Eight Seconds, No Swing

The shoulder voted twice and I keep replaying which two shots. Not because Danny will ask — he'll ask tomorrow. Because I'm the only one who knows the difference between a vote and a warning, and I sat on the floor after and didn't tell anyone which one it was.

Voss's manager filed a written complaint. Lou said show me the licence paper. I said then we fight Saturday. I heard myself say it like a man who'd already lost something and was daring them to take the rest. The AIS injury — the one that ended me in the pool at twenty-two — is now a sentence on a form someone photocopied and mailed to a board I don't respect. I am being asked to prove I am not the boy who drowned. I have been proving it every morning for three years. I am tired of proving it on paper.

Brayden. Jules had blood on her sleeve and I was at the ropes. Eight seconds to the back gate. I didn't swing. I want that on the record. I stood close and let the distance do it. I am also not going to pretend I didn't want to. His jaw was right there, and I didn't, and I am not sure if that's discipline or just fear of a second headline with my name in it. Either way I am the man who didn't swing. I will take it.