Dying to Live
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16843
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Back on Ten
The sterile smell of antiseptic that Royce had gotten used to with his frequent doctors’ office visits over the months filled his nose as he sat on the cold, metal examination table. The soft cast around his leg, which has been a constant companion for the last few weeks after shedding the hard cast that proceeded it, was finally coming off.
The past few months blurred together in his memory – weeks of hobbling on crutches, the constant discomfort, the isolation. It had been a slow, frustrating recovery, but now, at least this part of it was coming to an end.
Dr. Richards examined Royce’s leg carefully, running his hands over the now-exposed skin, the scars still fresh from the surgeries. He nodded to himself as he pulled up the latest set of x-rays on the screen.
“Everything’s healing as we’d hoped,” the older doctor said, his voice professional but reassuring. “You’ve made good progress, Royce.”
Royce remained quiet, staring at the floor as the doctor continued to speak, his voice a distant hum. His leg felt strange, lighter without the cast, but weak – almost foreign to him after so many months of relying on crutches. He flexed his foot slightly, wincing at the stiffness that shot up through his calf.
“We’ll start working on regaining full function in your walking,” Dr. Richards continued. “After spending so long with the mobility aids, it’s going to take time to rebuild that strength and coordination again. It won’t be easy, but we’ll get there.”
Royce barely nodded, still lost in his thoughts. Six months. Nearly half a year of his life had been defined by his injuries, by the crutches, the casts, the pain killers, the pain that had become his new normal. His body was supposed to be strong, supposed to be something he could rely on.
He thought about asking the question that had been gnawing at him for weeks, a question that could give him a slight glimmer of hope. It was a question that lingered at the back of his mind as he looked at his leg, thinned from disuse.
The words formed in his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them out loud. He didn’t want to hear the answer again. He knew what the answer would be.
Instead, he swallowed the question. “Thanks.”
Dr. Richards nodded, offering a sympathetic look as he gathered his things. “I know it’s been a long road, but you’re making real progress. Keep up the work in PT, and we’ll see where you are in a few months.”
Royce nodded again. He slid off the table carefully, testing the weight on his leg. It wobbled beneath him, the muscles weak and unsteady, but he managed to keep his balance. He grabbed his bag from the chair in the corner, avoiding the doctor’s eyes as he headed for the door.
“Take it easy on that leg, Royce. We’ll schedule your next appointment soon,” Dr. Richards called after him.
The cold, clinical air of the office hit him like a wave as stepped out of the room, his mind a tangle of thoughts. The hallway was long and bright, lined with doors that led to other examination rooms, other patients dealing with their own struggles. But all Royce could think about was his leg, deliberate with every step. The weakness. The uncertainty.
As he approached the exit, he spotted Rana sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, her eyes glued to the screen of her phone. She looked up when she saw him, relief flickering across her face, but Royce didn’t slow down. He didn’t meet her eyes. He just kept walking.
“Royce?” she called after him, following him as he waited for the automatic doors to slid open.
He ignored her, his mind retreating into a familiar place of silence, where words felt heavy and useless.
The parking lot stretched out before him, rows of cars gleaming in the sun. He walked slowly, each step a careful, deliberate effort, his leg protesting with every moment. He knew Rana was following behind him, watching him, probably with a worried expression on her face, but he didn’t bother turning around to check.
He reached her car, leaning against the back door for a moment as she unlocked the doors. Hefting himself up into the seat using the same method that he’d developed with the casts, he dropped his bag on the floor between his feet.
Rana looked at him for a moment as her hand hovered over the start button. He didn’t return her gaze. With a sigh, she started up the car and pulled out of the spot.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce stifled the urge to swing on a student who accidentally bumped into him in the hallway as he tried to get a couple of books out of his locker. In the days since he had the cast removed from his leg, he’d learned that he needed to keep his bag light, or he’d be regretting it by the time he got home. That meant frequent trips to his locker and a lot of jostling in the crowded halls.
“Yo, where you been, bruh?!” Malik called out as he broke away from the flow of students and walked over to Royce.
Malik held his hand up for Royce to dap him up, but Royce ignored him as he dropped a couple of books into his bag and shut his locker.
“Shit, fuck me then, huh?” Malik said, dapping himself up. “Jonah said you been dipping out of class like you got two good legs. Usain Bolt out this bitch.”
Royce shook his head as he turned around, making sure to not put too much pressure on his leg as he did so. He had been making a point of avoiding the trio since they’d returned from their trip to Houma. Dozens of texts from the group chat they’d added him to had been left unanswered.
The ones from just Alix to him, too.
“Jonah was telling me that your cousin was really feeling him. Had him tearing up some neckbones and collards and all,” Malik said as he settled into Royce’s slow pace, walking alongside him. “You about to have some white folks in your family, bruh. Raisins all up in the potato salad.”
“Fuck off,” Royce said, his voice low.
“See I knew that’d get you to talk. Jonah my boy and all, but I’d feel some type of way if he was fucking with my cousins, too. But he ain’t crazy enough to go north of Florida. He didn’t know anything about Houma even though you had us in the hood if it was a lil’ country.”
Malik paused, waiting for Royce to respond, but Royce remained silent.
“I see you out that cast,” Malik said, brushing off that Royce was mostly ignoring him. “Perfect timing, too. Couple more weeks until we start spring practice. Gives you some time to get back into the swing of shit before you come out.”
Royce only sucked his teeth in response.
“You could say you scared. I ain’t gonna hold it against you. It’s a big step up from some down the bayou ass school to the big boy leagues. Us, Woodlawn, Rummel, Catholic, Cavalry. Everyone ain’t up to that level.”
Royce stopped walking. “Half y’all teams gonna be accountants and lawyers. Half the other half gonna be selling insurance. Fuck outta here with that shit.”
“Oh, you ready to talk when someone talk about you bayou boys.”
“Man, whatever. Ain’t nobody worried about y’all prep school niggas,” Royce said, starting to make his way through the halls again.
