Chapter 8 · free to read
Twelve years of muscle memory, backwards. For six weeks I was worse than a schoolboy and every single rep hurt in a place that had nothing to do with my knee.
Eleven names on a tin wall. It is not a plan. It is a wall you have to look at every time you decide whether to get up.
Two hundred and forty steps. Left leg drives, right leg only catches. Six days a week for seven months, and by the end of it my left thigh was a centimetre and a half bigger than my right.
Two hundred and fourteen days without throwing the best strike I ever owned. The old man kept the count himself so that I would not be able to lie to either of us.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.