The Su God of the Reopening of the Sports Arena

Chapter 2491 Let's settle this at the Bird's Nest.
After the high jump.

The waiting area for the match.

The steel dome of the Bird's Nest was shrouded in the gray hues of evening.

The afterglow of the sunset offered little warmth.

Instead, it gives the metal frame a cold, hard feel.

The wind slipped in through the gaps in the stands.

It had a slightly pungent smell, like a plastic running track.

The noise swept over from the audience.

It wasn't cheering, but a dense, heavy chorus of voices, indistinct yet oppressive, making one's chest feel heavy.

It seeped in through the gaps in the fence of the waiting area on the north side.

It made it harder for people to breathe.

This game.

For many people.

Both are of great significance.

Even if you are as famous as Usain Bolt or Suarez.

The same applies to all of them.

It's even more stifling in the center of the arena.

There was no intense atmosphere like what was about to unfold on the track, but there was a tense, suffocating feeling. The air seemed to be frozen, and every breath was tinged with a suffocating tightness.

Even the sound of the contestants moving their feet was exceptionally clear, and mixed with the deep voice of the announcement over the loudspeaker in the distance, it made the situation seem even more cramped.

Eight 100-meter runners were scattered on the open ground of the waiting area. No one spoke much. Each of them occupied a small space. Their shadows were not long because of the overhead lights, but they all exuded a sense of strength. Every movement was deliberately restrained.

It was as if he was holding his breath, and even the slightest movement of his fingertips revealed his tension that had nowhere to go.

Especially Suarez and Bolt.

On the steps outside the field railing, two figures were huddled together, not wearing team uniforms, but wrapped in coats. They didn't say anything, just stared in the direction of the waiting area.

His eyes were so deep that his emotions were impossible to discern.

The sound of footsteps broke the silence for a moment, then quickly faded away, leaving only faint breathing, the soft rustling of clothes, and sporadic commotions from the audience in the distance, all layered together.

That pre-match tension was inescapable; it seeped into your bones, and even the wind carried a heavy weight, making it impossible to relax.

rare.

This time, the two didn't engage in any verbal sparring.

The only thought is to defeat the opponent.

"Please prepare to enter the arena, men's 100m finalists."

"Please prepare to enter the arena, men's 100m finalists."

"Please prepare to enter the arena, men's 100m finalists."

Bolt was the first athlete to enter the waiting area.

His steps were as light as if he were going to a routine invitation, rather than stepping onto a highly anticipated competitive stage.

Wearing Jamaica's iconic green and yellow tracksuits, the loose hem swayed gently with each step, easing much of the pre-match tension.

As soon as he stood still, he raised his hand and tugged at his collar, his fingertips tracing a casual laziness as they brushed against his neck. Then he turned around, his back to the direction of the race track, and leaned against the railing in the waiting area, his arms resting naturally on the top of the railing.

He gently stroked the cool metal surface with his palm facing down.

I don’t know what I’m thinking.

Unlike other contestants who focused on adjusting their own condition, he turned his head to look at the environment of the waiting area, his gaze sweeping over the busy staff around him and then over the stands in the distance that were gradually filling up with spectators, as if he were admiring a scene that had nothing to do with him.

Suddenly, he raised his right hand, his index and middle fingers together, and gently tapped the railing. The rhythm was slow and even, as if he were silently counting the invisible beats for himself. The tapping sound was faint yet clear, drawing out a unique rhythm in the noisy background.

That was his unique way of relieving stress; beneath the surface of relaxation, he was quietly calibrating the frequencies of his body and mind.

Then a cross.

A moment later, he straightened up, his arms hanging naturally, and began to slowly move his shoulders, shrugging them up as high as possible, pausing for half a second, and then slowly lowering them.

Repeat several times, each movement is relaxed and unhurried, without any sudden exertion, more like awakening dormant muscles.

Next, Bolt raised his right leg, bent his knee to his chest, gently supported the back of his knee with his left hand, and gently pulled it towards his body, feeling the stretch in the muscles on the front of his thigh, while looking straight ahead at the open field.

His gaze was deep yet peaceful.

It seemed as if they had already taken control of the upcoming matches.

