"I am learning every day to allow the space between where I am and where I want to be to inspire me and not terrify me." — Tracee Ellis Ross
There are one hundred and one ways to fall, and none of them are elegant. That's the first thing Rod learns. When snow falls, it flutters gently through the sky, pirouetting against cold air before gently melting against the cheek of a red-faced child building his first snowman. That's poetic. That's the sentimental kind of shit Dave would say after smoking a lot of good quality weed. And good quality generally means slightly-below-average quality but that's the best you can get without going into the city and, at the end of the day, they were small town boys with small town goals. That is, except for Rod. He was going to be the best.
So he fell. Over and over, with none of the grace of an reddish autumn leaf. He fell hard, skin scraping off against rocky ground, leaving horrific bloody gashes that Kevin helped him tape up, worry not quite hiding in his eyes. But Rod kept falling, because he was a human being, not a snowflake or a leaf. He was resilient. He was a winner. And the winners fall down one hundred and one times.
