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I was supposed to like sports. I decided to like basketball. It was a sport that no one would ever encourage me to play. I was stocky and broad. I was good for football Basketball? No fucking way.
So I watched basketball. I got to know it. I started watching games. I started learning and studying the motions – every detail of subtle nuance and turn. It became a language to learn, a living ballet. I could hide inside it. Inside the dancing — inside my mind — I would be safe.
I watched and watched and watched. One night I was completely engrossed when my father changed the channel. I was bewildered, outraged, and groggy. I snapped out of my trance into a confused anger. He had ended my thoughts at the worst possible moment. He was always fucking doing that. I snapped. I told him I was watching that show. I told him to put it back on.
I knew immediately that I had fucked up badly. Then the world was a flash of pure white. I didn’t realize he had punched me until he hit me again. I had no frame of reference for the feeling. The first strike was a painful flash of light. The second was shock, disorientation.
I fell over. He punched me again on the way down. My mind was screaming: “He’s punching me!” I lost my glasses. I was blind.
I heard plates breaking and footsteps coming — heavy footsteps from the kitchen.
My mother was calling him a motherfucker, or screaming “you motherfucker!” I could hear her slapping. I could see the blurry blobs of their bodies battling. Blurry mom slapped blurry dad repeatedly. She slapped him on the arms, chest, and face. Some were closed fist shots. I heard the impact thudding on his ribs.
Blurry mom was holding her own, I thought. Then blurry dad wrapped his hands around her throat. He squeezed. Her body changed instantly.
Trouble!
My instincts were screaming. I found my glasses. I didn’t think he could do this. Now it’s too late. She can’t breath. He’s too strong.
She looked at me with shock and animal fear, but I also saw a hint of concern. She couldn’t breath. She was dying. And my wellbeing was still her concern. She loved me.
He had her on the floor now. His foot was pressed firmly to her throat. Her face was turning slightly blue. Her eyes were locked on me with warm motherhood and panic. Her instincts were clashing with the situation. She was caught in a loop of emotion and one single thought. Repeat it.
I must protect my babies and I can’t.
I must protect my babies and I can’t.
I must protect my babies and I can’t.
I must protect my babies and I can’t.
I must protect my babies and I can’t.
Ad nauseam. My mother was never the same after that night. Neither was I. He changed us. He changed us all. I stopped watching basketball.
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