As for our story, for those of you who want to know what happened to the boy, read on! And for those of you who don't, I know that you're thinking "this is supposed to be a sports blog". I'm sure it also doesn't help that the narrator plainly states "I hate sports". Oh, the irony. But have some faith in your devoted blogger! So here it is:
I start to make a list in my head, with a leaky green pen on blue-lined paper. I could trip, sprain my ankle, break it, the bone poking through my skin. I could chip a tooth on a baseball, get a knot in my leg, fall. I start muttering about Achilles Tendinitis under my breath.
Is he retarded? The boy asks, and the others laugh. I scratch the top of my bony hands again, and they start to bleed. I rub them pink, and think about my pink house and how badly I wanted to walk away from it.
He’s weak, my father said just before he left. I think he knew I was listening, because he saw me on the staircase and stared at my scarred hands; I tucked them behind my back. I remember it soggy, like far away and I’m looking at him underwater and he leaves the pink house and doesn’t look back. And although I hate my father, I wanted to be him at the same time.
A boy with moppy blonde hair and crooked teeth comes up to the mailbox. He’s short like me, but his strides are long and he’s grabbing my mitt before I can lean against the mailbox again. I push at the glasses falling down my speckled nose.
Put it on, the boy says, shoving my glove into my chest, and I cough, almost dropping it. Sweat mats my brown hair to my forehead and I try to wipe it off with the back of my hand. It stings. The sun is staring at me and the boys are waiting and I look down at my un-scuffed converse.
Sorry, I can’t— I start to say. But someone’s tapping on a glass window, and I turn around.
Go, Mother says, even though I can’t hear her from outside. She shoos me with her hands, clicking the window with her long pink fingernails. I turn to face the boy with the crooked teeth.
C’mon, he says, and so I slip on my baseball glove, the dark leather rubbing against my raw hands, and walk towards the cul-de-sac.
to be continued....
come on here we go cliff hanger its another club banger got ya hanging on the edge of your seat. -- Eminem