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The bar was perhaps six and a half feet from the floor. Mitch was about to lift Matty to it when he leapt in place, caught the bar with his hands and began to chin himself. Mitch watched. When Matty got to twenty, Mitch stopped him. Matty dropped his left arm, hanging from his right. His face was red, but he did not seem tired. |
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"How about one hand only?" |
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Without a word, Matty pulled himself to the bar so that his chin cleared his fist. Then with the same deliberate motions, he lowered himself and repeated the cycle. Astonished, Mitch watched the boy pump himself up and down. Mitch stopped him at tenall with one hand. |
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"Move over, Ted Williams," Mitch said, struggling to restrain himself. The boy was a phenomenon. |
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"Can I have my uniform now?" Matty asked. |
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"Sure, but just one more thing," Mitch said. He didn't know how much farther he could push it. He sat the boy down and wiped his finger with an alcohol pad. "Just going to take a little blood, okay?" He pulled out a small syringe. |
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"Any guy who can do ten one-handed chinups can't be afraid of a little needle." |
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"Then what's the problem?" |
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"How you going to take it?" |
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Matty thought about it for a minute. "I guess. Then I've got to go." |
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"No problem," Mitch said. |
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Mitch pushed up the sleeve of Matty's shirt. No signs of needle marks. "I think the other arm will be better, actually." Before Matty knew it, Mitch pushed up that sleeve. Nothing there either. "Make a fist." |
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Matty's forearm swelled into a small ham. It looked like the arm of a boy five years his senior. Mitch tapped it until a blue, ropy vein pressed to the surface. Matty winced slightly when Mitch inserted the needle. While he drew out the blood, Mitch kept up a monologue about baseball, all the while studying the boy's face. If he were on drugs at the moment, his mannerisms didn't betray him. He was simply nervous about the exam. |
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