By Taylor Hobbs
Waking didn’t used to hurt, I think. Chapped, calloused palms brace the wall when I try to stand. Cursing, I drop to my hands and knees to crawl instead.
Muscles burning, I haul my body down the empty hallway to the bathroom and onto the toilet.
A body sculpted to perform precision, art in motion. Awe-inspiring skill and talent I cannot waste.
Knuckles rap the closed door. “Bus in twenty,” Mom says. “Leotard and book report are in your backpack.”
Startled upright, my reflection pastes on a winner’s smile, imaginary gold medal around my neck. Shaky legs lift the impossible weight.
So well written! It really captures a vantage point probably lost on most fans and spectators. Very enjoyable!
Captures an athlete’s pain beautifully. What they do to themselves to achieve their goals… So much pressure…
Ah, the stark reality of the honed athlete. Vivid imagery, made my old bones ache! Well done.
Reading the opening lines I was visualizing someone older and fragile – by themselves the descriptions used guided me towards that logical conclusion. Then the piece took an unexpected turn and presented a new and rarely seen perspective.