BROKEN TOES

BROKEN TOES

Most people who knew Henry secretly thought he resembled an egret. No one teased him about it though because Henry was basically a nice boy; a little off-the-wall sometimes, but nice nonetheless.

Henry was tall and skinny with big feet and ears which protruded a little more than his mama would have preferred. But his main regret about himself was a body whose appendages never seemed to quite work in sync. Physical coordination was not Henry’s strong suit. His good friends called him “Bones.”

Too, Henry was slow afoot. And not satisfied with being slow, he tried everything imaginable to make himself run faster. He tried shaving the sides of his head to cut down on wind resistance. And while pumping 36-inch arms, he tried extending his hands in karate-chop fashion thinking it might give him an aerodynamic advantage.

And during a race when the chips were on the line, he never, ever, wore shoes. His size 12 clodhoppers always made him feel like he was going in slow motion, or if it were possible, slower motion. They perpetually tended to bump into each other, sending him into a trip, stumble or fall.

As a kid, Henry always wanted to play football. Actually, he didn’t merely want to play; he wanted to be one of those guys in the backfield who made touchdowns. The girls at Woodlawn High school also gave him a little extra incentive. They got all moony-eyed over football players; especially the left halfback who, in the old T-formation, was usually the team’s best athlete.

When Henry tried out for the team, a bewildered coach shook his head at Henry’s loosey-goosey gait and lack of speed. He said, “Son, if you want to play football, it’s not going to be in the backfield. You are just too slow. You got long arms; maybe we’ll put you at the end position.” And that’s how Henry ended up as a third-string end. Or maybe it was fourth string. Where else are you going to put an egret?

It was a very unsatisfying situation for Henry because in his mind he thought he could run like the wind, especially if he didn’t have shoes to slow him down. For days he pestered the coach to let him run some plays at halfback, “Please Coach, just one or two plays. You’ll see how good I am.”

The coach threw his clipboard down in aggravation, “Dadgummit Bones, you’re driving me crazy; well okay, get yourself in there and show me what you got.”

The play called was a pitchout to the left halfback (Henry) around right end. Knowing it was a defining moment in his young life, Henry discreetly slipped off his heavy-as-boat-anchors size-12s. The coach didn’t see him do it.

When the ball was centered, the quarterback pivoted and tossed it back. Henry caught it gracefully enough and then his long legs took over, swooping and looping around and behind the blocking offensive line.

Henry was just a hair's breadth from stardom when the old appendages failed him again. He was just a little off balance - maybe out of control is a better description. How about wildly out of control?

Unable to retard his forward momentum, a surprised Henry ran smack into a surprised blocker. During the collision, Henry’s sock-clad right foot connected with the lineman’s high-top cleats, breaking four of Henry’s toes clean as a whistle…big toe, long toe, and on down the line.

While waiting for someone to come and collect him, he heard the big lineman mutter, “Gobsmacker! I never seen anything like it; ole Bones running around barefooted and all.”

So in the waning light of an autumn day, sitting on a cinder-covered field and clutching his toes, Henry decided maybe he’d give basketball a try.