The national anthem roared through the stadium, every mouth moving in time to the music. I recall standing, looking down at the amber-eyed victor and knowing, at that very moment, that I wanted to meet him.
I watched every movement he made from the stands as he waved at the crowd of people cheering for him. For a split second, his eyes landed on me and then moved on. He was so close, only a few yards away, but so far at the same time. He was a champion, and I was a nobody.
News about the remarkable young butterfly swimmer hit the tabloids like wildfire, taking down any other important story with its popularity. For weeks I couldn't open a newspaper without seeing his smiling face or the medal he had displayed after he'd won. It was a feeling of fascination that I wasn't used to. I wanted to know this man, and made it my goal to find him.
The next vivid memory of him was one evening when I turned on my television to find his face on the corner of the screen. My breath had caught in my throat as I'd listened to the reporter talk about a hydrofoil accident and how there had been only one survivor. I shook with relief as I found out it was him, the one I admired so much.
As the reporter droned on about the crash, I couldn't help but think about how it must have affected him. From what the man on the television said, it had caused great damage to his back. Sorrow filled me as I realized he no longer had a career in swimming, and even more covered me like a blanket as he told what the doctors had said - there was little chance he'd ever walk again.
The days went by and slowly the accident left everyone's minds. Everyone, that is, except me. The thought that he had nearly been killed spurred me on to reach my goal.
But suddenly, all traces of Gordon Tracy disappeared. He was no longer on the news, his picture didn't appear in newspapers and there were no more Olympic victories. My spirits dropped to a new low as I realized my chances of meeting him were dying faster than the iridescent flame of the torch after his triumph.
What was it about this man that had me so captivated? To this day I cannot answer such a question. Maybe it was the pride that had radiated from him as he stood with his medal, showing the world that he had accomplished what he'd set out to do. Maybe it was the glow in his eyes, the shine that lingered in my mind for days after I saw it. Or maybe it was just the fact that I was envious of him - he'd made something of himself and I had yet to do so.
I am unable to clear these thoughts from my mind. I had no idea he had amazed doctors and recovered beyond their expectations. He could not only walk, but he was part of one of the most elite rescue teams on the planet.
And the water was still a part of him, as the desire to meet him was to me. He drove a submarine, and assisted his brothers as they saved countless human lives and raced against the clock to keep people out of trouble. Their identities are a secret; they are just anonymous faces to the population of people who are not close enough to know their names.
As the fire blazes around me and sweat pours down my face, it is him that I think about. The heat becomes unbearable and I'm sure I'm doomed to burn in this shell of a basement. It is much too dangerous for anyone to attempt a rescue, even those boys in blue that have everyone in awe each time they save a life.
I feel an arm around my waist and I'm pulled to my feet carefully, smoke clouding my vision as I'm hauled to safety. Outside, as the rain pours down on me, the fire still warming my back, I turn to look at the person who has salvaged me.
As I stare into those ocher eyes now, I know what he's done with his life.