Bob

The sixteen-year-old slouched in the back of the bob sled.  Alone.

He glanced toward the pavilion and saw coach Odbayar vehemently miming some new pushing technique. Apparently, the three boys who constituted the GOHS bob sled team were not taking full advantage of the virtues of the shoulder.

Although Abe was technically the fourth member of the team, he never considered himself as such. His value to the team lay solely in his peculiar body which, though a perfect fit in the tiny sled, weighed as much as a linebacker. All he had to do was take a few steps and jump in and they were sucked down the icy shoot like a turd down some fridged toilet.

Truthfully, they could’ve pushed with their elbows and still managed to beat every high school in the state easily considering the good 30 extra pounds they had on even the bulkiest teams. Yet there they were, on a freezing Saturday morning, watching a spunky Mongolian man demonstrate the untapped power of the shoulder.

All members of the Goldberg family had to play one sport and one instrument. Abe’s sport was sitting in a frozen turd. After years of expensive lessons with no musical fruits to speak of, his dad bought him the only instrument that he could figure out: a video camera. And he was happy.