I never understood how gravity seemed to just leave him be. How he could lean farther than Michael Jackson and still keep a rigid form. How he made time slow down as he creaked into an almost horizontal pose, looking like the diving board from the community pool. Dancing was his way of getting points across. It was like when someone moves their hands as they speak to emphasize every word, but he did it with every part of him. He would point, whip his hands, shift his feet around, and glide across the floor as he carried on his conversations. He made it look like the music was playing for him, as if when he stopped, so would the beat. He made it look like he made music as he went, no boombox required. He made it look like there was no music, like an acapella stompfest.

I still don't remember the day the accident happened. How he went racing off to the hospital after a horrible car crash from some man whose brakes just quit on him up at the city crosswalk. I never saw much but the lights flash and the big white blur of an ambulance. He was laid up on a starched white bed for a year, not allowed to get out or even move around. Not allowed expression, not allowed freedom. He knew why the caged bird sung, and how it felt to have clipped wings.
A year and some change passed by, and he got out on probation. No serious movement, crutches included. He would hobble down the streets with the same face and tone, but a different look in his eyes. He looked as if his heart was in chains. The full leg cast kept him from moving like a vice-grip; he was trapped within his own body like a shell around his spirit, his moves.

Another year passed. The cast came off, and doctors were pleased. He was told he could go back to dancing, to life, but to take it slow. Take it slow, no sudden movements. For the first time in two years, he was free, but he wasn't. He was on a leash, a rope, a medical safety net. He had pain in his eyes, circling his air and aura like geists. Soon after, a breakboy challenge found its way around the Compton corners. It assaulted his ears and racked his heart inside him, aching to be free. He wormed his way out of a thousand walls and blockades and made it to the coliseum, just to check. The competition was blazing away, music blaring. The crutch clacked against the floor with the beat, as did the cast wrapped on his feet. He whispered the words, bobbed his head, even kept his breaths within the tempo.

A breakboy challenge was thrown at his feet. A breakboy bully, picking on a weakened man. He rose to the occasion, his cast dragging against the craggy floor.