as the beams bounced off.
"Number fifty-one, Rhys ONeill"
Rhys froze. His father stood up and picked up the remote. The announcer was silenced.
"You are not going to that walk."