It felt, in my early adolescence, there was nothing more ruthless than running.
For reasons I could not understand at the time, I had stopped being able to beat anyone in a race. In the fifth grade, I was among the faster boys in my class, and I delighted in stealing bases during baseball games. One summer, I was actually berated by my coach for stealing without being given any sign, for freelancing it to second base. But wasn’t I safe? Coach Tommy of the Dyker Heights Knights did not care. I hadn’t listened. He was a fleshy, garrulous man, gray-haired and slick-skinned, his Brooklynese impeccable. You took direction from Coach Tommy, or you sat on the bench. I tried to not ignore the signs.
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