Four. Then I count four down from the front of the line across from me. Rich Saxon. Thirty-five pounds heavier, a full second faster in the forty. The forty. Probably an hour faster in the hundred. I run a hundred yards in about the time it takes to get a haircut. If you’re third in line. Saxon is All-Conference. I’m All-Mack, my family name. But I’m second-string All-Mack and I’m an only child. I live in Sherman, Idaho. Population 867. Elevation 5,281. One foot over a mile high. In its heyday, Sherman was a booming logging town, but someone forgot to tell the logging companies that when they cut down a tree, they should probably plant one, trees being finite and all. The trees around Sherman eventually went the way of the buffalo on America’s Great Plains. Where it once appeared the supply was inexhaustible, the supply is now exhausted, has been for twenty years. The town fathers, and mothers, have reinvented Sherman in the past three decades. It is not an invention you would grant a patent.
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