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Aufgaben zu Text II

Aufgaben zu Text II (literarisch)

1

Outline what the reader learns about Zoe and her state of mind.

30 %

2

Analyse how the setting is used to create atmosphere. Focus on the author’s use of language.

40 %

3

Choose one of the following tasks:

30 %
3.1

“You’re actually pretty good,” she said.

“Get to my age, you’d better be.” (ll. 59-60)

Using the quotation as a starting point, discuss whether society can benefit from older people’s know-how and experiences.

or

3.2

You are doing an internship with the Association for Applied Sport Psychology (AASP) in the US and have been asked to write an entry for the “AASP Blog for Athletes, Coaches, and Parents” on growing pressure in the world of sport.

Comment on how this affects professional and amateur sportspeople.

100 %

Text II (literarisch)

Gold

Zoe Castle is a track cycling athlete competing in the 2004 Olympics in Athens.

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Just on the other side of an unpainted metal door, five thousand men, women and children were
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chanting her name. Zoe Castle didn’t like it as much as she’d thought she would. She was twenty-
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four years old and she sat where her coach told her to sit, beside him, on a thin white bench with
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the blue protective film still on it.
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“Don’t touch the door,” he said. “It’s alarmed.”
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It was just the two of them in the tiny subterranean changing room. […]
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When she’d visualized success – when she’d dared to imagine making it this far – the floors
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and the walls of every building in Athens had been Platonic surfaces, hewn from an Olympian
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material that glowed with inner light. The air had not smelled of drying cement. There hadn’t been
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this white plastic document wallet on the floor, containing the manufacturer’s installation guide for
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the air-conditioning unit that stood, partially connected, in the corner of the room.
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Her coach saw her expression and grinned. “You’re ready. That’s the main thing.”
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She tried to smile back. The smile came out like a newborn foal – its legs buckled immediately.
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Overhead, the public stamped its feet in time. The start was overdue. Air horns blared. The
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room shook – it was so loud that her back teeth buzzed in her jaw. The noise of the crowd was
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liquidising her guts. She thought about leaving the velodrome by the back door, taking a taxi to the
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airport and flying home on the first available jet. She wondered if she would be the first Olympian
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ever to do that simple, understandable thing: to quietly slope off from Olympus. There must be
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something she could do with herself, in civilian life. Magazines loved her. She looked good in
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clothes. She was beautiful, with her glossy black hair cropped short and her wide green eyes set in
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the pale, haunted face of an early European saint. […]
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Her coach’s breathing was slow and even.
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“Well you seem okay,” said Zoe.
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“Why wouldn’t I be?”
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“Just another day at the office, right?”
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“Correct,” said Tom. “We’re just clocking in to do our job. I mean, what do you want – a
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medal?”
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When he saw how she looked at him, he raised his hands in supplication. “Sorry. Old coaching
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joke.”
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Zoe scowled. She was pissed off with Tom. It wasn’t helping her at all, his insouciance – his
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pretence that this wasn’t a huge deal. He was usually a much better coach than this, but the
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nerves were getting to him just when she most needed him to be strong. Maybe she should
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change coaches, as soon as she got back to England. She thought about telling him now, just to
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wipe that faux-wise smile off his face.
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The worst part was that she was shivering uncontrollably, despite the unconditioned heat. It
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was humiliating, and she couldn’t make it stop. […]
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“Look, Zoe. You’ve done all the hard work. You’ve made it to the final. Your worst-case
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scenario here is to be the second fastest rider on the entire planet. The very worst thing that could
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happen in the next ten minutes is that you win an Olympic silver medal.”
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“Exactly.”
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“You’re scared of getting silver?”
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She thought about it, then nodded. “I’d rather fucking die.”
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“Honestly?”
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“Honestly.”
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She took a long, deep breath, and the trembling in her body subsided.
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When she looked back at Tom, he was smiling.
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“What?” said Zoe.
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“Young lady, I believe you’re finally ready for your first Olympic final. Now do us both a favour,
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and go up there and win it.”
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“But the door . . .”
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Tom grinned. “Was only ever in your mind.”
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She stood up and pushed on the metal door with two fingers, tentatively. It swung open easily,
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on oiled hinges, and the roar of the crowd swelled louder. The door banged against its stop and
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rang with the deep note of a bell.
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She stared at him, wide-eyed.
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“What?” said Tom, shooing her away. “Go on. You’re really bloody late, as it happens.”
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Zoe looked back at the open door and then at him.
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“You’re actually pretty good,” she said.
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“Get to my age, you’d better be.”
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The tall, whitewashed stairwell leading up to the track was silvered with sunshine falling from
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the high skylights in the velodrome roof. On the wide white riser of the very last step, in blue
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stencilled letters that were nearly straight, the Olympic motto read: Citius, Altius, Fortius.
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Zoe breathed a deep, slow lungful of the hot, roaring air. The hairs rose on the back of her
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neck. Everything that had passed was excused, gone, and forgotten. The crowd was screaming
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her name. She smiled, and breathed, and took the first step up into the light.

Chris Cleave, Gold

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