“I’m just fucking with you,” Malik said, slapping his hand on Royce’s shoulder which he shrugged off. “But really though. You gotta come out for the team. Ain’t shit to do at this school but sports anyway and you don’t look like you play no basketball or baseball.”
“Guess I ain’t gonna be doing shit then because I ain’t playing football anytime soon.”
“Man, that one motherfucker with the Commanders got shot and was back out there a couple weeks later in the league. I’m talking about playing high school football. You can get back out there.”
“He had NFL level doctors, too.”
Malik sucked his teeth. “All I’m saying is I wouldn’t let that shit stop you if you really enjoy playing ball. Worst case scenario, you can’t do it but at least you get to be out there on the field again. Best case, you might get a ring at the end of the season.”
“Sound like a waste of time to me,” Royce said, shaking his head.
Another student called Malik’s name and he gestured for them to give him a minute.
“I think you gonna regret that shit if you don’t at least try, bruh, but that’s a choice you gotta make. You already know you can’t be out there scared either,” Malik said, shrugging. He held his hand out for Royce to dap him up, which he did this time, before the two of them went their separate ways.
Any glimmer of hope that he could play football again were dashed when he put too much weight on his leg and had to jump to his good leg to stop the pain radiating through his calf. Taking a steadying breath, he continued to hobble to his next class.
The sterile smell of antiseptic that Royce had gotten used to with his frequent doctors’ office visits over the months filled his nose as he sat on the cold, metal examination table. The soft cast around his leg, which has been a constant companion for the last few weeks after shedding the hard cast that proceeded it, was finally coming off.
The past few months blurred together in his memory – weeks of hobbling on crutches, the constant discomfort, the isolation. It had been a slow, frustrating recovery, but now, at least this part of it was coming to an end.
Dr. Richards examined Royce’s leg carefully, running his hands over the now-exposed skin, the scars still fresh from the surgeries. He nodded to himself as he pulled up the latest set of x-rays on the screen.
“Everything’s healing as we’d hoped,” the older doctor said, his voice professional but reassuring. “You’ve made good progress, Royce.”
Royce remained quiet, staring at the floor as the doctor continued to speak, his voice a distant hum. His leg felt strange, lighter without the cast, but weak – almost foreign to him after so many months of relying on crutches. He flexed his foot slightly, wincing at the stiffness that shot up through his calf.
“We’ll start working on regaining full function in your walking,” Dr. Richards continued. “After spending so long with the mobility aids, it’s going to take time to rebuild that strength and coordination again. It won’t be easy, but we’ll get there.”
Royce barely nodded, still lost in his thoughts. Six months. Nearly half a year of his life had been defined by his injuries, by the crutches, the casts, the pain killers, the pain that had become his new normal. His body was supposed to be strong, supposed to be something he could rely on.
He thought about asking the question that had been gnawing at him for weeks, a question that could give him a slight glimmer of hope. It was a question that lingered at the back of his mind as he looked at his leg, thinned from disuse.
The words formed in his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them out loud. He didn’t want to hear the answer again. He knew what the answer would be.
Instead, he swallowed the question. “Thanks.”
Dr. Richards nodded, offering a sympathetic look as he gathered his things. “I know it’s been a long road, but you’re making real progress. Keep up the work in PT, and we’ll see where you are in a few months.”
Royce nodded again. He slid off the table carefully, testing the weight on his leg. It wobbled beneath him, the muscles weak and unsteady, but he managed to keep his balance. He grabbed his bag from the chair in the corner, avoiding the doctor’s eyes as he headed for the door.
“Take it easy on that leg, Royce. We’ll schedule your next appointment soon,” Dr. Richards called after him.
The cold, clinical air of the office hit him like a wave as stepped out of the room, his mind a tangle of thoughts. The hallway was long and bright, lined with doors that led to other examination rooms, other patients dealing with their own struggles. But all Royce could think about was his leg, deliberate with every step. The weakness. The uncertainty.
As he approached the exit, he spotted Rana sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, her eyes glued to the screen of her phone. She looked up when she saw him, relief flickering across her face, but Royce didn’t slow down. He didn’t meet her eyes. He just kept walking.
“Royce?” she called after him, following him as he waited for the automatic doors to slid open.
He ignored her, his mind retreating into a familiar place of silence, where words felt heavy and useless.
The parking lot stretched out before him, rows of cars gleaming in the sun. He walked slowly, each step a careful, deliberate effort, his leg protesting with every moment. He knew Rana was following behind him, watching him, probably with a worried expression on her face, but he didn’t bother turning around to check.
He reached her car, leaning against the back door for a moment as she unlocked the doors. Hefting himself up into the seat using the same method that he’d developed with the casts, he dropped his bag on the floor between his feet.
Rana looked at him for a moment as her hand hovered over the start button. He didn’t return her gaze. With a sigh, she started up the car and pulled out of the spot.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce stifled the urge to swing on a student who accidentally bumped into him in the hallway as he tried to get a couple of books out of his locker. In the days since he had the cast removed from his leg, he’d learned that he needed to keep his bag light, or he’d be regretting it by the time he got home. That meant frequent trips to his locker and a lot of jostling in the crowded halls.
“Yo, where you been, bruh?!” Malik called out as he broke away from the flow of students and walked over to Royce.
Malik held his hand up for Royce to dap him up, but Royce ignored him as he dropped a couple of books into his bag and shut his locker.
“Shit, fuck me then, huh?” Malik said, dapping himself up. “Jonah said you been dipping out of class like you got two good legs. Usain Bolt out this bitch.”
Royce shook his head as he turned around, making sure to not put too much pressure on his leg as he did so. He had been making a point of avoiding the trio since they’d returned from their trip to Houma. Dozens of texts from the group chat they’d added him to had been left unanswered.
The ones from just Alix to him, too.
