First he thought it was the dirt. All kinds of dirt. The powdery dust in the worn out middle of the playground was first. It would collect in the corners of his eyes and cling to his teeth. It got thick enough to feel with his tongue, and then he'd scrub it with his finger.
It gets in your nose. You know it's there because you're breathing hard through your mouth, because the caked dust in your nose forces you to do that. Then you blow it out and it's this kind of gooey black mud in the palm of your hand. And you don't have time to think about it. Not until now anyway. You could play for hours then on the playground. They'd start as touch, but then it would be tackle. Nothing but shirts, pants, skin and bone. The playground Saturdays and Sundays. You never had a ball but someone did. Someone always did. It was usually Cheese. He was small by comparison. But his dad made sure he had a ball. Then he'd be able to play. He was older than most of them and too small to play with the older guys. But Ralph was younger and bigger. He always played, but he never got to touch the ball. He blocked and tackled. Always in the middle of the dust cloud. He didn’t really think about touching the ball. He was there for the banging.
No first downs. Four plays to go the distance. Right field to the third baseline, the goal line. That was the deal. They came up to the playground by themselves. Like people showing up for something important. Those Saturday or Sunday mornings all came before the days when the weekends got clogged with more games on TV from all over the country that no one cares about anyway. Breakfast, sometimes a little church sprinkled in, especially for the Catholics. Ralph could never understand that one. Church was usually optional for him, especially after the Sunday school years. Something about his father's perfect record of non-attendance justified that. Ralph could walk to the playground in about ten minutes. So could his father, but his father never walked there with Ralph. He stayed home and did something. Usually something that had little to do with Ralph. So the playground and its dust became another kind of lone-hood for Ralph. The other kids seemed to like talking about each other and what went on the other day or at school. Sometimes girls seeped into the conversations. But Ralph was eager to get on with choosing sides and getting player positions straightened out.
He was about two steps slower than he needed to be to get his hands on the ball. He only cared at these times, choosing sides and setting player positions. At first he hoped a little. But that faded. Once he understood how to become especially good at what his player position required, he perfected it like nobody else on the playground could. Even the older guys. He learned eventually, after taking some very hard hits, especially the blind-sided hits, that physical force is less about strength than it is about speed and leverage. He didn’t need to study the physics of it either. He felt it and learned to use it. He could turn and hurt much bigger and stronger players by carefully executing these lessons.
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