Let’s say I never set out on that shiny Schwinn that I thought was a special present from my dad, but which turned out to be just a free ten-speed the dealer had “thrown in” with his new truck. And let’s say I wasn’t taking the bike to the tennis courts because I had no other ride. Then we can forget how I hung my tennis racket through the handbrake wires, and how the racket dropped into the front wheel as I was flying down that hill and stopped the bike dead and sent me hurtling over the handlebars.
Because, if I’m not on that bike, then I’ll never land helmetless head first on the pavement and lay sprawled there for minutes trying to make sense of what’s happened until I hear car brakes and open my eyes to a find a strange woman kneeling beside my road-rashed body. And we can fast forward right past my parents’ eventual arrival at the hospital, and ignore the curses under Mom’s breath and the whiskey on Dad’s.
Actually, let’s drop the bike altogether, and imagine that my dad does drive me to the courts. And that for the entire drive, Dad talks to me about building a game plan and sticking to a strategy. And while we’re stretching things, suppose my dad stays to watch. He sits there on the bleachers in his Izod and visor and cheers for my good shots and throws his big hairy arm around my sweaty shoulders. And if Dad’s too much to ask for, then I’ll settle for making it to the match on my own. I’ll settle for winning the whole tournament, and having a scouting pro who “likes my potential” and who begs me to board at his training camp—a camp which just so happens to be far, far from home.
Coleman Bigelow's work has appeared recently, or is upcoming, in Brilliant Flash Fiction, Cleaver, Flash Boulevard, Ghost Parachute, Gooseberry Pie and NFFD. Find more at: www.colemanbigelow.com or follow him on Instagram @cbigswrites and Bluesky @cbigs.bsky.social.
"And if Dad’s too much to ask for, then I’ll settle for making it to the match on my own." This one cuts deep, Coleman. SO good!
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