Jose was up first. Swinging his legs back and forth, gaining momentum, Jose is at the peak of his performance and shoots off the swing like a bullet flying out the barrel of a rifle. He has gotten quite a bit of air and his distance is outstanding. With such great form, I could tell that Jose has been practicing. Jose stands up from this leap and looks at me with his beady eyes saying, "Your up." My heart is beating quickly and with my sweaty palms I grasp the chains of the swing. Jose and his crew are staring me down letting me know I have got to pull some sort of miracle. My energy level raises, and my legs burst with power. I swing so hard it makes the bars wobble. Finally, with all my power used, i let go of the rusty chains and hope for the best. My distance is average, but my height exceeds expectations. Floating into the air, time slows down and i feel like victory is within my grasp. I look down and time quickly kicks back in letting me know that not only am I not even close to keeping my title, but meeting the ground again will feel like kissing a freight train. Three seconds in the air with my arms wailing around led to a sudden stop with all of my weight pressured onto my wrist. The pain is unbearable, my guard is down and like any other manly eight year old, i cry. My arm swells up, my fingers are tense, and my wrist begins to bruise.
I run to the nurse to call my mom so she can handle the dilemma. Two days later as we are about to go to lunch, Jose steps in front of me as the new line leader. A man of my word I respectively let him take the role. But once my wrist was as good as new, I will practice the challenge to get the position that was rightfully mine back.
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