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David
by Hetre Z

When David started, everything was splinters in his legs, long straight lines of fire up his calves and into the dip of his knee and shattering the cap like they had a plan, like this was something they did for fun. When he started, it was something he could ignore, notes from the doctor slim and light, dandelion fluff with penmarks on it.

He ran, ten dollars for every step past first base, twenty-five for every step past second, and the bright lights and a cool metal tube in his hands. Everybody thought the game was sun and swing batta batta and cracker jack, but for David it was night sky above the glare of floodlights, and the gobo sandwiches that his trainer recommended, and the sweet shy smiles of girls who let him sign their underwear. Sometimes while they were wearing it, and sometimes after.

David had read up on it, games started in cornfields for fun, and the women during World War Two who played in their husbands ratty homemade uniforms. Wooden bats, and numbers painted on shirts with whitewash or whateverthefuck they used. Apples and spit tobacco and that was nothing compared to what David did every day, what he thought of in sleep and mimed at breakfast the next morning. He'd pull out random facts, Jackie Robinson and A League of Their Own and peanut vendors, when he wanted to impress, and when he ran fingers over the bottom is his foot he pretended not to feel spikes of bone in the wrong place. A starburst of hard sharp, resting like a blowfish just under the skin.

There was Star Search on the television when he came home, white counters and tablecloths. Withered oranges in the refrigerator and the radio playing the same old shit every day. It echoed through the bedrooms and the bathrooms, and sometimes he'd find an autographed pair of underwear under the couch, smelling musty and unused, and lifeless. David slid out of bed, feet burning the ground as he walked, and found he didn't have anywhere to go.