...Well, Monday came. After Track practice I headed up the stairs from the field to the Attucks' parking lot and was going to traverse on into the gymnasium doors, go down another flight of stairs once I entered the building, take a shower, put on my street clothes, get into my awaited Father's vehicle of choice a 1982 Mercury Cougar commandeered by he himself. But...; alas, life, once again has its own destinal plan. There he sat, on top of the hood of his 1982 Light Yellow Oldsmobile Toronado.
"Damn y'all practice Track that long and have the nerves to bitch and moan about the ninety minutes we take away from y'alls youthful lives?"
The fuck man! I ain't got no answers with my young ass! Fuck you want me to say? Oh, he didn't want me to say anything. That was Coach Grundy being Coach Grundy.
Then he started telling me about my sorry fucked up so-called sprinters' walk...
(Peace! More to come...)
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