Occasionally, when a camera is pointed at him, he doesn't flinch. Instead, he smiles up with his signature grin. That relaxed demeanor isn't a deliberately feigned composure, but rather the absolute confidence that comes from years of competition. It's as if the 100-meter track is just an ordinary path extending beneath his feet, and he can reach his desired finish line simply by following the steps.

Especially this year.

He was concerned about himself.

Quite confident.

Lausanne defeated Su Shen.

This further proves this point.

Not far behind Bolt, at the edge of the stands, two figures stood out: Powell and Guy.

Instead of entering the waiting area to prepare for the competition, they sat quietly on the seats by the field in casual clothes, forming a stark contrast with the athletes who were about to compete inside the field.

This is the first time in so many years that I haven't had the chance to participate in the finals.

This is a valuable experience.

Powell was wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled down so low it almost covered most of his face, revealing only his taut jawline. His hands were crossed on his knees, his fingertips curled tightly, his knuckles slightly white.

His gaze was fixed on the waiting area, or more precisely, on the figures about to step onto the track, his eyes swirling with complex emotions.

There was resentment.

There are regrets.

There was also a hint of undisguised envy.

As a former 100-meter sprinter, he should have been standing there, competing with a group of top athletes. However, due to an unexpected decline in his form before the competition, he failed to pass the test of the semi-finals and could only watch them fight as an observer.

Especially Powell.

The evening breeze lifted the hem of his hoodie, but he was completely unaware, maintaining his stiff sitting posture.

It was as if my body had been frozen in this sense of loss.

Occasionally, when the athletes in the waiting area perform familiar warm-up movements, his fingers will twitch unconsciously, as if he is imitating those movements.

Perhaps they are replaying their glorious past on the racetrack in their minds.

Those fleeting moments of lightning speed.

At this moment, all of this has turned into an indescribable sense of melancholy in my heart.

I'm another year older.

Who knows what next year will bring?

What other states are there?

Track and field after the age of thirty.

It got worse year by year.

Hard to say.

Guy, standing beside him, appeared relatively calmer. He was wearing a light-colored sports jacket, with his hands on the armrests of his seat, leaning slightly forward. His gaze was also fixed on the waiting area, but his eyes held more of a sense of calm and scrutiny.

He experienced fluctuations in form earlier than Powell and learned to reconcile with regrets earlier, but beneath this calmness lies a deep affection for the track.

Guy nodded slightly, seemingly approving of a player's warm-up method. Occasionally, he would turn his head and whisper a few words to the person next to him. His voice was so low that the specific content was unclear, but it was easy to tell from his expression that the topic always revolved around the arena in front of him and the upcoming match.

When the camera pans across them, Guy will slightly turn his face to avoid the focus, while Powell will keep his head down, unwilling to let others see the loneliness in his eyes.

The commotion on the sidelines had nothing to do with them; they were simply absorbed in their own emotions.

It became the most silent and poignant footnote before this grand 100-meter event.

In stark contrast to Bolt's relaxed demeanor, Gatlin exuded a chilling aura of focus from the moment he stepped into the waiting area. Wearing the USA team's dark blue tight-fitting tracksuit, which accentuated his sculpted muscles, he moved with a steady, powerful stride, landing with almost no extraneous sound.

Walking to the open space in the center of the waiting area, he didn't look around. He stopped abruptly, stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

The chest rises and falls slowly, then exhales slowly, gradually expelling the restlessness from the body.

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was filled with pure determination, fixed on the entrance to the track ahead, as if that was his only goal.

Begin warming up.

His movements were precise and restrained, without the slightest unnecessary movement. First came the circular motion of his wrists, rotating clockwise several times, then counterclockwise, each rotation perfectly controlled. Next came the movement of his ankles, also rotating at a steady pace. His eyes remained focused on his movements, as if the whole world consisted only of him and his own body.

Gatling in this regard.

There's still nothing to say.

Professional and competent.

Next, he lunged down, feeling the stretch in his calf muscles. He maintained a stable posture without swaying, held for a few seconds, and then repeated the same movement with the other leg. Each stretch was precise and effective.

It fully activates muscles while avoiding excessive energy expenditure.

