A cold city will full talent, the Bronx. Bronx, New York. This was a grueling day, one of those days I wished I saved up for a rainy day in my scratched up penny jar. I turn on the T.V. hearing the weather forecast by Al Roker, telling us it’s not quiet time to put up our winter coats. Mine was about to give up the ghost anyways, it was but so much sewing mama could do before the hems unraveled again. I rubbed my toes against my metal bed framing, feeling the chills run through my body. I knew I had to get up and get ready for hockey. Hockey was the closet sport I could get to golf; mama couldn’t afford to take me up to Mosholu Golf Course. The Course Rates were too high and she says that since I’m already 13 the talent of golf is too late to kick in. The photo of Tiger Woods hangs on my yellow chipped wall on the slanted Cork Board with my Jamaican flag draping the photo. I imagine myself like Tiger, a mulatto man like me; a black man like me. Making such a change in sports history, knowing I could do the same. I got up from bed waiting for my feet to touch the rug before I made up my mind that I would fake to mama that I am sick. It is cold, I do not want to get on the subway and carry all my crap to practice. Plus, today was the day. Tiger Woods competing in the Masters 2019. Just imagine the whole house to myself while mama at work and my younger sister Nala spending the weekend with her friends. I open my wooden door, the creak escape into the floor and I see mama standing. “Hey sport you ready for practice?” She notices my red cheeks that I compressed in between my pillows earlier to fake my sickness. She picks at my eyes removing the sleep, turning her face ill, knowing I was not going to make it to practice.