What does getting ready look like? At Gunther Field I just go without any grand or official starting postures. I’m adrift and something else feels wrong. I realize why. Even on my home turf I walk the length of the field before I run. This seems more important than ever now.
“Hang on!” I call. “I need to do this walking first.”
The artificial grass is bristly—not as soft as real grass yet not as hard as sidewalk—but strangely flat. It feels odd to have the surface I’m about to run on be so featureless without being firm.
“Right… more to the right,” Coach says.
I veer a little.
“Not so much. You’re very good at walking a straight line. Lots of practice?”
“Lots of Dad time.”
“We’re here,” he says. “Touchdown. Ready to run it now?”
No. But I nod anyway. What the hell am I doing? Why am I doing it? And why am I still doing it even after asking these questions and having no answers?
“Go, Parker!” Molly calls from the sidelines. “Run like the wind!”
In addition to my usual black running clothes, I’m wearing my hachimaki today. I hope this doesn’t turn into a Kamikaze run…
“I see the devil coming!” Jason shouts. “He looks pretty fast!”
“All right, you two,” Coach barks. “And the rest of you in the peanut gallery, stay put!”
The rest of you?!
“Point at me!” Coach calls from ahead. I do. “Perfect. Tell me when you’re ready!”
I crouch a bit, right foot back, left foot forward. “Ready!”
What… the hell… am I doing?
“Ready… Set…” CRACK!
Divine Wind.
I don’t know where I’m going and should be worried running blind in a strange place for the first time but after years of practice my body knows how to do this and I’m not afraid. I’m counting steps and I pass thirty so I’m probably halfway and there’s nothing to hit and there are people here to warn me if I get off track— “Right!” Coach says and his voice is a lot closer than I expect…
… and my wheels slip off the rails…
… and the train wreck begins…
I remember something like this from when I was a little kid, running downstairs, feet in a rhythm in time with gravity’s pull as your body drops down, down—thump thump thump—and then suddenly you think about what you’re doing and something changes… Your brain was controlling your feet automatically but then you’re suddenly handed the controls and now you’re aware of needing to execute every single step one at a time, like thinking about your breathing and then your body stops doing it and you have to take over and do it yourself and wonder how you can stop doing it and give control back to whatever part of your brain normally does it when you’re not paying attention, but your brain just hands you the steering wheel while you’re running down the stairs and suddenly you’re driving but incapable of handling this speed and in that moment you either manage to slow down, you stumble, or you fall.
“Parker!” Molly shouts, as if this might help as I fly into the darkness, barely managing to pull in my arms and turn my right shoulder in to take the force of the fall and roll.
My shoulder aches and feels scratched but I’m all right. I want to jump up like nothing happened, to minimize the amount of time people see me sprawled out on the plastic grass… then I remember I don’t care. I’d much rather lie here and rest a minute. I roll onto my back and flop my arms out.
And then everyone’s around me, over me, buzzing, Molly especially.
“Parker, are you okay? Did you trip on something?”
“Just myself,” I say, breathing heavy. “It’s hard to explain, but really, you know, since I’m blind, you probably should have been surprised if I didn’t trip.”
“Go on, step back everyone,” Coach says. “Can you stand?”
“Oh, definitely. But I really don’t want to.”
“Come on, people, back up, let her breathe.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Give her air. And warm sun on her face. Someone’s in her light.” Whoever it is moves because now I feel the warmth again.
“Seriously, stand up,” Coach says. “Let’s make sure you’re okay.”
I sigh, outwardly, and groan a little. I slowly stand up and people applaud. Too many to count but I guess not more than a dozen so not too bad.
“I was just kidding about the devil,” Jason says.
I smirk. “I wasn’t.”
“You’re fine,” Coach says. “You’re seeping out of that shoulder. It needs to be washed and dressed before you change or you’ll get your shirt bloody.”
“So how’d I do? What was my time? Do I make the team?” I use my wry voice; I’m not sure I want to do this again.
“Well, you’ll have to learn to use a starting block,” Coach says.
“That shouldn’t be too hard.”
“And how to run a hundred meters without taking a dirt dive.”