During warm-up breaks, he would take out a white towel from his backpack and gently wipe the fine beads of sweat from his forehead. His movements were gentle yet quick. After wiping, he would neatly fold the towel and put it back in his backpack without any unnecessary pauses.

He rarely interacts with the people around him today.

Occasionally someone would strike up a conversation, but he would simply nod in response, his attention never leaving his own state.

During the warm-up and rest period, I would clench my fists from time to time and then slowly relax them, feeling the power transmitted through my fingertips.

His eyes gleamed with an unwavering determination. That focus was like an invisible barrier, shutting out all external distractions and leaving only himself and the upcoming competition. Every subtle movement was building up power for his explosive performance on the track; beneath the extreme restraint lay an energy about to burst forth.

after all.

Both Guy and Powell were unexpectedly eliminated.

He feels.

At least I have a chance to win a medal...

coming.

Where there is hope, there will be ideas.

Blake went out next.

Blake possesses an innate wildness. He wore the Jamaican team's green and yellow tracksuit, which, unlike Bolt's loose fit, was more fitted, highlighting his explosive muscle lines.

After entering the waiting area, he did not stop, but walked straight to the center of the field, stood with his feet apart in a lunge position, placed his hands on his knees, leaned his body slightly forward, and scanned his surroundings with sharp eyes.

Like a ferocious beast poised to pounce, it surveys its territory.

His warm-up was full of power, every movement exuding tension about to explode. He started by clenching his fists, bending his arms, and swinging them back and forth rapidly, which led to the rotation of his shoulders. The speed increased, and the muscle lines became more and more defined during the movement.

Next, a short sprint simulation was conducted. He pushed off the ground with both feet and lunged forward a few steps with swift and powerful movements, as if he was about to rush onto the track ahead in the next second. Although it was just a brief simulation, it was enough to make people feel the powerful explosive force contained within him.

During warm-up breaks, he would tilt his head back, breathe deeply, his chest heaving violently, and his eyes flashing with an arrogant light.

Without Powell and Guy.

no doubt.

This also ignited his ideas.

I can't get a gold medal, and I can't get a silver medal.

Get a bronze medal.

Not bad.

At least it's a brand name.

That wildness and flamboyance contrasted sharply with Bolt's relaxed demeanor.

Yet he also possesses the unique confidence of a Jamaican sprinter.

He would occasionally exchange glances with Bolt. The two didn't say much, just exchanged a look, as if they were having a silent contest, or as if they were encouraging each other.

They are still fellow disciples after all.

Simple interaction.

It still exists.

They are not mortal enemies.

There is a basic friendship.

Blake would slap his thighs and arms from time to time to awaken his dormant muscles, each slap being powerful and producing a dull sound.

It's like he's cheering himself on.

That state of being poised to unleash its power, like a beast about to break free of its restraints, quietly lurks in the pre-match tranquility.

They were just waiting for the starting gun to fire.

Then it will unleash the most amazing power.

Racing freely on the track.

Transform into... a beast.

Charge to the very end.

Rogers' pre-match preparations were meticulous and thorough. He wore the dark blue tracksuit of the US team and carried a slightly heavy backpack.

Upon entering the waiting area, they methodically took out various pre-competition supplies from their backpacks and placed them on the ground, as if they were making meticulous preparations.

He first took out a sports drink, unscrewed the cap, took a small sip, and felt the liquid moisturize his throat. Then he tightened the cap and placed it in a convenient spot within easy reach.

Then he took out an energy bar, tore open the packaging, and chewed it slowly and carefully to replenish his pre-race energy.

Every step was carried out in an orderly manner.

After finishing the energy bar, he began to warm up, his movements equally meticulous.

First, move your fingers and toes, stretching each joint one by one, making sure not to miss any small parts. Then, do circular movements of your wrists and ankles at a steady and slow pace, focusing your eyes on your movements and adjusting the range of motion from time to time to ensure the best warm-up effect.

Next, he performed leg stretches, standing on one leg and lifting the other leg back, grabbing his ankle with his hand and pulling his heel towards his buttocks, feeling the stretch in the hamstring muscles. He kept his body stable without any swaying, held for a few seconds, and then repeated with the other leg, each stretch being precise and effective.

