Juggle Master

"You can't go to your friend's house until you get twelve in a row," said my dad as he walked back up to the house.

I sighed and clutched the orange and blue soccer ball under my arm. Twelve juggles in a row. Twelve times the ball had to hit my foot, fly in the air, come back down to my foot, go back in the air, come back down to my foot, fly in the air, and come back down. All without hitting the ground or being touched with my hands.

Here we go.

One. Smack! Too hard. Fall. One. Where the hell was that going? Fall. One. Too high-too high! Fall. One-ow damn it! My face! Fall. One-whack-it's in the air. Move your body... I got underneath the ball as it came back down-two! Fall. I try again. I get the ball in the air, determined to get the number up to twelve. Five minutes pass but it feels like fifty. Finally there is a breakthrough.
One-two-thrrrreeeeee-four! Fall. Four. What an achievement! My face is getting red, and heat is rising in my cheeks. It's so damn humid out and the mosquitos are ravenous. Renee is waiting down the street.

Again.

One. One. One. One-two. One-two. One-two. One---two-three-four-keep your eye on the ball! Fall. One-two-three-four---up in the air--five---oh my God I'm past five!-six-oh shit, get under it!sssseven-eight----nine-ten-the sticky rubber material of the ball gets caught against the material of my cleat and rolls off my foot. Fall. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Stupid ball! I threw the ball up in the air and punted it as hard as I could. It soared to the very back of our yard and came bouncing back down...

 only to roll straight into the creek. 

Sigh...

#12


Reference for blog: http://tobefree27.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-sun-had-fallen-but-night-was-still.html

A ball without a field

Black and white are never the colors of game issue soccer balls. Well that's not entirely accurate. They can be black and white but they're not in that typical black-white-black-white pattern that's so cliche'd by movies. They have spirals and squiggles and sometimes even giant check marks in red that span across only one face of the ball.

It's early by about an hour. There's no one else here on this wide open plain. It's more destitute and solemn than a graveyard. Field after field of white lines and circles. There are steel metal frames with fading rope nets. Empty benches. The pavilions and snack bar are closed. The sun has gone down to the point where I can't see it anymore, but deep orange light still fills the sky. There's no warmth and no sound, but just as I come to this realization, a strong breeze whips through my clothes and comes at my ears at an angle that makes me think it's howling.

My eyes fall to the very back of the complex, where a rusty fence separates the manicured fields from the wild brown grasses. Leaning against the fence is a goalpost graveyard. Frames have been bent and rusted and stacked upon each other to rot. The nets haven't been taken down and they hang down like withering skin. Something about the sight is frightening to me and I turn around, facing the other side of vastness. I feel like Nadja when I turn around. There is a swirl of dust rising in the dirt parking lot, forming a menacing figure intending to sweep over me and cover me in time and rot and decay.

 There's only one thing to do to escape the fear of being alone with time. I lay back on the ground and pick up my ball. It's orange and blue. I toss it up in the air and let it fall back down to me. I toss it up again and let it fall back down.  

#...

Image:http://melissacrytzerfry.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/MammothTrack1-e1343522580924.jpg

Reference for blog:http://buttercrunchh.blogspot.com/

#13

Dear Taylor C-

I had a nightmare about you the other day. I haven’t seen you in almost nine years but your face in my head was exactly the way it was when we were thirteen. In my dream I was clawing at your face. It wasn’t out of anger-but out of fear. And hatred.

By the way-your best friend, Taylor S, was nice to me when you weren’t there. Yes. You were absent or sick or lazy or something that pulled you away from practice sessions for an entire week. When you weren’t there, we were standing in line waiting for our turn to practice some stupid move I had learned a long time ago. She was standing behind me when she suddenly took my hand in hers and said, “You have such pretty arms.” She lifted my arm up to hers, comparing them. “Do you shave your arms?” she asked. I shook my head, too shocked that she was interacting with me and frankly quite terrified, that I couldn’t speak.

I remember that one game where I stood up to you. It was in a place and a time that I don’t remember, but I remember what I did. You were a forward. You were a glory hound. You were the one who made the goals. I was a defender. Sweeper. I cleaned up the garbage and was the last man next to the keeper. I was responsible for getting the ball up to you. There was a line that split the field in half. I was strict about that line and never crossed it into your territory. But you-you, you fat arrogant, ungrateful, bitch, you came into my territory whenever you pleased and walked around it like you owned it and everyone in it. You wanted to show off your ability to kick a ball, so you would come back and claim even the pettiest kicks. This one was a direct kick-caused from the opponent touching it with their hand. It was in the middle of my half of the field.

 You began jogging back to take it, but I suddenly shouted, “I got it!”

“I take penalty kicks!”

“I got it!” I ran up to the ball. You were ten feet away. I put my hand on it, laying down the law. I backed up a step and struck my laces across the patches. The ball went up to a mess of forwards and defenders on the other side.

“You idiot! What the hell are you doing?! That’s my job!”

Your mother says in a monotone voice, “Taylor, be nice!”

I jog back to my spot. You’re still standing in the middle of my half of the field, shouting and making a fuss that I took your kick. The coach finally shouts at you to shut up and get back to the front of the field.

The one consolation that I have from that experience was that at least I got to walk away from you. You on the other hand…you have to live with yourself.

Never yours,

#13

My reference source for the format of this blog: http://insightandadventures.blogspot.com/

Image cite: http://www.topdrawersoccer.com/media/article/?mediaId=4718