Quarterbad

My cellular phone broke my fall. If I checked my pocket, I'd be admitting to my delusion. I mean, no one ever called. A quick fix may have convinced my peers I was almost popular, at least somewhere. I felt the pieces poking my thigh as I, again, escaped humiliation. We, at Peerview, are called pirates. Clumsiness, a trait of outcasts, was a sure way to die at sea. I was no pirate. I hit the game winning shot against an undefeated Moore Tigers last year; and they all emptied bleachers. Everyone got hugs and high fives, while I prayed on the baseline. I finished and then celebrated with my dad, a retired cop turned preacher. We watched as my teammates hoisted Jay Blass in the air. The star player laid flat on their hands still with his game face on. He was also the starting quarterback. I hid my jealousy from my dad. I recalled watching a pro wrestling program on television the night before...

"To be the man," shouted The Nature Boy, "you have to beat the man."

Those words echoed in the gymnasium that day. I had an idea. I put my plan in motion before bed. I threw darts for a half hour landing twelve bullseyes.

A habit of worship started at childhood. Everything caused for prayer, even school tests. Today, I almost failed one because Ms. Vye thought I was sleeping and swiped my paper. As everyone whispered sly words, I chased her to the chalk board.

"I was praying. Please," I begged, "give me another chance."

"Perfection is unattainable," she said. "As I can see, your biggest flaw is wasting time."





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