Everything always came easy for me. Genetics gave me my looks, strength, abilities and intelligence. By the time I was ten, I'd already figured out what I was good at. I'd try new things for the challenge, but if I wasn't getting them or failed, I wouldn't try again. It wasn't out of any sense of fear or failure, but if I wasn't good at them, why bother. Basically, my life was easy.
I met Byron in school. His life wasn't easy. When he came into class in the third grade, he was shy and awkward. It wouldn't have been so bad, except he was a big guy. Even at nine, he was tall and gangly. He couldn't hide. Whereas I learned all new things with ease, Byron struggled. Dyslexia was something new at the time. No one had any idea what it was.
As the years went by, Byron seemed to stay in the wings, on the periphery of activity. I was this popular guy who had many friends. Byron spent his summers traveling with his parents. It was as if he didn't know how to interact with children, having spent all his time with adults and being an only child. Of course, children, being the cruel, spiteful, hateful people that they can be, treated Byron horribly. I was no different.
No matter how badly he was treated, Byron always had this shy, quiet smile. He was observant. He'd overhear conversations and laugh or smile at what he'd heard. He knew what was going on around him. More than once I would catch him listening in, enjoying the jokes. Unless directly spoken to though, he was alone. Recess is this fun, energetic time to burn off energy. Byron always had a book or would sit under a tree and watch. I was into kickball or some other game. No one thought to include him with us.
As the years passed and we left elementary school and went to junior high, Byron's life got worse. His body seemed to rebel. He started growing. I mean, he was always tall, but this was worse. Between sixth and seventh grade, Byron's voice changed and he grew almost fifteen inches. He stuck out like a sore thumb. This shy, quiet boy was now the tallest kid in the entire school. Like most people who grow a lot, he became clumsy. Watching him, you could tell how frustrated he was. While he was at lunch, he'd drop his fork at least three or four times each meal. He tripped over his shoes. He'd drop his books. It was nothing more than his amazing growth spurt. All this time, I doubt I'd spoken more than ten words to him in the four years I'd known him.
When we got back to school for the eighth grade year, Byron was even taller. He was standing at six-four. No one knew it until later, but he was shaving each morning. Now in this time, I had grown too. My voice was deeper and my body was maturing. I seemed to have topped out at the above average height of five-eleven. I started playing sports that year; I got really into football and baseball. Byron was still the shy, quiet guy in the corner that no one picked for any team until he was the last one. We all saw how clumsy he was.
By the start of freshman year, Byron was topping out at six-eight. That year, we started high school; all new teachers with all new rules. Fifth period, Byron and I were in the same PE class. We're out on the field, doing sprints. Byron wore sweats and a sweatshirt. It was still summer-like weather. He must have been sweltering. I did notice that he wasn't so awkward anymore. He also wasn't as gawky or gangly. He was starting to fill out.
In the new school, PE coaches required us to shower. There was no choice in the matter. Byron didn't look overly pleased, but he started to take off his clothes. The guy had hairy damn legs. He stood there in his sweatshirt and briefs and he was so damn hairy. Then he took off his sweatshirt and tee. He had more hair on his chest than any of the seniors who were starting to get hairy. Hell, he had more hair then the coaches. He immediately came under the scrutiny of the seniors. This was a freshman. No one is supposed to be this hairy this young. Byron was touched and pretty much felt up. He took it like he did most things, embarrassed but not saying anything.
The fascination was starting to die out, to the point that he could go and shower. It would have died out completely, if he hadn't taken off his underwear. Byron was uncut and longer than average. Most of the students were both average and cut, so they all had to look at Byron's foreskin. If it was any other person but Byron, I'm sure he would have left school that day and never come back. He was mortified. We weren't friends, we were barely acquaintances, but I finally had had enough. I stood up from untying my shoes and stepped in front of Byron. "Come on guys, leave him alone. Stop being jealous."
Okay, so it wasn't the best thing to say but it did get them to leave Byron alone so he could shower. I finished undressing and followed him. He stood under the spray, bent down to accommodate his height, letting the water pound into his still heated cheeks. When I turned on the shower next to him, he looked over. He gave me one of his genuine smiles, the one I had seen him give a few times over the years. "Thanks."
I stood under the shower, watching Byron. He was tall, so very tall. But his body was catching up to his growth spurt. His body was muscular. He was still underweight and gawky, but you could tell that once given some time, he'd fill out and grow into his body. He caught me staring at him. I wasn't embarrassed, but I decided to fill the awkward space. "You should try out next year on the football team. If you were stronger, you'd make an incredible center."
Byron kind of chuckled, as if unsure of what I was saying or why I was saying it. "Sure. I'll keep that in mind."
I left the shower shortly after, got dressed and went to class. Byron and I still didn't talk that often, but he'd nod to me if he passed me in the hall. The next semester, he signed up for the weightlifting class. He started out slow and small, but by the end of the semester, what had been toned but underdeveloped was cut and buffed out. When we broke for summer, Byron had gotten the okay from the football coach to come to tryouts. In a way, I felt responsible, but in a good way.
The first week in August was hot, humid, and all around miserable. The seventy odd guys turning out for football were all standing around, listless and droopy from the heat. Not Byron though. He stood out like the giant he was. He had hopefully finished growing at six-ten. When we were all weighed, he tipped the scales at two-fifty. I was still my same five-eleven, roughly one-eighty. I didn't mind. The man's height and size would make him an excellent center, one I wouldn't mind quarterbacking behind.