“Jonah was telling me that your cousin was really feeling him. Had him tearing up some neckbones and collards and all,” Malik said as he settled into Royce’s slow pace, walking alongside him. “You about to have some white folks in your family, bruh. Raisins all up in the potato salad.”
“Fuck off,” Royce said, his voice low.
“See I knew that’d get you to talk. Jonah my boy and all, but I’d feel some type of way if he was fucking with my cousins, too. But he ain’t crazy enough to go north of Florida. He didn’t know anything about Houma even though you had us in the hood if it was a lil’ country.”
Malik paused, waiting for Royce to respond, but Royce remained silent.
“I see you out that cast,” Malik said, brushing off that Royce was mostly ignoring him. “Perfect timing, too. Couple more weeks until we start spring practice. Gives you some time to get back into the swing of shit before you come out.”
Royce only sucked his teeth in response.
“You could say you scared. I ain’t gonna hold it against you. It’s a big step up from some down the bayou ass school to the big boy leagues. Us, Woodlawn, Rummel, Catholic, Cavalry. Everyone ain’t up to that level.”
Royce stopped walking. “Half y’all teams gonna be accountants and lawyers. Half the other half gonna be selling insurance. Fuck outta here with that shit.”
“Oh, you ready to talk when someone talk about you bayou boys.”
“Man, whatever. Ain’t nobody worried about y’all prep school niggas,” Royce said, starting to make his way through the halls again.
“I’m just fucking with you,” Malik said, slapping his hand on Royce’s shoulder which he shrugged off. “But really though. You gotta come out for the team. Ain’t shit to do at this school but sports anyway and you don’t look like you play no basketball or baseball.”
“Guess I ain’t gonna be doing shit then because I ain’t playing football anytime soon.”
“Man, that one motherfucker with the Commanders got shot and was back out there a couple weeks later in the league. I’m talking about playing high school football. You can get back out there.”
“He had NFL level doctors, too.”
Malik sucked his teeth. “All I’m saying is I wouldn’t let that shit stop you if you really enjoy playing ball. Worst case scenario, you can’t do it but at least you get to be out there on the field again. Best case, you might get a ring at the end of the season.”
“Sound like a waste of time to me,” Royce said, shaking his head.
Another student called Malik’s name and he gestured for them to give him a minute.
“I think you gonna regret that shit if you don’t at least try, bruh, but that’s a choice you gotta make. You already know you can’t be out there scared either,” Malik said, shrugging. He held his hand out for Royce to dap him up, which he did this time, before the two of them went their separate ways.
Any glimmer of hope that he could play football again were dashed when he put too much weight on his leg and had to jump to his good leg to stop the pain radiating through his calf. Taking a steadying breath, he continued to hobble to his next class.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
IF YOU SCARED, GO TO CHURCH!
-
Agent
- Posts: 11802
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 22:54
Dying to Live
Malik a better man than me because if I kept getting brushed off like that I would've said aight then & went about my day
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
-
djp73
- Posts: 13183
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Keep on him Malik.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16843
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Back on Two
“Whenever you’re ready, Royce,” Erin said, her voice gentle but firm.
The gym was quiet except for the hum of machines and the soft squeak of Royce’s sneakers against the polished floor. He stood at the end of a long row of exercise equipment, staring down at the padded balanced board in front of him. His leg, wrapped in a compression sleeve, trembled slightly. Erin stood nearby with a clipboard, watching him with careful eyes.
Royce took a deep breath, hating being watched, measured, evaluated like a project that was taking too long to be completed, thought of as an invalid. He stepped onto the balance board, his good leg steadying him while his injured one wobbled beneath him.
“Take your time,” Erin said. “It’s about control, not speed. Focus on controlling your movements.”
Royce resisted the urge to say something, biting back the frustration rising in his chest. He bent his knee slightly, trying to shift his weight onto his recovering leg. Pain shot up from his calf to his hip, and he winced, his body instinctively shifting the weight back to his good leg.
“Let’s try that one more time,” Erin said, jotting something down on her clipboard, but keeping her tone neutral.
He grimaced, but didn’t say anything. He hated how slow this was, how weak he felt. Every time he tried to do something that used to be effortless, his body betrayed him, sending sharp jolts of pain that reminded him just how far he was from being whole.
He stepped off the board and took a second to stretch, rolling his ankle and wincing as the tightness in his leg barely loosened.
“Try again,” the physical therapist said. “Just focus on one step at a time.”
Royce’s jaw clenched. He was tired of steps, tried of “giving it a try.” He stepped back onto the balance board, planting both feet firmly before slowly shifting his weight onto the injured leg. His body shook as he struggled to maintain his balance.
His frustration got the best of him and he pushed harder, forcing more weight onto his bad leg, ignoring the pain in his knee and shin and the strain in his ankle.
Suddenly, his leg buckled. He stumbled off the board, catching himself against a nearby railing. He bent over, gripping the bar tightly and clutching at his leg with his free hand. Pain coursed through his body, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
“Easy, Royce,” Erin said. “You pushed too hard. Let’s take a break.”
“I don’t need a fucking break,” Royce snapped as he attempted to straighten up into a standing position, but the pain kept him hunched over.
Erin gestured to the balance board with the clipboard in her hand. “Alright, get back on it then.”
He looked at the board and attempted to walk toward it, but his leg protested the movement. Instead, he just leaned against the railing and continued to rub his leg, feeling the spaces missing bone from the bullets and repaired in his many surgeries.
“I know you’re frustrated, but you can’t rush this. You’re risking hurting yourself every time you try to push too hard. If you think you’re frustrated now, think about how angry you’ll be when you’re told you have to start all over again after going back into a cast for six months,” Erin said.
“Do I look like a 75-year-old accountant that blew his knee out playing fucking pickleball to you? That’s the people your used to working with, right?” Royce asked through clenched teeth as he pushed himself up from the wall.
“We’re in Baton Rouge, Royce. You’re not the only person I’ve worked with or even work with now who has been shot. Be glad that you can walk at all, because a lot of young men in your situation would be at an occupational therapist learning how to hold a spoon when they can’t open and close their hands.”
