bathroom.
F or the past two days, I feel like life has literally flown by at warp speed. With school, assignments, work and having fantasies about tackling Ryle like a crack head looking for her next fix, my brain has been on overload. On top of that, it’s Friday and Zoe is dragging me to the baseball field to cheer on our boys in the first home game of the season. Our boys.
Her words not mine .
Tank was running on beast mode when I saw him on campus this morning, and then again when I ran into him on his way to the field house. He seemed jittery then, but I could tell he was mentally in the zone , to which I can totally relate. It’s how I used to get before a big meet. I would practice for hours on end, day and night, just to make sure that I knew my routines like the back of my hand. I’d even videotape myself and watch it over and over on a repeated loop looking for any opportunity to advance myself. My dismounts and landings had to be on point and they normally were.
I feel a sense of sadness wash over me as I let the memories come. I toss on a T-shirt that Zoe loaned me. It has Young ironed on the back, along with Tank’s jersey number in big, bold numbers underneath the name. Just to clarify, I’m not sad because Zoe’s making me go watch “our boys kick some butt,” I’m sad because there will never again be a time where I can invite my friends watch me kick some leotard-wearing butt. It’s moments like this—when reality smacks me in the face—that I am reminded my days of competing in a sport are over. Forever.
“You’d better cheer up!” Zoe shouts as she playfully shakes a pair of orange and navy pom-poms in the air above her head. “Here,” she says tossing me my own set. “Now get your game face on. We got a game to win.” She says it with such conviction in her voice.
“Ra-ra.” I cheer and hold my own pom-pom in the air.
Shoot me now.
I was never big into any other activity in my high school outside of gymnastics— including sports. Frankly, gymnastics was my life, and every time some jock claimed it wasn’t a sport, it made me want to throat punch them. My parents aren’t big on violence, so you can see my dilemma.
Zoe shouts, “That’s the spirit,” and smacks my rear on our way out of the dorm.
We walk toward the baseball field. It’s already packed with more people than I’ve ever seen on this campus. I feel like a sardine as we try and stay together, our hands locked so we don’t get separated. Zoe seems to know where she’s going. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, since she is on the softball team. It’s odd because she’s very vague about it and hasn’t asked me to come watch her play. In fact, I know she’s been to practice at least three times since I arrived at campus. I sense that she’s not as into tossing a ball at a bat as her brother is.
“Over here.” Zoe tugs on my hand as she guides us up an expanse of metal bleacher stairs. My calves ache by the time we reach the top. “This is good.” She sits down and pats the empty seat next to her. “We can see perfectly from here.”
I sit and look toward the field where a group of players stand. I assume that’s our team since they’re dressed in orange and navy. Baseballs are being tossed back and forth. Like watching the crowd at a tennis match, my head swivels back and forth watching the players catch and throw. The realization that I must look like an utter fool makes me giggle under my breath.
I can feel Zoe looking at me seconds before I feel her nudge my ribs. “What’s so funny?” she asks, with a curious expression on her face. I’ve never met anyone—besides myself—nosier than her.
“Those outfits. Look at ‘em,” I make up a quick excuse as my eyes dart back to the field. Pointing at the players, I realize that their pants really are noteworthy. “You can see their butts perfectly. They’re wearing spandex for men.”
“Spandex…maybe they should be called
F or the past two days, I feel like life has literally flown by at warp speed. With school, assignments, work and having fantasies about tackling Ryle like a crack head looking for her next fix, my brain has been on overload. On top of that, it’s Friday and Zoe is dragging me to the baseball field to cheer on our boys in the first home game of the season. Our boys.
Her words not mine .
Tank was running on beast mode when I saw him on campus this morning, and then again when I ran into him on his way to the field house. He seemed jittery then, but I could tell he was mentally in the zone , to which I can totally relate. It’s how I used to get before a big meet. I would practice for hours on end, day and night, just to make sure that I knew my routines like the back of my hand. I’d even videotape myself and watch it over and over on a repeated loop looking for any opportunity to advance myself. My dismounts and landings had to be on point and they normally were.
I feel a sense of sadness wash over me as I let the memories come. I toss on a T-shirt that Zoe loaned me. It has Young ironed on the back, along with Tank’s jersey number in big, bold numbers underneath the name. Just to clarify, I’m not sad because Zoe’s making me go watch “our boys kick some butt,” I’m sad because there will never again be a time where I can invite my friends watch me kick some leotard-wearing butt. It’s moments like this—when reality smacks me in the face—that I am reminded my days of competing in a sport are over. Forever.
“You’d better cheer up!” Zoe shouts as she playfully shakes a pair of orange and navy pom-poms in the air above her head. “Here,” she says tossing me my own set. “Now get your game face on. We got a game to win.” She says it with such conviction in her voice.
“Ra-ra.” I cheer and hold my own pom-pom in the air.
Shoot me now.
I was never big into any other activity in my high school outside of gymnastics— including sports. Frankly, gymnastics was my life, and every time some jock claimed it wasn’t a sport, it made me want to throat punch them. My parents aren’t big on violence, so you can see my dilemma.
Zoe shouts, “That’s the spirit,” and smacks my rear on our way out of the dorm.
We walk toward the baseball field. It’s already packed with more people than I’ve ever seen on this campus. I feel like a sardine as we try and stay together, our hands locked so we don’t get separated. Zoe seems to know where she’s going. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, since she is on the softball team. It’s odd because she’s very vague about it and hasn’t asked me to come watch her play. In fact, I know she’s been to practice at least three times since I arrived at campus. I sense that she’s not as into tossing a ball at a bat as her brother is.
“Over here.” Zoe tugs on my hand as she guides us up an expanse of metal bleacher stairs. My calves ache by the time we reach the top. “This is good.” She sits down and pats the empty seat next to her. “We can see perfectly from here.”
I sit and look toward the field where a group of players stand. I assume that’s our team since they’re dressed in orange and navy. Baseballs are being tossed back and forth. Like watching the crowd at a tennis match, my head swivels back and forth watching the players catch and throw. The realization that I must look like an utter fool makes me giggle under my breath.
I can feel Zoe looking at me seconds before I feel her nudge my ribs. “What’s so funny?” she asks, with a curious expression on her face. I’ve never met anyone—besides myself—nosier than her.
“Those outfits. Look at ‘em,” I make up a quick excuse as my eyes dart back to the field. Pointing at the players, I realize that their pants really are noteworthy. “You can see their butts perfectly. They’re wearing spandex for men.”
“Spandex…maybe they should be called
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