A Bleacher Boy's Perspective (BoyxBoy)

Chapter 1

I start my morning like any other day. My dad barging in my room at 5 o'clock in the morning with a blow horn. And me being a stubborn ass, as much as I can.

"It's time to get up!" he yells into my ear. It's not like the horn makes his voice louder or anything. Pft.

I groan, covering my ears with my pillow. Hoping and praying that for once--he might actually let me sleep in.

"Get up son we need to do our morning jog and take our exercise smoothie--"

I shiver. "You mean that puke concoction you've started making? Nooo, thank you." I rudely interrupt, snuggling deeper into my pillow.

My dad rolls his eyes before pulling the duvet from beneath me with one effortless swipe. Being as light as I am, I fall.

Head first.

Into the ground.

The wooden ground might I add, because you know the details matter and all.

What a perfect way to start the morning don't you think?

"That 'puke concoction'." he says. "Is what is going to get you fit. And so is this run. You know you need to start exercising more! Maybe you can start playing football by your junior year."

And this would be the time I should probably explain to you what my dad does for a living. He's a coach. A big, buff football coach for MY high school. Which wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't so insistent that I become part of the team. And I don't know? Felt the need to remind me of this whenever we crossed paths at school? Then it wouldn't be so bad.

I'm scrawny. I have no upper body strength. I'm a photographer and have no interest in contact sports. So to put it simply, I'm the exact opposite of what my father wants me to be.

Somehow he thinks that if I run with him every morning, eat three balanced meals a day, and drink his stupid puke juice that it will change. But it won't. It hasn't. Sure I have great endurance, but some people just weren't meant to do sports. And I was definitely one of them.

I tell him this. I tell him that I'm different and that as much as I would love to do sports (ehem, not.) I just can't. I'd humiliate myself. And the guys on his team aren't exactly the saints he thinks they are. I would never fit in. And I definitely don't need that.

I think a small part of him knows this. Ever since I was a kid I sucked at anything that involved a ball. But he just ignores me when I try to tell him this. That's how much it means to him. And that's why every morning after I've complained a little bit and forget the crazy idea that he might actually change his mind--I crawl out of bed and get dressed for our daily jog. After all, it's the least I could do for him.

"Alright." I mumble, rubbing at my still stinging face. "I'll get dressed and meet you at the door."

You should have seen the way his face broke into a smile. I honestly thought for a second his face might break from the happiness he was expressing. "That's what I'm talking about son!" he says patting me on the back. I wince, because dad's 'pats' feel like someone hammering you in the back. Which as you can imagine, isn't the most pleasant feeling in the world. "I'll meet you at the door in two minutes." he orders me, slamming the door behind him and running down the stairs enthusiastically.

As soon as the footsteps have subsided, I finally let out the air that I hadn't even realized I had been holding in. I quickly pull my Ramones t-shirt over my head, wincing when it hits between my shoulder blades. Walking over to my mirror I turn around to see a big purple bruise the shape of a hand forming on my back.

If my father wasn't so strong and I wasn't so weak this wouldn't happen so often. I suppose it isn't his fault that I bruise so easily. Sighing, I pull on a pair of silver basketball shorts. Opening the door, I rushingly slip on my running shoes and make my way towards the back door. If there was anything dad was serious about more than sports it was about being punctual. And I couldn't disappoint.