Royce walked back over to the balance board, each step done gingerly and with hesitation. “I ain’t them, though, so you gonna have to cut me some slack if I don’t think I should be struggling to stand on one leg.”
“Of course, you don’t. You’re a young guy. I don’t buy into all that invincible-thinking stuff, but I mean, younger people do think they should be able to do more,” Erin said, moving back a couple steps to where she was originally standing. “Have you given any thought to seeing a mental health specialist? You can’t only heal your body. You have to heal your mind, too. You have to get used to your new normal.”
“I ain’t got no new normal,” he said, taking a deep breath before stepping back on to the balance board.
His leg shook under him and the pain that radiating up through his hip was worse than the first few reps. He clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth as he leaned onto his injured leg, putting more weight on that side of his body, sweat beginning to form at his brow.
“You’re going to end up on the floor again,” Erin said, caution in her voice.
Royce only shook his head as he focused on not tipping over.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce leaned forward, elbows on the table, as he picked at the pita Malik and Jonah had convinced him to buy after they’d convinced him to grab something to eat with them. He’d decided after a couple bites that he preferred wings to Mediterranean. The lemonade sitting next to his arm wasn’t doing much to raise his opinion of the restaurant, either.
“I just need you to show me how to make the shit myself so I ain’t gotta call you when I want to put something up,” Malik said to Jonah. The two of them had been going back and forth on Jonah teaching Malik rudimentary graphic design to make his own recruiting graphics since they’d picked Royce up from the clinic.
“Why would I show you how to make something that y’all pay me for?” Jonah asked, taking a bite of the lamb meatball pita he’d opted for. “If you want to do it yourself, just go on Canva and YouTube and throw something together.”
Malik sucked his teeth. “C’mon, bro. I ain’t getting recruited by some DII schools. My shit gotta be fire. How I look telling folks I’m going on a visit to like Texas Tech, and I got some shit up that look like my mawmaw made it?”
“Like you’re broke and trying to do it yourself.”
“That’s what I’m saying! Royce, help me out, bruh.”
Royce looked up, squinting as the sun bounced off the row of cars parked along the road nearby. “I don’t know nothing about any of that. Why you gotta tell anyone that you getting recruited? They know you are.”
“Because it makes the other schools push harder—”
“Pause,” Jonah said, laughing at his own joke.
Malik sucked his teeth. “It makes the other schools offer more shit to get you to commit to them if they know what you doing. They start getting them boosters and alumni on the phone trying to figure out what they can do for you. Now, instead of them coming to you with $2,500 in NIL, they coming with $25,000. You ain’t talk to no one about this last year?”
Royce shook his head. “Only school that really talked to me like talking about was Southern. I don’t think they giving anyone twenty-five bands. Couple other coaches reached out, but we not talking Power 5 or anything.”
“That’s why you gotta get back out there and get this bread.”
“Get back out there next year when they put out the new NCAA game, maybe.”
“Yo, Jonah!” a voice called from the opposite side of the street, interrupting their conversation.
Royce recognized one of the three boys now walking across the street as the guy Malik pointed out to him weeks ago, Poochie.
Poochie and the other two dapped up Jonah when they made it to the table.
“When you got time to help me drop a track?” Poochie asked Jonah. “You been hard to get in touch with like you owe me money.”
“I just got the stu’ set up. It’s been hard to get all the shit that I needed. Y’all can come through this weekend, and we can get something sorted out.”
Royce tapped Malik on the shoulder and gestured toward Jonah and Poochie, the unspoken question obvious.
Malik leaned over, but didn’t make any effort to lower his voice. “Every nigga from North BR think he YoungBoy, but they Forever Broke Always if they think that rapping shit gonna work for them.”
“Why you always hating, nigga?” Poochie asked Malik. “Every time we in the same place, you hating on some shit. Ever since we was lil’ boys you been doing this shit. Whatever it is, you gotta get over that shit. We grown.”
“You just lame, nigga. Been lame. That’s all it is. Talking about any trying to get in the booth. How you gonna rap about walking someone down and then go to school on Monday and get on your knees for them priests.”
“Chill out,” one of the other two boys said. He then turned to Poochie. “I’d smack that nigga for saying that.”
Malik stood up. “Smack who? I’d bat the piss out of all y’all.”
Jonah jumped up to separate Malik and the others. “Hey, man. Be cool. It’s just a misunderstanding.”
“Nah, fuck all that,” the other boy said.
“Hey!” Royce shouted to get everyone’s attention. He gestured across the street to the sheriff’s deputy sitting in his cruiser who’d rolled down his window at the commotion. “None of us out here willing to go to jail for some petty ass bullshit. Just go home and tell each other y’all won the fight y’all ain’t have, shit. Y’all a bunch of private school kids anyway.”
“He right. I ain’t trying to fuck up these scholarships,” Poochie said, waving his hand dismissively in Malik’s direction. He turned to Jonah. “I’m gonna fuck with you.”
As the other group walked away and Malik and Jonah sat back down, Royce shook his head and went back to picking at the increasingly cold pita in front of him.
“Whenever you’re ready, Royce,” Erin said, her voice gentle but firm.
The gym was quiet except for the hum of machines and the soft squeak of Royce’s sneakers against the polished floor. He stood at the end of a long row of exercise equipment, staring down at the padded balanced board in front of him. His leg, wrapped in a compression sleeve, trembled slightly. Erin stood nearby with a clipboard, watching him with careful eyes.
Royce took a deep breath, hating being watched, measured, evaluated like a project that was taking too long to be completed, thought of as an invalid. He stepped onto the balance board, his good leg steadying him while his injured one wobbled beneath him.
“Take your time,” Erin said. “It’s about control, not speed. Focus on controlling your movements.”
Royce resisted the urge to say something, biting back the frustration rising in his chest. He bent his knee slightly, trying to shift his weight onto his recovering leg. Pain shot up from his calf to his hip, and he winced, his body instinctively shifting the weight back to his good leg.
