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The guard working the back gate spoke to another, "Can we let this guy in?"

 
The other didn't really have anything to do with it, but they let me in.  Kindness on the guards part, I guess I hadn't been too pushy talking to him.

I took a seat on the ground, on the fake grass carpeting outside in the Puma Yard.  Almost everyone had Jamaican flags over their shoulders—with yellow thunder-bolts and a Puma.  I went to walk around, there was a bar and an elevated area and big cushions on the ground to sit-on and watch the big screen projection.  I thought about going inside to get one of the flags, but didn't because the bouncer was large and I didn't have a ticket.  I went into a small store they had set up, crossing through crowd. 

The build up events to the 100m went by quickly.  I found a place on the ground and sat cross-legged.  A weird guy showing off the 40 yards sprint against kids—repeatedly loosing—was on the mini-track set up below the screen.

There were two people sitting beside me on an elevated stoop.

  When one left, the other said: "Come on—where are you..." saying his friend's name and showing his self-consciousness at probably being the oldest there.

When the other returned they continued their conversation.

"We don't have any good middle distance runners, do we?"

The other responded, "No, it just comes and goes," and they went on to list the runners who had been good once.

The lead-in for the 100m was like a personality contest.  They were all freaks on the starting blocks.  Each racer had the camera hover on them before the start, going down the line and queuing them to wave.  Longer-distance runners weren't very animated, but the 100m sprinters were jacked and full of character.  

Britain's best racer had shoulders like stone and when he ran in slow-motion his jaw and cheeks were blown around by the wind.  

The American sprinter next to him was tall, wearing a full-body suit up to his neck, all in red.  He did a routine of smiling, turning—smiling again—and waving.

The women near me were gitty. 

"You just go crazy because there happens to be one handsome man," yelled a man to standing in line for the food and drink bar.  They laughed.  

"Ryan Bailey, that's his name," he said when it came up on the screen.  "Sexism goes both ways you know!" he kept saying jokingly.

Three semifinal rounds had narrowed the race down for the final.  It was dark by the end, and during the break before the final race they turned off the screen.  A DJ was playing at the dance-floor inside.  There was a festive mood, and video cameras filming it everywhere.  Sometimes there were short advertisements for the party on the screen.

The smokestack from the factory was tall and dark and there were lights all around the grounds.  An MC came out on the yard, between the grass carpeting and the screen up-high.  He was large and didn't look very Jamaican.

He was there to introduce the event.  

"Can London Bolt??" he said when he was done.  "Come on, everyone stand up.  Stand-up, stand up!"  Everyone stood.

"Can London Bolt!" he said.  Most people did 'The Bolt.'  It was written on the wall-mural behind him, colored pictures of young people doing a 'Bolt,' with their arms stretched one-way, pointing and smiling.

"I'm still not convinced," he said.  "Can London Bolt?"

He reminded the crowd that they were celebrating the 50th anniversary of Jamaican independence tomorrow.

People sat down eventually.  He continued with his MCing.

 "I'm so freaking excited about Jamaica," he said.  

 

The race was almost started.  The final racers were introduced again, with their little semantics.  Bolt was on screen with his usual pre-race, joking dances; but at times he was tight and showed he was nervous.  His training partner—also a threat to win—did a surprised-scary look for the camera a second time.  

The racers walked up and set in the starting blocks with their arms in-front on fingertips.

I didn't take my eyes off Bolt.  He was the one —I could take time to watch the others in replay.  

At first he was even or behind the pack, but still looked like he was in the race.  Then he burst steps ahead and finished first definitively.

Confetti came down in the Puma Park.  It was yellow and green.  People were cheering and there was green and yellow all over.  Usain did 'The Bolt.'

"Yes, everyone was expecting him to win.  It's good he wo