Maybe I will win the New York Marathon

In one month, on November 7, I will win the New York Marathon. Why not? I could pull one of the history of sports most unexpected and most amazing achievements ever. The audience could cheer like they’ve never cheered before. Commentators could be lost for words, but then quickly find themselves and resume to that awesome passionate America-mode of awesomeness only they possess. Maybe people would watch the, already instant, immortal YouTube clip online for years to come, and they’d get sheer exhausted from my insane run and also get Goosebumps from the commentators spectacular narrative of this epic moment.

At the end of the race I could come from behind, so when I’m at third place the commentators would already then be full of awe and talk about what an amazing race I’ve done and I should be thrilled about my achievement, and then turn their attention to the two guys in the lead.

Maybe that’d be when I’d start doing impossible. Just as the co-commentator would say, “What’s most important for Beckett now is to maintain this pace – coming third would be absolutely astonishing”, which could be exactly the same time I’d accelerate and the main commentator would interrupt him and abruptly start yelling, “Maintain!? Jesus Christ – he’s accelerating, he’s going for it – he’s going for the win!” Maybe people would rise from their sofas at home; tears start flooding perplexed eyes and inspired hearts would smile from all around the world and the audience at the scene could go insane. Absolutely insane. 


People would later do a mash-up between my last 200 meters and Usain Bolt’s World Record winning race and they’d drop their jaws. They would almost match each other. (His race would actually be faster than mine, don’t want to make this story seem too exaggerated or like CGI).  

But I wouldn’t be all cocky when I’d win. I’d stay humble. Smile, wave, and go back to the runner up who could be sitting down on the ground, crying, for missing out on his long sought win.

Who would’ve thought that a 29-year old rookie Swede would beat him? And who would’ve thought it would happen so heroically on the finishing stretch of the race? Well, not him. Not this guy who’s been training for this race his entire life. But I’d go over, tell him a few chosen words that would, for the first time since finishing the race, put an ending to his tears. Not a smile, but an ending to his tears.

Later I could be invited to Dave Letterman’s Show. I'd be the first Swede to sit in his chair and I'd be funny and we’d laugh, make jokes and I'd look dazzling and ladies could faint, just like they did in the good old days when handsome men came to visit Ed Sullivan Theatre.

Yup. That’s how it could end. In one month we’ll know.