In My Skin by Brittney Griner

teammates laughed and rolled their eyes. They were already learning how I can be a little forgetful at times. But hey, at least I can improvise.
    It was still kind of dark—the sun was just starting to rise—as we rolled toward the Baylor track, which is located off campus. (The school is now building a new track on campus.) We parked and walked toward the infield, where the coaches were waiting, wearing their Baylor polo shirts and sweats. I think we were all feeling a little uneasy, because this was the first chance for us to really prove ourselves to them, to show we were ready for college ball. Also, it’s not like any of us were excited to run the mile. It’s just one of those things you have to do before you can get to the good stuff and start hooping.
    As the five of us made our way to the starting line, some of the juniors and seniors on the team spotted my Vans and began laughing, giving me a hard time, saying things like “Freshman trying to run in those!” I played along, but the jokes just motivated me even more. I told myself if there are people in Africa who can run marathons barefoot, I can run a mile in a pair of Vans. Coach Mulkey had brought three guys to the track who would serve as our pacesetters, our rabbits, with each of them running a specific time, as fast as we all needed to go. The goal was 6:45 to 7:00 minutes for the guards, 7:30 for the forwards, and 8:00 for the post players like me. Kim explained that if we stayed near the guy pacing our group, we would make our time.
    Each coach was holding a stopwatch, adding even more pressure to the whole thing. When it was time to run, I lined up on the inside lane, right in the front. I didn’t care that I was supposed to be slower than the guards. I had decided I was going to sprint that damn mile, and I didn’t care if I needed to be carried off the track afterward. There were more than fifteen of us, along with the guys, packed on the starting line. And when Kim gave us the signal—“Go!”—and all the coaches started their watches, I took off around the first corner like I was being chased by angry dogs.
    We had done some longer sprint workouts in advance of the mile. Our strength coach took us through 100-yard and 200-yard repeats, just so we were prepared to run a little longer, because most of the other stuff we did was on the basketball court: quick and short, stop and start. After each lap that morning, each quarter mile, the coaches would call out how much time had passed, and whether we were on pace or needed to pick it up. I tried to ignore everything, including the time, and just ran as hard as I could. I kept a strong, steady pace through the first three laps, and once I hit the line again to start the fourth and final lap, I gave it everything I had.
    I crossed the finish line in about seven minutes flat, beating most of the forwards and even a few of the guards. I stopped running immediately, walked a few steps out of the way, and just fell down on the ground, lying on my back and staring at the sky. My lungs felt like they might explode, and my feet were barking at me. A trainer came over and said, “Good job, but get up! Don’t cramp up!” I wanted to yell, “I don’t care—let me cramp!” But I pulled myself up and staggered over to where the coaches were standing. I heard one of the trainers whisper to another, “She just ran that time, and in Vans?”
    I had also eaten Skittles for breakfast.
    MY FRESHMAN YEAR AT BAYLOR, I was always doing something. It was like I was trying to pack an entire life, everything I had missed out on, into every weekend. I often felt confined, almost trapped, in high school because my dad needed to know where I was at all times, and because he knew so many people, being a cop. When I thought about college, it was like picturing myself on a narrow road that suddenly opened up into a five-lane highway, and I could punch the gas