NOW

Ten feet above the ground, the ball continued to fall like a pale stone hurled by a spectator from the stands.

In midair, Henry stretched his left arm until he felt the pull in his elbow. Felt his shoulder might pop right out of the socket. Felt his fingers extend tight against the rough leather inside of the mitt.

The crowd roared louder. Cheering. Shouting. Henry imagined all those whiteys in fine suits clapping backs and shoulders. They probably thought good ol' Jake had just sealed the win with a triple. They were wearing white-colored glasses. They hadn't counted on any of us dark-skinned brothers coming even close to catching the ball. Not yet at least.

Five feet from the ground. Henry's glove closed in on the ball. Still out of reach.

The ball plummeted faster.

Everything in him was reaching, straining, pulling—

Henry groaned.

So close.

Then Henry hit the ground so hard his eyes snapped shut. The ground punched the air out of his gut, like a cue ball shooting past his throat and banking out of his mouth in a low grunt.

The celebration fell to a near silence. 

For a moment, Henry kept his eyes closed. Then slowly he opened them.

There it was, the ball like a golden egg, sitting in the center of his glove.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter of "Color", please consider leaving a vote or a comment. I add a new chapter, sometimes two, every Sunday. I live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania so that's EST.

You know, sometimes writing is a very lonely process. When I finish a chapter, a million thoughts go through my head. Things like:

Will anyone even like what I just wrote?

Why the BLEEP did I write that?

Maybe I should just give up.

Sometimes that inner critic can scream pretty darn loud. Tell you all the things you can't do. All the things you shouldn't do. Have you ever had moments like this?

Bottom Line: If there's anything I can do to make this story better, please don't hesitate to let me know.

Thanks,

Tom