Time Flying by Dan Garmen Read Free Book Online Page A

him. All of our conflicts lie in the future, and here he wore his concern on his face. Coach MacLaren squatted down next to me, like he did in front of the bench during a game, missing only the small blue towel he always kept draped over his shoulder. 'Sit here a minute and we'll get you to the nurse.'
    I nodded. My three would-be helpers had vanished, preferring to get lost in the crowd rather than face the attention of two members of the most hallowed varsity basketball team. I laughed a little to myself when I realized this. If they only knew how little all of it mattered, I thought.
     
     
    Throughout my 4 years at Ben Davis High School, I'd never been to the nurse's office, so I had no feeling of familiarity when I walked in followed by Coach MacLaren. For the first time since this whole thing began, life seemed to move under its own power, new experiences every second. Mrs Givern entered, her long, straight hair a perfect black. I never realized until this moment, Mrs Givern was Native American. Why hadn't I ever noticed it before?
    She was  always pleasant, and today was no exception. 'What's the trouble?' 
    Coach MacLaren spoke up. “Mr Girrard here had a bit of a dizzy spell in the hallway and lost his footing. Seems to be all right now, but I wanted your opinion, Mrs Givern.”
    She nodded, and indicated I should have a seat in the chair by her desk. She opened a cabinet and retrieved a thermometer. 'Open, please.' She stuck the thermometer in my mouth and lightly took my wrist to check my pulse. A few seconds later she nodded and dropped my arm, waited a few seconds before taking the thermometer out of my mouth. Another satisfied nod and she bent down, looking into each of my eyes, one at a time, and lifting the lids to check something I guess would tell her whether she expected me to die or not.
    Dropping the second eyelid, she turned toward Coach MacLaren, patiently leaning against the door jamb and said, “He seems fine, Coach.” And to me, “Are you still dizzy?”
    “No...Uh, my leg hurt a bit and I got a little light-headed,” I replied, “really, that’s all.”
    Mrs. Givern considered me, squinting slightly. “I’ll give you some aspirin for the pain. Are you doing physical therapy for your leg?”
    I tried to think fast. I had done a bit of physical therapy, but the frustration and pain had gotten to me, so I'd stopped before finishing the whole course. When did I stop? I wondered. It was 30 years ago from my perspective, but in 1976, it had been a few weeks, at most, since I’d quit PT. Almost like a computer, downloading a web page, I could sense the memory of the events in question seeping back into my head. Three weeks ago, I'd quit. Three weeks ago yesterday, to be exact.
    “I haven't been in a couple weeks, but I'm going in on Friday after school,” I lied. Why did I do that, I wondered? The words had come out before I thought, which I found strange.
    “You need to do your physical therapy, Mr Girrard,” the nurse said sternly, but with the hint of a smile. “You know how important it is to the healing process.”
    “I know,” I replied.
    Coach MacLaren straightened up and agreed. “You need to keep with the physical therapy, Rich. We need you in the fall, and it's going to be important for you to be in the gym this summer.”
    The summer . I didn't set foot in the gym in the summer of 1976, not even once. Varsity basketball players worked out together at least once and preferably twice a day in the summer, and though no coaching was allowed by Indiana High School Athletic Association rules, Coach MacLaren always supervised (a faculty member had to be present any time the gym was open to students), sitting silently in the stands or in his office. I hadn't spent any time in the gym because of the pain and because of the weakness in my left leg. I always intended to eventually start working out that summer, but it was always “next week," which never came. I'd never gone