Free Split Decision by Todd Hafer Page B

of bread.
    He heard himself grunt as his torso bounced off the grass. He wasn’t sure he had caught the ball until he unclenched his mitt and looked inside.
    This is better than any birthday present I ever unwrapped , he thought, with a wince and a smile. But it isn’t my present; it’s Bart’s.
    Cody worked himself to a standing position— which, due to being almost breathless and feeling as if someone had used a hammer to pound a drum solo on his ribs—was a several-step process.
    Tentatively, he began to jog toward Bart. He felt like crying out, “Ow!” with each stride, but he forced a smile across his face instead, holding the ball out in his right hand.
    “Good win!” he managed to wheeze to Bart as he handed him the ball. “Way to pitch, dude!”
    Bart said nothing. He merely grabbed Cody in a bear hug. Ooh , thought Cody. This is so not good for the ribs. But it’s good for the heart!

Chop’s Killer Bod

    C ody lay in the infield grass, eyes closed. He drank in the aromas of track, an odd mix of tropical suntan lotions and the sharp medicinal odor of various liniments and muscle rubs.
    He had just cheered Robyn to a third-place finish in the 200 meters and now had time for a quick ten-minute catnap before pulling for Gage McClintock in the 400. He found himself wishing Drew were nearby, but, as this was a freshman meet, Drew wouldn’t be competing.
    I doubt that Drew will ever run a freshman meet , Cody laughed to himself. He’d probably lap everybody in the field, so what would be the point? Of course, at this point, I’m wondering if I will ever get to compete in a freshman meet myself.
    “Looks like you’re doing a good job of resting those sore ribs,” Cody heard a voice say. He opened his eyes and looked up at Coach Clayton. “Yeah, Coach,” he said lazily. “A few more days of lying out here in the springtime sun and I’ll be as good as new.”
    “I hope so, dawg. I can’t wait to see what you’re capable of this year. Drew thinks you will break five minutes in the mile. I tend to agree.”
    Cody snorted in spite of himself. “Well, I don’t know about that. That’s pretty quick, and I didn’t even get within shouting distance of sub-five last year.”
    “Yeah, but last year was a long time ago. You’re taller, stronger. If I look real close, I can almost see some muscle tone on those skinny legs and those long monkey arms of yours.”
    Cody forced a laugh. “Well, that’s probably just because the sun’s in your eyes or something.”
    After his coach had jogged away, Cody slipped to a restroom and pulled off the top of his track warm-ups. He studied his reflection in the mirror . Huh , he thought, I do believe I am getting some muscle goin’ on. Guess I’ll leave this warm-up off—see if Robyn notices.

    Like Cody, Pork Chop didn’t compete in the early-April frosh invitational either. But his left-handed shot put attempts were becoming less and less awkward and amusing. There was a chance he could compete before the season, if only at the freshman level. That meant, Cody knew, that it was time for the conversation he had been dreading.
    The Monday after the freshman meet, Cody sat in the locker room, in front of Chop’s locker, waiting for his friend to finish his shower. You could distinguish Deke Porter’s locker from all the others, as it was peppered with dents and dings, as if someone had attacked it with a ball-peen hammer. In the center of the locker loomed “The Crater,” a deep indentation that Cody suspected was created by Chop’s helmet sometime during football season. What Cody didn’t know was if his friend’s head had been in the helmet at the time.
    In his head, Cody began playing a highlight reel of Pork Chop’s Greatest Tantrums of the Past Sports Year—Chop hurling his helmet like a discus after giving up a sack during a midseason scrimmage. Screaming at—and then tossing—rail-thin Kris Knight for accidentally bumping into him in the hallway.