Keep Them Close(36)

But I never got to find out. I never got to see for myself, on my terms.

We reach Forest Avenue, at the southern border of the campus. “This is where it happened,” I say. “The manhole, the sewer cover, should be…here.” Not far from the sidewalk abutting Forest, the manhole still remains carved out of the lawn. I scrape away some ice.

“That’s so close to the sidewalk,” says Trinity.

“Eight yards,” I say. “Not much time to stop your bike before the sidewalk.”

“And not far from the street, generally,” says Trinity. “The sidewalk, then a small patch of grass, and then you’re in oncoming traffic.”

“Right. So anyway, you know the story. When it was my turn, I went flying down the hill, but instead of stopping at the manhole, I went into the street, and then the collision.”

Trinity shakes her head. “Pretty amazing you didn’t die. I mean, I realize you lost your ability to pitch, but you survived—”

“Both of those for the same reason,” I say. “Apparently, when I collided with the car, it was almost a head-on collision. Best we could reconstruct it, and from the accounts of the other kids, I turned my bike to the left, right into the path of the car. My front wheel collided with the left side of the fender and I was tossed forward. I flew off the bike and hit a parked car, which could have killed me. Except I stuck out my arms defensively. My right arm was fully extended when I hit the parked car. It probably saved my life, but it tore my labrum. A complete tear.”

Trinity nods solemnly. “And you were never the same pitcher.”

“Not even close. But hey, I’m lucky I lurched forward off the bike. Otherwise, I would’ve been underneath the car along with my bike.”

“Ugh.” Trinity shudders. “It’s a blessing you don’t remember the accident.”

“Yeah. Thank God.”

“How much do you remember?” she asks.



* * *





It was a Tuesday in late May, the end of school nearing. Little league was coming to an end, but I was also on a travel baseball team that played through June. And in a few weeks, I was going to play in a game sponsored by Baseball Today down in Arlington, Texas, featuring the “15 Under 15” players from across the country.

About a half dozen of us didn’t have baseball practice after school, so we played a pickup game on the middle school field before riding the hill. One of us had to volunteer to go get the bikes off the rack and walk them over to hand to the rest of us over the fence. The “gofer,” as we called him, was supposed to be the kid with the slowest time from the previous contest, but the participants weren’t always the same, and everyone had selective memories.

That day, Finley, my best friend, the biggest of all of us, sprouting to five foot ten by age fourteen, was the gofer who handed my bike over the fence.

Betcha can’t break it, Fin said to me, meaning the record of 15.44 seconds. We shook on a five-dollar bet.

Piece of cake, I said.

It was somewhere around six in the evening. Far from dusk that time of year, but the hill was on the southeast side of the schools, so we were cast in shadow. It was warm but not hot. It had rained that morning, which gave the earth a moldy smell—and added to the challenge.

Kevin Galloway went first, with Jimmy Wilding at the bottom holding the stopwatch. On your mark, get set, go! Jimmy shouted, and Kevin raced his mountain bike down the hill. He tried to skid to a halt once past the manhole but wiped out, sliding along the ground, while his bike ended up on the sidewalk.

Sixteen and fifty-six one-hundredths! Jimmy called. Not bad, but over a second shy of the record.

Next was Charlie Gennaro, who managed to keep his bike upright but slowed as he headed downward, landing him with 17.88 for a score, a very easy time to beat.

And then it was my turn. I lined up my bike, my left foot poised on the front wheel, gripping the handlebars. I looked at Jimmy holding the stopwatch and nodded.

The next thing I remember, I was in the hospital.



* * *





Trinity holds the recorder near her mouth. “You told the New York Times that you felt sorry for the woman who hit you.”

“Yeah, I did. I thought she took way too much of the blame. Everyone said a drunk driver hit me. But really, it’s more like I hit her.”

I stand in the street, dirty slush and ice, at the spot where I’m told the impact occurred.

“I mean, I came barreling into the road. Hard to see how that was her fault. Everyone kept saying it was a school zone, she was going too fast, she was over the legal limit. Okay, I get that, but I came onto the street out of the blue. And it was well after school hours and close to dusk. And she was only barely over the legal limit for alcohol. How many people drive just a little over the legal limit? But, hey, I was the one who got hurt, so I got everyone’s pity. She got everyone’s scorn.” I nod at her recorder. “I probably didn’t say that as artfully as you’d like.”

“No, it’s totally fine. This is just a run-through. And anyway, this isn’t scripted. I don’t want artful. I want truthful. I want sincere. I want real.”

“Well, that’s me being real,” I say. “I mean, she went to prison, lost her family. She…didn’t deserve that.”