Mother was getting the rest of my stuff out of the car and talking to the coach whilst leaving very provocatively (for her age) against the door of the car. Dad was off getting hot dogs, probably with a side of whiskey.
And there I was, lying on the field on battle, waiting for the ball to start rolling.
It wasn't my first game, and I wasn't a good player. I was brilliant. The coach loved my skills. The other players loved my consideration for the team. The audience loved my goals. I just loved the grass and the ball's ability to roll over it in accordance to my foot's command.
My boot studs piercing the dirt and blades of grass; a stunning tragedy. Yet with all that destruction, rom afar a field was still a field. The grass would still grow and the dirt wasn't going anywhere.
Oh and when it rains? Hallelujah! Mud splattering everywhere, onto the shirts and shorts of the runners and swirling with the blood from skinned knees and elbows. I'd smear the mud on my face, readying myself for the primitivity of competition. It's a rough game, football. Don't think the opposition won't play foul and spit in your eye when it comes to victory. Remember: They want the trophy as badly as you do.
'Chase! Better start warming up!' Gary was shouting, but I didn't want to get up yet.
'I'm just stretching my calves,' I shouted back.
I curled my toes under my feet and made it look like I was really stretching them. I sort of was anyway, since I was in that position.
I stared out at the other little-uns getting ready for the game. They all looked so small from down here. Then I saw a beetle, perched on a grass blade close to my eye. It was the size of the football from my perspective. Gary nearly kicked it.
Speaking of the devil, Gary went on to grab my ankles and dragged me into the center of the field.
'Get a move on, man! We'll be starting anytime now!' he shouted.
He likes to shout.
I got up and started kicking the ball around, ran a few laps, stretched my legs (I really did). Mother was sitting with Dad on the bleachers. She waved at me and smiled, showing off her shiny white teeth. Dad was happily eating his hot dog. There was mustard on his shirt. He smiled at me with his thumb up, then grabbed Mother's hand. She looked at him and giggled, wiping a smidgen of ketchup from his cheek.
My studs were ready to stab, my legs were strong and eager to carry my weight across the field, and my eyes were as sharp as ever. I kicked the.. Hey that's my ball!
(photo via RevolveClothing.com)