“Let’s try that one more time,” Erin said, jotting something down on her clipboard, but keeping her tone neutral.
He grimaced, but didn’t say anything. He hated how slow this was, how weak he felt. Every time he tried to do something that used to be effortless, his body betrayed him, sending sharp jolts of pain that reminded him just how far he was from being whole.
He stepped off the board and took a second to stretch, rolling his ankle and wincing as the tightness in his leg barely loosened.
“Try again,” the physical therapist said. “Just focus on one step at a time.”
Royce’s jaw clenched. He was tired of steps, tried of “giving it a try.” He stepped back onto the balance board, planting both feet firmly before slowly shifting his weight onto the injured leg. His body shook as he struggled to maintain his balance.
His frustration got the best of him and he pushed harder, forcing more weight onto his bad leg, ignoring the pain in his knee and shin and the strain in his ankle.
Suddenly, his leg buckled. He stumbled off the board, catching himself against a nearby railing. He bent over, gripping the bar tightly and clutching at his leg with his free hand. Pain coursed through his body, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
“Easy, Royce,” Erin said. “You pushed too hard. Let’s take a break.”
“I don’t need a fucking break,” Royce snapped as he attempted to straighten up into a standing position, but the pain kept him hunched over.
Erin gestured to the balance board with the clipboard in her hand. “Alright, get back on it then.”
He looked at the board and attempted to walk toward it, but his leg protested the movement. Instead, he just leaned against the railing and continued to rub his leg, feeling the spaces missing bone from the bullets and repaired in his many surgeries.
“I know you’re frustrated, but you can’t rush this. You’re risking hurting yourself every time you try to push too hard. If you think you’re frustrated now, think about how angry you’ll be when you’re told you have to start all over again after going back into a cast for six months,” Erin said.
“Do I look like a 75-year-old accountant that blew his knee out playing fucking pickleball to you? That’s the people your used to working with, right?” Royce asked through clenched teeth as he pushed himself up from the wall.
“We’re in Baton Rouge, Royce. You’re not the only person I’ve worked with or even work with now who has been shot. Be glad that you can walk at all, because a lot of young men in your situation would be at an occupational therapist learning how to hold a spoon when they can’t open and close their hands.”
Royce walked back over to the balance board, each step done gingerly and with hesitation. “I ain’t them, though, so you gonna have to cut me some slack if I don’t think I should be struggling to stand on one leg.”
“Of course, you don’t. You’re a young guy. I don’t buy into all that invincible-thinking stuff, but I mean, younger people do think they should be able to do more,” Erin said, moving back a couple steps to where she was originally standing. “Have you given any thought to seeing a mental health specialist? You can’t only heal your body. You have to heal your mind, too. You have to get used to your new normal.”
“I ain’t got no new normal,” he said, taking a deep breath before stepping back on to the balance board.
His leg shook under him and the pain that radiating up through his hip was worse than the first few reps. He clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth as he leaned onto his injured leg, putting more weight on that side of his body, sweat beginning to form at his brow.
“You’re going to end up on the floor again,” Erin said, caution in her voice.
Royce only shook his head as he focused on not tipping over.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce leaned forward, elbows on the table, as he picked at the pita Malik and Jonah had convinced him to buy after they’d convinced him to grab something to eat with them. He’d decided after a couple bites that he preferred wings to Mediterranean. The lemonade sitting next to his arm wasn’t doing much to raise his opinion of the restaurant, either.
“I just need you to show me how to make the shit myself so I ain’t gotta call you when I want to put something up,” Malik said to Jonah. The two of them had been going back and forth on Jonah teaching Malik rudimentary graphic design to make his own recruiting graphics since they’d picked Royce up from the clinic.
“Why would I show you how to make something that y’all pay me for?” Jonah asked, taking a bite of the lamb meatball pita he’d opted for. “If you want to do it yourself, just go on Canva and YouTube and throw something together.”
Malik sucked his teeth. “C’mon, bro. I ain’t getting recruited by some DII schools. My shit gotta be fire. How I look telling folks I’m going on a visit to like Texas Tech, and I got some shit up that look like my mawmaw made it?”
“Like you’re broke and trying to do it yourself.”
“That’s what I’m saying! Royce, help me out, bruh.”
Royce looked up, squinting as the sun bounced off the row of cars parked along the road nearby. “I don’t know nothing about any of that. Why you gotta tell anyone that you getting recruited? They know you are.”
“Because it makes the other schools push harder—”
“Pause,” Jonah said, laughing at his own joke.
Malik sucked his teeth. “It makes the other schools offer more shit to get you to commit to them if they know what you doing. They start getting them boosters and alumni on the phone trying to figure out what they can do for you. Now, instead of them coming to you with $2,500 in NIL, they coming with $25,000. You ain’t talk to no one about this last year?”
Royce shook his head. “Only school that really talked to me like talking about was Southern. I don’t think they giving anyone twenty-five bands. Couple other coaches reached out, but we not talking Power 5 or anything.”
“That’s why you gotta get back out there and get this bread.”
“Get back out there next year when they put out the new NCAA game, maybe.”
“Yo, Jonah!” a voice called from the opposite side of the street, interrupting their conversation.
Royce recognized one of the three boys now walking across the street as the guy Malik pointed out to him weeks ago, Poochie.
Poochie and the other two dapped up Jonah when they made it to the table.
“When you got time to help me drop a track?” Poochie asked Jonah. “You been hard to get in touch with like you owe me money.”
“I just got the stu’ set up. It’s been hard to get all the shit that I needed. Y’all can come through this weekend, and we can get something sorted out.”
Royce tapped Malik on the shoulder and gestured toward Jonah and Poochie, the unspoken question obvious.
Malik leaned over, but didn’t make any effort to lower his voice. “Every nigga from North BR think he YoungBoy, but they Forever Broke Always if they think that rapping shit gonna work for them.”
