Chasing A Dream

By Janina Todesca
Matthew Donahue’s feet pound against the ground as he runs. Every step he takes and every drop of sweat that falls, he knows will only make him stronger.
Matthew is training for his dream.
“As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a cop,” Matthew says between gasping for air on the treadmill.
Matthew looked like a cop the week before his physical exam with the Milton, New Hampshire Police. With his hair buzz cut short and his 5’10 rather muscular frame, his body waited to fill out a police uniform.
Matthew sailed through the written police exam a month earlier at the University of New Hampshire campus. Now all that was left before getting a chance at an interview was the physical exam. Matthew has to run one and a half miles in twelve minutes, do thirty-seven pushups in under sixty seconds and thirty-eight sit-ups in under sixty seconds.
If he got through that, he knew he would get the job because at the interview they would see how bad he wanted it.
As Matthew walked toward the exit of the gym he wiped the sweat from his forehead and bent his neck back and forth, displaying a nervous habit he had since childhood. The red-headed girl at the front desk wished him good-luck with a smile and a wave. Matthew waved back, hoping the next time he went back he’d have good news.
Matthew got home in time for a hearty meal with his mom, nana, papa and two older brothers; Terry and Chad.
Chad, a rather husky boy, who had already started eating when Matthew walked in the door, put down his fork to say, “Tomorrow is the big day, huh champ?”
Matthew nodded. He was at ease with his whole family surrounding him; they knew not to ask too much, as to add on any pressure.
“Well if those idiots don’t see how great you are then it’s their loss,” Matthew’s Papa added, “there’s plenty of towns, and plenty of states you can get into, I’m not worried about it.”
Matthew wasn’t either; he knew he was confident and qualified.
He was a twenty-two year old senior at Westfield State College. He would attain his degree in Criminal Justice and Economics with a GPA of 3.8. He worked a part time job in the mail room at Westfield State, went to classes and fulfilled an internship with the United States Postal Inspectors. His record was clean and he could shoot a gun quite well; he’d gotten many compliments at the shooting range that past weekend.
Matthew was confident on a night when he should have felt nervous and insecure.
After dinner Matthew went upstairs to get some well deserved rest after his weeks of training. All he could think about when he laid down in his bed and covered himself with the same pale blue plaid sheets he had since the 7th grade, was how it would be him and the track tomorrow.
The 90 mile drive from his hometown of Westwood to UNH felt only a tenth of that distance. The heat in his 1998 red Ford Ranger wasn’t working but he wasn’t cold. Toby Keith’s song, American Soldier, was blaring from the speakers, two tolls were paid, the blinker was turned on and off many times, and then he arrived.
He parked his truck in the first spot he saw and walked about 100 yards to the track.
He bent to make sure his warn out grey Nike sneakers were double knotted. He stretched his legs out, twisted his neck back and forth, and looked around at the competition. Thirty-five other hopefuls were there, but he was sure they didn’t want it as bad as he did.
Then he saw them: all the officers, including the Milton NH Chief of police, lined up on the side of the track. They were talking amongst themselves, all dressed in uniform.
He got a surge of energy. The internships, the studying, and the sweaty physical training the weeks before this day had faded.
He knew it was just him and the track.
As he lined up with his competition, he took one last deep breath. He stood with his right foot in front of his left, his knees slightly bent, some of his competition crouched close to the ground. Matthew did not crouch, he stood ready, his green eyes focused straight ahead, his dark eye brows turned down in concentration, his arms bent, and fists tight. Then an officer on the sidelines blew a silver whistle, and he started to run four laps in twelve minutes.
Lap one.
He past the officers, “Donahue 1,” only three more to go.
As he ran, Matthew thought about his family, waiting for him at home. He thought about how proud they would be that he was the opposite of his unreliable father who had trouble with the law and hadn’t been in his life since he was six years old.
Lap two.
“Donahue 2,” Matthew felt his legs get heavier, his mouth grow dry. He was thinking about his girlfriend now; how he needed to get this job to start their life together; how happy she would be.
Lap three.
“Donahue 3,” He felt tired. Just then he thought he couldn’t make it.
“Come on Donahue, only one more,” Matthew looked up at an officer who was suddenly rooting for him. He then felt a renewed surge of energy. He would run that last lap for himself; for his dream.
Matthew saw one competitor start vomiting, another falling down, and another quitting.
Lap four.
“Donahue 4,” this was the finish line. He did it. Matthew kept running, he ran in circles, celebrating what he had just achieved. He bent with his hands on his knees and head hanging down, the sweat was dripping from his forehead, and his smile was beaming.
Matthew then got down, nose to the ground, and was able to complete the push-up portion. His arms going from straight to bent, 37 times, in only fifty-six seconds. Then he flipped over, took a few deep breathes, and lay back down on the cold grass, covered in morning dew. He completed the 38 sit-ups, despite the cramps and pain, with five seconds to spare.
As he stood up he shook out his arms and bent his neck back and forth, he knew he had done what he had worked so hard for. Matthew had passed the hardest physical exam he had taken in his whole life; he felt like he was walking on air, just for a moment.
Then Matthew stepped back to reality because he knew what would happen next.
Then the moment he waited for; out of thirty-five hopefuls, fourteen names would be called. Those names filled out interviews, which would then fill the three available spots on the Milton, New Hampshire Police force.
There was few left standing, some sat on the grass gasping for air. Others gulped water between wiping their sweat on their shirts. Then there was Matthew, he stood with his hands on his hips, his green eyes again focused, but this time on the Chief. He knew he had passed everything, but he still had a pit in his stomach.
The Chief stood amongst all the hopefuls and called out the last names of those who had done it.
Donahue was one of them.