At 5'9" and 170 lbs., he could have played tailback or wide receiver, but not many other positions. With his sleeve up, his inked arm looked slighter and more delicate than a football player's. He had played baseball for three years, and after the injury his mother wouldn't allow anything else. In eighth grade, a baseball to the sternum ended his brief encounter with sports. Marshall had never played football, though it was his childhood dream, because of chronic asthma and a weak chest. In looping cursive letters stacked like a totem pole, the word "James" curved along his inner arm and stopped three-quarters of the way down, the spot where Wilcox's sleeves would have rested on the linebacker's body. Marshall headed toward the group, and lifted the loose sleeve on his left arm up to his elbow, bunching the number four-one half of Wilcox's 64-around his shoulder. "James, come over here and show us your tattoo," Williams shouted across the hallway. On the way, he spotted his friend Jarvis Williams, who was telling a group of boys about his tattoo. The 17-year-old wore his throwback Dave Wilcox jersey that his mom had bought him, a bright red 49ers uniform from 1964 with three-quarter sleeves that reached below his wrists. The bell rang for fifth period at Greenwood High School, and James Marshall walked to class.
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