“Why you always hating, nigga?” Poochie asked Malik. “Every time we in the same place, you hating on some shit. Ever since we was lil’ boys you been doing this shit. Whatever it is, you gotta get over that shit. We grown.”
“You just lame, nigga. Been lame. That’s all it is. Talking about any trying to get in the booth. How you gonna rap about walking someone down and then go to school on Monday and get on your knees for them priests.”
“Chill out,” one of the other two boys said. He then turned to Poochie. “I’d smack that nigga for saying that.”
Malik stood up. “Smack who? I’d bat the piss out of all y’all.”
Jonah jumped up to separate Malik and the others. “Hey, man. Be cool. It’s just a misunderstanding.”
“Nah, fuck all that,” the other boy said.
“Hey!” Royce shouted to get everyone’s attention. He gestured across the street to the sheriff’s deputy sitting in his cruiser who’d rolled down his window at the commotion. “None of us out here willing to go to jail for some petty ass bullshit. Just go home and tell each other y’all won the fight y’all ain’t have, shit. Y’all a bunch of private school kids anyway.”
“He right. I ain’t trying to fuck up these scholarships,” Poochie said, waving his hand dismissively in Malik’s direction. He turned to Jonah. “I’m gonna fuck with you.”
As the other group walked away and Malik and Jonah sat back down, Royce shook his head and went back to picking at the increasingly cold pita in front of him.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
turned that boy into a peacemaker
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16843
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Hitting the Links
Royce sat slumped back on the sofa, his leg propped up on the cushions, as he stared at the TV in front of him. It played a rerun of a college football game from the early 2000s, but his mind was too unfocused to truly take in what was happening on the screen. It could’ve been a badminton game from Southeast Asia, and it would’ve all looked the same to him.
Spring was right around the corner. This time last year, he was gearing up for what would be his junior season. Looking forward to getting that second to last season out of the way. Hoping that his dreams of playing college football would be on his doorstep sooner rather than later.
And he was doing all of it with Romeo along for the ride.
Now, all he had was a fucked-up hand and leg, a bunch of scars and old football games to watch on TV while everyone around him tried to make him pretend nothing happened.
His phone vibrated on the coffee table with a couple of texts. He leaned forward to see they were from Alix. He shook his head, not wanting to open that box anytime soon. So far, he’d kept their friendship within the parameters of the larger group.
And with a, likely naïve, hope that he could somehow get back to Houma at the end of the semester, it wasn’t worth pushing these friendships further than they were going to go naturally.
Tyrell walked into the living room, whistling and carrying a pair of shoes. He sat in a recliner and leaned down to pull on the shoes, looking at the TV. “This back in the Vince Young days, huh?”
Royce shrugged.
“Yeah, this Oklahoma game is when everyone knew Texas was for real. I still can’t believe they beat ‘SC, though. Those boys were some dogs from top to bottom.”
Royce didn’t answer, continuing to stare at the screen as his phone vibrated again with another text.
“What you got planned for the weekend? You going to stay in the house when the weather’s nice outside?” Tyrell asked.
“Yep,” Royce said, his tone short.
“Figured so.” Tyrell pushed himself up from the recliner. He slapped Royce’s knee as he passed by. “Get up. You’re coming with me. We going golf.”
“Man, I ain’t going nowhere.”
Tyrell walked into the kitchen and grabbed his keys off the counter, heading for the door. “Rana’s got like ten of her friends coming over here in like an hour. They all bringing they kids, too. You can sit in here with that or you can come with me. I know what I’d pick.”
“Fuck this shit,” Royce said under his breath as he gingerly stood up from the sofa and headed for the hallway. “Give me a second. Shit.”
“I’ll be in the truck,” Tyrell said as he left the house.
~~~~~~~~~~
Tyrell crouched down to line up his shot, eyeing the green in the distance as a slight breeze rustled the trees around them.
“C’mon, bruh. You not Tiger Woods. Just hit the fucking ball,” one of his friends, Leonard, said, drawing laughter from the rest of the group. “You should’ve been doing that when we started then you wouldn’t be seven over already.”
Tyrell shook his head, ignoring the jibe. It had, in fact, been a long day through the first five holes. He was already blaming it on the bit of alcohol he’d drank earlier but his boys knew him well enough to know he was just playing poorly.
Taking a deep breath, he stood up and hovered over the ball. He swung smoothly, the club connecting with the ball with a crisp crack, sending it soaring down the fairway. The ball arced through the air before landing just short of the green.
And then rolling into the fringe.
Tyrell shrugged as he endured more ribbing from his friends as he walked back to the cart.
Royce looked up from his phone as Tyrell shoved the club into the bag and hopped into the driver’s seat of the cart. Tyrell marked his scorecard before shoving it back into his pocket.
“Don’t be cheating over there, Ty!”
“Worry about your damn self, Raheim. We ain’t forget that plus-seven on the last hole,” Tyrell shot back as he sat back in the seat. He glanced over at Royce. “You ever watch golf?”
Royce shook his head. “Only sport I watch is football. Maybe a little basketball here or there, but I don’t really know anyone except for the big names.”
“I hear ya. I don’t really watch it either. I just play it with the guys. We get out here a couple times a month at least.”
“I ain’t gonna lie to you, but this shit a bit of a white man sport. Couldn’t pay me to get out here and play this shit.”
Tyrell laughed. “That’s the same shit I said, but all of us,” he said, gesturing to himself and his friends. “We all played college football or basketball. I’m not going to get hurt playing this, but you know what I might get hurt doing? Shit, probably will get hurt doing? Playing football at my big age. Knees going to get up and walk away on me. It helps that the job has a bunch of tournaments through the year. A lot of networking and all that. Might as well learn how to play the game they’re playing.”
Royce only shrugged, not really knowing how to answer that.
