OK, here we are again; except this time, I get to declaim!This is fiction, any similarities to any persons, places, thoughts, craziness or any other such things are purely coincidental; once again thanks to Erin for the remarkable restraint in putting up with what amounts to a crazy drunk banging on your front door, spouting half understood gibberish.

Beginnings are tricky things...even now, I can't be sure when it began. I know when I first noticed it of course, but when it first began? What if it was percolating days or weeks before? What if, the first sign I noticed was merely the end of the cascade of changes that began innocently and painlessly days, weeks or months before? Could better detection change the outcomes of myself and so many others with the same problems? Bah! Again my attention wanders, and the focus of thought is diffused into another of many prisms, to scatter like light through many colors and variations. I REALLY have to watch that.

At any rate, the beginning I noticed was a simple stumble, hardly a big indicator of what was on the way. Just a simple stumble while running during a baseball game, after I hit easy triple into left field. Not even enough to send me into the dirt, just enough to slow me a little and cause one of those 'what the hell?' moments, as it seemed as if I'd tripped on nothing at all. Not that I let it stop me of course. Sliding into home plate just to add a little insult to injury, I accepted all the high fives and fist bumps.
"Well done Myrc. We're in the playoffs now for sure!"

Yes, of course that's me, Myrcial; 5 ft 7 inches, 135 lbs of lanky muscular scot/irish american freight train, rolling over any and all competition. The name means mercy, and it's ironic, because I have absolutely none when someone tries to make fun of it. Being a 14 year old sports prodigy isn't always fun; I quickly check my phone and review my list of mental curses.
"Coach, can I miss the after game huddle? I'll be late if I don't hurry." Coach Reynolds, of course, grins, the sadist.
"Sure thing Myrc; tell Coach Howard hi from me." With a wave I start my hike from the baseball diamond to the gym; since my freshman year started, I was enrolled in both the
Paris public schools'(Go fighting weasels! Why weasels? no one knows.) baseball and basketball teams. In the matter of two short months, we'd gone from last in our division to
near the top, and most of it, I'm proud to say, was due to me. However, it was a lot of work and practices. Today it meant another hour on the court before I could do all the homework I needed to get out of the way.

Now as any athlete, good or not, can tell you; that much constant practice and work gives you a wonderful idea on how your body works. How fast you can move, how high you
can jump, how long you can run before shambling to a halt, gasping for air...all these are things an athlete, a true athlete, know. (For more on what is or isn't a true athlete, see bowling.) My work, my labor of love, was enough to tell me right away that I had a slight problem. A difference in how I walked, that hadn't been there as early as a half hour prior. There was no pain, no injury that I could tell, and yet, an ever so slight limp, a slight roll starting in my right hip. Perhaps not even enough to be noticeable...
and yet I noticed. With luck no one else would, I didn't need to be benched; I felt fine.
"Time for the second round already Myrc?"

My thoughts were interrupted by none other than Pamela Dale, about 5 foot 6 inches of sandy blonde blue eyed soft faced beauty with a come hither bed room voice, not that I noticed, no sir.She was also what passes for our head cheerleader. Of course she was practicing her tumbling in the grass, as always; she was as driven in her way, as I was in mine.
"Yep, and how are you on this fine day Pam?" I asked as I blew past her.
"Pretty good, the fall breeze is always amazing, until of course a sweaty jock comes near."
I laughed as I went in, shaking my head. guilty as charged of course. It was still too hot to do anything but sweat outside. Oh well, it'd cool off soon. Into the empty locker
room I went, taking a quick look in the mirror to see the flushed, not quite handsome, but far from horrid brown haired badass in the mirror. Sharp features, slightly hooked
nose (I broke it in a fight, and it never did heal right) light brown hair covering my overlarge ears (my worst feature).
Bout of vanity later, I was dressed in my basketball uniform of shorts and jersey, and baseball uniform stuffed into my book bag, dirtying my books where it belonged.
"Hey Coach H. So what'd I miss? Coach R sends his regards."
The ever portly ever grinning man turned to me and let loose on of his trademark laughs.
"Not much Myrc, just some shot practice. That will be most of our time, Shots and passes. Some people here need all the help they can get!" He winked at me.
"Yep that's me, my nickname should be slacker." I winked back.
Wasting no more time, I got to it. While I could pass and run with the best of them, I immediately noticed a drop to my shot...my arc was off by perhaps an inch. Not enough
to miss a ton, but enough to throw the shot off. I just as easily traced the problem back to my hip, messing with my jump. Luckily enough my favorite coach didn't seem to
notice, spending the time correcting the shooting of those less fortunate than me. A ball hurtled into my view from my left, one which I caught at the last second.
"Think fast!"
Ricky Tanner, arrogant jock cliche number one, (about my size, also brown haired, more muscular, and a bit better looking than myself) and also a good friend...when he's not
winging basketballs at my face, that is.
"You OK Myrc? you're zoning out."
"Yeah I'm fine, just have some heavy thoughts...like how you can't play baseball."
"Pfft, baseball is for losers anyway; basketball is where it's at. Now shoot that rock or admit I'm better."
"that'll be the day." I laughed as I sank an easy three pointer.

