I run as fast as I can, racing for dimes and nickels, that the garbage men who are watching throw on the city street. They have side-bets with one another, so they cheer for their kid. I can still feel the red cobblestone that clanks beneath my Pro Keds, and hear my breath that was young and still innocent.
I remember tying twice with Rips, the fastest kid in the area, and the change on the street grew into a pile. The rubbish men, all black men, gathered closer and really yelled as we lined up for a third time to race.
I lose. The man that had bet the most on me- looked over at me-with disappointment. I was eight or nine, and learned that look that day. I would see it again, when I'd strike out in little league in my friends eyes, again on a blind date every time they see me, and from my eyes when I later would give up and stop trying.