During warm-up, he would occasionally stop to adjust his workout clothes, making sure they wouldn't interfere with his movements during the race, or to check the tightness of his running shoe laces. That meticulousness permeated every little detail. He would occasionally exchange a few words with Gatling next to him, asking about his condition, but he didn't say much.

This time at the Bird's Nest.

The atmosphere was noticeably better than before other major competitions.

The air felt even heavier.

Next came the appearance of Xiao Q, which injected a touch of liveliness into the tense atmosphere of the waiting area.

Wearing a bright red tracksuit, he walked briskly with a cheerful smile on his face. After entering the waiting area, he first waved to the athletes around him.

They greeted people warmly, and their vibrant energy was infectious.

Instead of immediately engaging in a tense warm-up like other athletes, he first took a short walk around the waiting area, warming up his body and feeling the atmosphere of the venue. He would stop from time to time to wave to the audience in the stands, eliciting a small cheer, which he would respond with a smile, his face full of ease and joy.

Anyway.

He made it to the finals.

Already tried my best.

The present era.

He gradually fell behind.

Instead, let's enjoy the gradual aging process.

After a brief familiarization with the environment, he began to warm up, his movements agile and light, full of rhythm.

First, spread your arms out and swing them up and down like a bird spreading its wings, driving the rhythm of your body. Then twist your waist. The range of motion is moderate, but full of vitality. Next, do high knee exercises. The rhythm is light and the landing is light, as if you are stepping on springs.

During his warm-up, he would hum a light melody from time to time, swaying his body gently to the rhythm. His relaxed and carefree demeanor made it hard to imagine the intense competition that was about to begin.

Getting older.

Mindset can also change.

In addition, they went all out in the semifinals.

Two hours later, he was unable to exert his full potential again.

It's better to accept reality.

Enjoy your last Bird's Nest competition.

He would take the initiative to communicate with the players around him, whether they were familiar teammates or unfamiliar opponents, and they could chat for a while.

The topic was light and casual.

They talked about everything from the weather to the venue, without any pre-match tension.

Occasionally, he would make a few playful gestures to relieve the pressure before the game and bring a relaxed atmosphere to the waiting area.

That lively and vibrant state was like a gentle breeze, dispelling the solemnity of the waiting area. Lao Yi adjusted his pre-match emotions in his own unique way, neither neglecting to activate his body nor neglecting to maintain a pleasant mindset.

With this sense of ease and energy.

Waiting for the moment to step onto the track and unleash your speed.

Zhao Haohuan stood out in the waiting area with his low profile. Dressed in simple sportswear, he stood quietly in a corner of the waiting area, away from the center of the crowd, as if he were creating a quiet space for himself.

His expression was calm, without any extra emotional fluctuations. His gaze was focused and introspective, fixed on the ground at his feet or not far ahead.

It was as if all the noise from the outside world had nothing to do with him; he was immersed in his own world, reflecting on his experiences before the competition.

His warm-up movements were gentle and orderly, without any flamboyant movements, yet every detail was done perfectly.

First, stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, arms hanging naturally at your sides, and slowly sway your body from side to side, feeling the flexibility in your waist. Then, slowly raise your arms.

Raise it above your head, fingertips touching, lean your body slightly back, stretching the muscles in your back.

The movements were gentle and slow, like a mild yoga practice.

Then, he bent down and tried to touch the ground with both hands.

Feel the stretch in the muscles on the back of your thighs, pause for a moment, then slowly stand up. Repeat several times.

Every movement was calm and unhurried, without the slightest impatience.

The camera then moves to the right.

On Su Shen's body.

Su Bingtian appeared remarkably composed in the waiting area, wearing a red Chinese team uniform with the national flag on his chest standing out prominently under the lights.

After entering the waiting area, he first looked around at the surroundings, his eyes quickly scanning every corner, as if familiarizing himself with the atmosphere of the venue, and then stopped near the railing.

On the contrary, it was the first opening that was unusual.

"Yosem".

"I came in second at the Bird's Nest in 08."

"This time it's at the Bird's Nest."

"I don't want to be second."

"or."

"Let's settle this once and for all."