“I get what you’re going through, you know? With football, I mean. I never been shot or nothing like that. Couple niggas upped it on me, but never pulled the trigger. I guess they didn’t have the heart to take a life. Especially over the petty shit we were squabbling over.”
Royce looked at Tyrell out of the corner of his eye. Tyrell noticed the look and started laughing.
“If you tell Rana I said that shit, I’m going to lie and say that medicine fucking with your head. You know how them Tylenol 3s do you,” he said as he slowed to a stop behind the other three carts in their group. “But I get that football shit. One minute you’re big man on campus and the next, you ain’t shit. It’s crazy how fast it happens.”
“I ain’t never been no big man on campus,” Royce said, sucking his teeth after he said the words. “That was Rome. If they even had some shit like that at Terrebonne.”
“Bruh, I’m from Ferriday. We had 300 kids at Ferriday High. If it existed there, it existed at Terrebonne. I was a beast, though.”
“That’s what all y’all old heads say.”
“Shit, you can get on your phone and look me up. Your boy had 40 sacks in his career. Bob Barber, Mack Moore, me. Long line of defensive ends out Concordia.”
“Who the fuck is Bob Barber and Mack Moore?”
Tyrell shook his head and waved off the comment. “That’s the problem with you youngsters. None of y’all know y’all history, but want to play the game. See, I knew all the older dudes who went to the league back in my day.”
“You saying that like Louisiana is Wyoming or some shit. We got at least two or three who go league every year. And that’s just niggas in Louisiana Louisiana. Not wherever the fuck Concordia is.”
“I’m going to let the disrespect slide because you don’t know we got busy up in North Louisiana, too. Point is, I went to Southern, started all four years. Everyone swore I was going to go to the NFL even though it’s not too many HBCU guys who make it there. I figured out probably my sophomore year that I wasn’t going to the league. Changed my major from IS to chemical engineering and here we are. I still miss it, though. It’s crazy when you play your last game, and you know it’s your last one? You just want to go back and do it all over again.”
Royce leaned forward watching as one of Tyrell’s friends lined up his shot. “I ain’t know it was my last one.”
“Yeah, you right on that one. That shit doesn’t define who are or who you’re going to be as a man, though,” Tyrell said, gesturing to the group. “We all went from being college athletes to engineers, lawyers, political motherfuckers. There’s life after football, life after sports. On one hand, it’s fucked up you might’ve lost it at 17. On the other hand, that’s better than being 35 and trying to figure out what you’re doing next.”
“Man, I came from nothing. The bottom of the trenches. I’m not about to be no fucking engineer or lawyer.”
“Sports aren’t the only way for a Black man to come up in this world, lil’ bro. You don’t need to go to LSU. Go to Southern, Grambling. Shit, go to Nicholls or Southeastern, ULL. Get a degree and make something shake.”
Royce shook his head. “That sounds like a quick way to end up in debt and working at fucking McDonald’s. If I ain’t got football then I might as well go hit one of them rigs outta Fourchon.”
It was Tyrell’s turn to shake his head. “If you’re going to do that, at least go get your fucking P-Tech or instrument tech and get on at one of these plants working a normal schedule.”
“Normal schedule, but still out in that heat.”
“Thought you bayou boys were used to the heat. We got real seasons up in Ferriday.”
“That’s how you know it ain’t Louisiana,” Royce said, laughing.
Tyrell gestured to the bag of clubs behind them. “Go take my next shot for me.”
“Man, I don’t know how to hit no damn golf ball.”
“Just hold the club like a baseball bat,” Tyrell said as he got out of the car to retrieve a club. He held it out to Royce. “Look at the brand name on the ball, keep looking at the brand name on the ball, swing the club and hit that bitch.”
Royce took the club from him and got out of the cart. “Don’t be mad when I put that bitch in the street.”
Royce sat slumped back on the sofa, his leg propped up on the cushions, as he stared at the TV in front of him. It played a rerun of a college football game from the early 2000s, but his mind was too unfocused to truly take in what was happening on the screen. It could’ve been a badminton game from Southeast Asia, and it would’ve all looked the same to him.
Spring was right around the corner. This time last year, he was gearing up for what would be his junior season. Looking forward to getting that second to last season out of the way. Hoping that his dreams of playing college football would be on his doorstep sooner rather than later.
And he was doing all of it with Romeo along for the ride.
Now, all he had was a fucked-up hand and leg, a bunch of scars and old football games to watch on TV while everyone around him tried to make him pretend nothing happened.
His phone vibrated on the coffee table with a couple of texts. He leaned forward to see they were from Alix. He shook his head, not wanting to open that box anytime soon. So far, he’d kept their friendship within the parameters of the larger group.
And with a, likely naïve, hope that he could somehow get back to Houma at the end of the semester, it wasn’t worth pushing these friendships further than they were going to go naturally.
Tyrell walked into the living room, whistling and carrying a pair of shoes. He sat in a recliner and leaned down to pull on the shoes, looking at the TV. “This back in the Vince Young days, huh?”
Royce shrugged.
“Yeah, this Oklahoma game is when everyone knew Texas was for real. I still can’t believe they beat ‘SC, though. Those boys were some dogs from top to bottom.”
Royce didn’t answer, continuing to stare at the screen as his phone vibrated again with another text.
“What you got planned for the weekend? You going to stay in the house when the weather’s nice outside?” Tyrell asked.
“Yep,” Royce said, his tone short.
“Figured so.” Tyrell pushed himself up from the recliner. He slapped Royce’s knee as he passed by. “Get up. You’re coming with me. We going golf.”
“Man, I ain’t going nowhere.”
Tyrell walked into the kitchen and grabbed his keys off the counter, heading for the door. “Rana’s got like ten of her friends coming over here in like an hour. They all bringing they kids, too. You can sit in here with that or you can come with me. I know what I’d pick.”
“Fuck this shit,” Royce said under his breath as he gingerly stood up from the sofa and headed for the hallway. “Give me a second. Shit.”
“I’ll be in the truck,” Tyrell said as he left the house.
