and way too many sore muscles, I clung to the portaledge straps to hold myself up.
"Russ, it's your lead."
This was probably true, and if it wasn't, I hoped he wouldn't remember.
Russ looked about as haggard as I did and, luckily, showed no sign of wanting to discuss
whose lead it actually might have been, or
anything else for that matter. Beth, on the
other hand, was rustling around on her ledge
and debating the possibility of doing one or
two extra pitches today and maybe topping
out tomorrow. I pretended not to hear her.
Email this page to a friend
