#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