Painting the Black Read Online Free Page A

bathroom. That lasted for two months. Sometime in there Brett moved away.
    Then came the day when all the casts and wrappings came off. The doctors had warned me my legs would be weak and skinny; my mom and dad had told me the same thing. I just didn’t believe them. I thought that happened to everyone else, but that I’d be different, that I’d pop out of bed and be like new—able to run and jump as well as ever, better even.
    And then . . . there they were. A scaly, scrawny left arm. Two skinny, pathetic-looking white strings for legs. I couldn’t run—I could barely walk. My right ankle ached. I couldn’t bend it, and walking stiff-legged made my left hip sore.
    I was depressed for a while, but then I came out of it. I figured all I needed to do was work and I’d be as good as new.
    I did my physical therapy exercises, all of them, every day. And I got stronger and was able to run a little and do things. Only not as well as before. Not nearly as well. So I worked harder, tried harder, got down on my knees and prayed to God. But things that had been so easy and natural—running, hitting, throwing, and catching a baseball—felt awkward and unnatural.
    And then, one day, I faced it: I wasn’t going to make it back. There was no point in endlessly banging my head against a brick wall. For five years I didn’t pick up a baseball.
    Until Josh Daniels.

6
    The next morning Josh was waiting for me. His front door opened before I made it halfway up his porch steps. “Good to see you,” he said as he stepped out. He handed me a catcher’s mitt and a mask and a little piece of sponge. “If you shove that in your mitt, your hand won’t hurt so much.” He grinned. “And you should get yourself a cup too, unless you don’t plan on having any children.”
    When we reached the diamonds, I wanted to throw the ball right away. But Josh shook his head. “We’ve got all morning. We should stretch out first, run a little, get loose. Do it right.”
    I felt my body go tense. The stretching was okay, but I didn’t want to run. He’d be too fast, and I’d feel like a fool. I swallowed. “I’ll stretch out,” I said, “but I’m not sure how my ankle will hold up running.”
    â€œIt’s that bad?”
    â€œIt’s not very good.”
    Stretching has always seemed like a waste of time to me, but Josh was dead serious. Ankles, calves, hamstrings, groin, hips, torso, arms, neck—he stretched everything. I watched whatever he did and copied as best I could. The whole routine took at least half an hour. Finally he stopped. “What do you think? Seven, eight laps?”
    â€œI’ll try,” I said. “But don’t you stop just because I do.”
    It’s about a quarter of a mile around both fields. Josh had long strides, but he wasn’t churning his legs fast. My strides were short and choppy, but I was able to keep up. And my ankle didn’t hurt—not at that pace.
    We ran a lap, two laps, three laps. Slowly, probably without even knowing it, he picked up his pace. My breath was coming faster; my heart was thumping; my lungs burned; my side ached. As we finished our fourth lap, I slowed to a walk. “Go on,” I said.
    He ran backwards for a few steps. “You okay?”
    â€œI’m fine,” I answered. “I’m just going to walk a little.”
    He nodded, and I watched as he took off by himself. Free of me, he ran effortlessly, like a dolphin moving in water. As I watched him, memories of running—of pure, painless running—came flooding back to me. There was a time when I ran the way he did, when I could get there, wherever it was, faster than anybody.
    When he finished his eighth lap, Josh put his hands on his hips and walked around the outfield in wide circles. He was sweating pretty good, but he wasn’t breathing hard at all. Finally he