~~~~~~~~~~
Tyrell crouched down to line up his shot, eyeing the green in the distance as a slight breeze rustled the trees around them.
“C’mon, bruh. You not Tiger Woods. Just hit the fucking ball,” one of his friends, Leonard, said, drawing laughter from the rest of the group. “You should’ve been doing that when we started then you wouldn’t be seven over already.”
Tyrell shook his head, ignoring the jibe. It had, in fact, been a long day through the first five holes. He was already blaming it on the bit of alcohol he’d drank earlier but his boys knew him well enough to know he was just playing poorly.
Taking a deep breath, he stood up and hovered over the ball. He swung smoothly, the club connecting with the ball with a crisp crack, sending it soaring down the fairway. The ball arced through the air before landing just short of the green.
And then rolling into the fringe.
Tyrell shrugged as he endured more ribbing from his friends as he walked back to the cart.
Royce looked up from his phone as Tyrell shoved the club into the bag and hopped into the driver’s seat of the cart. Tyrell marked his scorecard before shoving it back into his pocket.
“Don’t be cheating over there, Ty!”
“Worry about your damn self, Raheim. We ain’t forget that plus-seven on the last hole,” Tyrell shot back as he sat back in the seat. He glanced over at Royce. “You ever watch golf?”
Royce shook his head. “Only sport I watch is football. Maybe a little basketball here or there, but I don’t really know anyone except for the big names.”
“I hear ya. I don’t really watch it either. I just play it with the guys. We get out here a couple times a month at least.”
“I ain’t gonna lie to you, but this shit a bit of a white man sport. Couldn’t pay me to get out here and play this shit.”
Tyrell laughed. “That’s the same shit I said, but all of us,” he said, gesturing to himself and his friends. “We all played college football or basketball. I’m not going to get hurt playing this, but you know what I might get hurt doing? Shit, probably will get hurt doing? Playing football at my big age. Knees going to get up and walk away on me. It helps that the job has a bunch of tournaments through the year. A lot of networking and all that. Might as well learn how to play the game they’re playing.”
Royce only shrugged, not really knowing how to answer that.
“I get what you’re going through, you know? With football, I mean. I never been shot or nothing like that. Couple niggas upped it on me, but never pulled the trigger. I guess they didn’t have the heart to take a life. Especially over the petty shit we were squabbling over.”
Royce looked at Tyrell out of the corner of his eye. Tyrell noticed the look and started laughing.
“If you tell Rana I said that shit, I’m going to lie and say that medicine fucking with your head. You know how them Tylenol 3s do you,” he said as he slowed to a stop behind the other three carts in their group. “But I get that football shit. One minute you’re big man on campus and the next, you ain’t shit. It’s crazy how fast it happens.”
“I ain’t never been no big man on campus,” Royce said, sucking his teeth after he said the words. “That was Rome. If they even had some shit like that at Terrebonne.”
“Bruh, I’m from Ferriday. We had 300 kids at Ferriday High. If it existed there, it existed at Terrebonne. I was a beast, though.”
“That’s what all y’all old heads say.”
“Shit, you can get on your phone and look me up. Your boy had 40 sacks in his career. Bob Barber, Mack Moore, me. Long line of defensive ends out Concordia.”
“Who the fuck is Bob Barber and Mack Moore?”
Tyrell shook his head and waved off the comment. “That’s the problem with you youngsters. None of y’all know y’all history, but want to play the game. See, I knew all the older dudes who went to the league back in my day.”
“You saying that like Louisiana is Wyoming or some shit. We got at least two or three who go league every year. And that’s just niggas in Louisiana Louisiana. Not wherever the fuck Concordia is.”
“I’m going to let the disrespect slide because you don’t know we got busy up in North Louisiana, too. Point is, I went to Southern, started all four years. Everyone swore I was going to go to the NFL even though it’s not too many HBCU guys who make it there. I figured out probably my sophomore year that I wasn’t going to the league. Changed my major from IS to chemical engineering and here we are. I still miss it, though. It’s crazy when you play your last game, and you know it’s your last one? You just want to go back and do it all over again.”
Royce leaned forward watching as one of Tyrell’s friends lined up his shot. “I ain’t know it was my last one.”
“Yeah, you right on that one. That shit doesn’t define who are or who you’re going to be as a man, though,” Tyrell said, gesturing to the group. “We all went from being college athletes to engineers, lawyers, political motherfuckers. There’s life after football, life after sports. On one hand, it’s fucked up you might’ve lost it at 17. On the other hand, that’s better than being 35 and trying to figure out what you’re doing next.”
“Man, I came from nothing. The bottom of the trenches. I’m not about to be no fucking engineer or lawyer.”
“Sports aren’t the only way for a Black man to come up in this world, lil’ bro. You don’t need to go to LSU. Go to Southern, Grambling. Shit, go to Nicholls or Southeastern, ULL. Get a degree and make something shake.”
Royce shook his head. “That sounds like a quick way to end up in debt and working at fucking McDonald’s. If I ain’t got football then I might as well go hit one of them rigs outta Fourchon.”
It was Tyrell’s turn to shake his head. “If you’re going to do that, at least go get your fucking P-Tech or instrument tech and get on at one of these plants working a normal schedule.”
“Normal schedule, but still out in that heat.”
“Thought you bayou boys were used to the heat. We got real seasons up in Ferriday.”
“That’s how you know it ain’t Louisiana,” Royce said, laughing.
Tyrell gestured to the bag of clubs behind them. “Go take my next shot for me.”
“Man, I don’t know how to hit no damn golf ball.”
“Just hold the club like a baseball bat,” Tyrell said as he got out of the car to retrieve a club. He held it out to Royce. “Look at the brand name on the ball, keep looking at the brand name on the ball, swing the club and hit that bitch.”
Royce took the club from him and got out of the cart. “Don’t be mad when I put that bitch in the street.”
-
djp73
- Posts: 13183
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Oh this a PGA chise