They are the only ones who run with me. I am the only one who beats them up. Two running cleats with one tear on the side and a nike check.  Two amongst 40 others on the field.  Two sharp whistles . From our field, we can hear them, but I slowly run.
Their speed is untold. They run collecting dirt and grass. They run up and they run down and snatch the grass between their sharp cleat and pull up the ground with violent strides and never stop running. This is their job.
Let one miss a step, they’d all fall like dominos on a table, each fall atop each other.  Run, Run, Run they say when I get up. They motivate.
When I am too tired and too breathless to keep going, when I am running against so many people, then it is my cleats keep me going. When there is no one left to pass on this field.  Two who didn't stop running. Two who reached the end of the run. Two whose only reason is run and run.