The Morning Combine

A massive running sneaker abandoned by the closet wasn't an oversight—it was an unsolicited invitation to run a franchise-caliber agility drill. I paced off five strides, locked my eyes on the crisscrossed laces, and charged. Planting my white boots onto the thick rubber toe bumper, I vaulted over the padded tongue, scrambled across the ridged eyelets, and dropped cleanly off the heel counter into a textbook three-point landing. Four point two seconds flat. If Summerville had a pro draft board, I would be the consensus first-round pick. Every future ruler needs relentless footwork.