You Will Never Be Balling

[MonteCristo]

“133 lbs,” read the scale. “133 lbs,” it blinked, echoing the number displayed a week ago. Ripley stared at the measurement, wiped the sweat from his face, rubbed his eyes, blinked, and stared again. The scale flashed the same result, taunting him as it had every weekend with a mere “133”. Ripley, whose body ached and thumped and shuddered and burned and hurt from head to heel, tried to convince himself that his eyes were just a little tired. It was an intense workout; his eyes needed a minute to adjust, then they’d see clearly.

Ripley attempted an exasperated sigh but wrung out an exhausted wheeze that abruptly broke into a coughing fit. Ripley, taken by surprise, buckled over the bathroom sink gasping for air. His workout had pushed his lungs to the limit for nearly an hour, and now they demanded that Ripley lie down and catch his breath. But rest was for the frail, so Ripley seized the edge of the sink to hoist himself up. Ripley struggled to support himself on his arms but gradually raised his upper body until he stood straight. He clutched the sink harder as he focused on steadying his breath.

But as his grip tightened and his knuckles whitened, Ripley felt the rest of his body beg him to surrender and collapse onto the floor. There he would have the chance to cool down. There he could finally stabilize his breathing. There he might keep himself afloat if waves of frustration and degradation flooded his mind—and the way things were going, they were sure to come.

Ripley felt his right arm cramp, and in the ensuing rush of pain, he almost toppled over. Only his left arm held him somewhat steady, but it tensed and trembled precariously, warning Ripley that he couldn’t hang on for much longer. But he couldn't let go! He swore he wouldn’t fall down this time! Desperately Ripley’s eyes darted around the room, searching for something he could cling to.

Once again, he glanced down at the scale; once again, it read “133 lbs”. With that final look, Ripley could no longer pretend to deny what he knew from the start. So he sank.

Ripley was crumpled on his side, methodically guiding his right hand across his left arm and squeezing it at predetermined points. His shoulder had not changed; his bicep had not changed; his forearm had not changed; his wrist had not changed. Everything was the same as last week, which meant everything was the same as the week before last. Even after nearly a month of his best efforts, Ripley had gained nothing. No definition, no bulk, no endurance, no strength—only countless nights coming home a corpse before crashing on the bed.

Instinctively Ripley’s hand drifted to his elbow, where he felt a familiar grasp seize him. It pinned Ripley down, kept him in his place, and refused to let him go—he had been trapped in its clutches since sixth grade.

The worst of Ripley’s life overwhelmed him. Being grappled so forcefully that he thought his elbow would shatter. Facing someone nearly three times his size, whose condemnations were so vitriolic they burned his ears. Trying to look that man in the eyes while his vision kept blurring. Whimpering as he failed to swallow his panic, fear, and distress. Feeling smaller than he was not just then but every year since.

Ripley could only shut his eyes and endure as his coach’s accusations rang out and cut him down to size. What the hell was he thinking? What was he trying to do? Embarrass himself, like he hadn’t botched it enough already? Or did he think he was some athletic powerhouse who could make every shot he took? Like he wasn’t dead weight to the team? What, he really thought he could pull it off? Seriously? With that physique? With those scrawny excuses for legs? With arms so feeble a kid could snap them in half? With how much of an absolute jackass he was? What was wrong with him? What is wrong with him?

Six years had passed, yet all those words still held true. Six years had passed, yet Ripley couldn’t leave that awful season behind. Six years had passed, yet he was still wasting his time, still sitting on the sidelines watching the game play out without him, still refusing to acknowledge that he’d never be athletic enough, bright enough, sensible enough, confident enough, tall enough-

Slowly, Ripley exhaled.

His thoughts had run amok again, conjuring up a swarm of absurd ideas and demoralizing lies, so he let them all out in a single breath. A few of them still buzzed in the back of his mind, but Ripley had cleared his head enough to ignore them in favor of some reason and rationality.

His build would definitely improve; he had simply been exercising wrong. He needed to push himself harder. No pain, no gain, after all. Five, seven, maybe twelve more minutes per workout would do the trick. He’d be in shape in no time, no problem. He’d be fine—he always had been. But right now, he needed to sleep off his exhaustion, which had grown so strong that it was affecting his train of thought, evidenced by that slight funk he just got out of.

Ripley rose to his feet to leave the bathroom, but his legs wobbled relentlessly. Ripley chuckled awkwardly. Was he that weak tired? Ripley placed his hand on the edge of the sink for support as he staggered to the door. He refused to look in the mirror on his way out.