As all good things, practice came to an end. After a quick shower, with the usual jokes, innuendo, and towel snapping, it was homeward bound for me. The day was late, the sky clear with few of those white puffy clouds in it, the sun was shining, the day was almost perfect. If not for the fact that I couldn't seem to walk quite straight, I'd be enjoying myself immensely. But there it was, like a piece of broccoli in your teeth, or a pebble in your shoe. Sigh.

I crept through the door like a ninja, in a game as old as time. I made my way to the kitchen. And there she was, 5 ft 4 inches of classical aged beauty, Irish spitfire edition, eyes of jade, long hair the color of a moonless night, putting the finishing touches on a dinner of steak and potatoes, a Paige in the form of my 5 ft tall (don't tell me he wont be huge) 12 year old brother, cut from the same mold as myself (without the broken nose) and currently mashing said potatoes for easy consumption.
"Blargh!" I yelled, completing the game by making both my mother and brother jump a good foot in the air and scream in a most satisfying manner.
"evening mom, dinner smells great."
"Myrc, i swear...wipe that stupid grin off your face before I say something we'll both regret. How was the game and practice?"
Accepting the punch in the arm from my silent brother with another grin, I replied: "Oh, hit the game winning triple, qualifying us for the finals, and practice went well, Coach H didn't find anything to 'correct' (read yell loudly) me on."
"Good, good. How about that math test?" She half listened, spacing out. Sometimes I wish she'd care as much about my sports as my schoolwork. Maybe if I didn't suck so bad at
it? Who knows?
"Well, I got a C." I replied, hoping she wouldn't ask to see it, as I'd really gotten a C - ... not a lie, but not the whole truth either; both my parents would roast me alive
if I lied to them. Thankfully, even though she looked at me cross-eyed for a minute, she didn't.
"O.K, schoolwork then mister, I'll call you for dinner. And Myrcial; no need to rush...take it slow and steady."
"O.k. mom, slow and steady." I replied, heading up to my sanctuary from the world. Once there I of course, rolled my eyes and sat my books down next to the desk. I turned my
computer on with my foot before i even sat down, waiting for the best program ever invented to load...Itunes. Many people were put off by one fact about me, not believing a jock such as myself could love music the way I did. Music, any form, as long as it was original (none of that stupid pop or repetitive chest thumping rap crap), from classic to big band to death metal, I loved it all. Currently however, I was in the mood for some Cherry Popping Daddies, so I wasted no time bringing up that playlist. Yay, math
time. Finally wondrous wondrous math time. polynomials and basic algebra for the loss.

"Myrc, dinner time!" The call knocked me out of my daze. Those stupid number letter combinations were making my head swim; I mean seriously, who gives a crap what X was? It
was an X! Not a 4!...hey wait a min, was it 4? Nah couldn't be. I didn't even hear dad get home. Stupid homework.
"Coming mom!"
dinner was excellent of course, talk was sparse (my parents did not believe in small talk at the table until after eating) and knowing looks were exchanged with disgusting regularity. Finally done and fed up with it all, I responded.
"The game went well, practice was fine, and math still sucks."
My dad, laid back as ever, raised an eyebrow and said nothing; then when mom was turned away watching Ian stick his tongue out at me, he winked. In return i gave a quick grin.
We had done this dance before, my dad and I.
"Want me to help clean up mom?"
"No, you go back to your schoolwork, Ian will help me clean up."
"Lame ass jock! Always let off the hook cause hes stupid!"
"Ian Micheal Campbell! Language!"
"It's OK mom, you can' expect too much of the geek, hes full of the dork side, twisted and nerdy." If death glares were actually lethal I'd be dead twice over. I love my family!

Taking that as my cue, I headed back upstairs for another round, this time it was black sabbath and English, both slightly kinder subjects than math. Oddly enough, the paper I had to write on Macbeth was half done, and Macbeth himself was giving up his secrets a little easier tonight when it happened. Several drops of blood fell from my nose to the textbook I was using. Cursing and grabbing a tissue from my desk, I blotted it, then moved to my nose as a small stream of blood poured from both nostrils...what the hell?
The headache and fatigue hit suddenly, like a hammer between the eyes. I looked at the clock; just after 9pm. A bit of an early bedtime, but I was definitely done for the
night. I even half considered calling for mom or dad, after all, I'd had headaches before, but this was the first time I'd had both a headache and nosebleed. I wonder if my not healed right nose was acting up again, as it occasionally did. Bah, whatever, if it persists ill tell the 'rents, but no need to worry them over something minor just yet.
That thought was the last I had as my head hit the pillow.