Red Dusk

The soccer ball rings the leg of the goal and falls to a rest. From the bleachers, it looks like a goal worthy of a full minute roar of applause. From how I am sprinting, it almost looks like a lucky shot. The latter opinion is the most probable, as I have been juggling the ball for thirty kicks before deciding that one record break a day is more than adequate. Perspective is everything, I tell myself.

After witnessing the ball come to a complete stop, my sprint tempers to a jog and comes to a walk. I am heading towards the setting sun, which is raptured by the winding black fence that stretches all around the field. Between my next footstep and the rim of the fence is a 3 foot ditch.

Below me is the ice. It appears flat, but the distorted reflection of myself in the substance says otherwise. Beneath the surface are green and brown blades of grass. A leaf protrudes from the ice half swallowed. My tips for my feet watch from the top of the slope, dry with caution. Perhaps, out of my own boyish entrancement, my knees give way to a squatted position. Settling on my haunches, I reach my hand down in front of me.

I heard once that water has memory. I wonder if somehow the consolidation of the liquid into a subzero state makes these more tangible to the human eye.

The ice is smooth and slippery. Although cool to the touch, a whimsical cackling phenomenon emits from it as if it continues to burn. But from a more analytical perspective, the cracks in the ice stem from a glossy coated stick.

Wringing it free while preserving the stilt is not as difficult as it should be. I reflect on how I can cure my languor, over the course of a few turns of the stick. Fearing that my legs will collapse soon, I use the stick to poke at the ice. The force of the stick increase with each successive stab. But there is no progress.

My science teacher, Mrs. Ross, would tell me to keep trying. What is a win without the many losses before. Trying other spots, particularly ones where the grass blades are most perceptible, I liken myself to the ice. Many a time when I would come to this field, mandated or self-sanctioned, the isolation I felt from others would be relieved here, for no one to see. My parents, who were at the mercy of the fates with what to do with me, also contributed to this anxiety. They never directly explained what my problem was, or what solution was most effective, but I matured, and in doing so came to my own verdict. My easy-going yet I-don't-think-I'm-ready-to-jump behavior was something that they could not change to their liking. Try as I might, I thought it better to let the chips fall into their own places. For a while, it seemed to be for the better. They barely criticized my offbeat mannerisms, but like many things, it often takes a mature lense, and the tales of other blossoming kids, to see the meaning behind it all.

Unlike my patience, the ice appears to be getting no thinner. So, as my legs writhe like serpents caught by their necks, I am hoisted to an erect stand. A obstinate sign that any further exercise may result in muscle fatigue, or worse, cripplement.

I look through the squared coils of the fence to the lot, where Suburbans, Hondas, Toyotas, and even Teslas would wait for the bell at 3:00. Usually 5 minutes after I would be all the way to the other side of the road, on my ten minute walk back home.

Whether I was sent here because it was a great school or because it was convenient to walk remains a debate long foreclosed in my mind. Regardless of the answer, I use what I'm given.

Turning my back to the ditch in the corner of the park, I look to my left. The 120 yard turf field is divided by white lines, appropriate for playing soccer, baseball, and football. The rack of man sleds was lining the right while the cage, bench, and home plate clung to the left.

Some part of you longs to return to that moment. Though they were days where I immediately had to get home to finish schoolwork, or settle another asinine debate with my mother, sending the baseball all the way to the fence before sprinting was always a thrill. I believe back then that then more autonomy I held, time would slow down for me to pick up the maple bat. Now, with practically full days to myself, watching my ghost run from plate to plate is enough.

The field runs all the way to Carson St, which is known strictly for two things: its exotic styled shrubberies and the residence of our principal. It's been many years, so there's likely a new man, woman, or both, who decided to treat this home like an award. 'We the people, she our queen' the other kids would mock. I never quite understood that.

My eyes return forward as I walk back across the turf. On the border where I stand, there is more ice, dispersed in clans among the glowering grass. A steep slope runs to the top of the hill where my Chevrolet sits locked.

The faded memory flickers as my eyes rise and fall on the white and green speckled sheet. Myself, donning two layers of shirts, one from Gap, one from The North Face, one layer of denim pants, a wool white hat from Gap, Nike shoes, and two black gloves from an unknown brand. Myself attempted to place both two feet on the slippery plate without falling, and jumping to the snow at the first hiss. Myself, older and braver, then skiing down the slope. Myself, landing in the powdery pillow, then laughing as if it was the most thrilling experience of my life. Myself, scrambling to my feet before Mrs. Ross can find me, and thinking to be clever for succeeding as she hollered me back to the group. She only caught me once, and that was only because I hadn't moved after I slid.

Now, I stride up the slope. The cracks in the ice do not worry me like before, though I try to stay on the grass out of respect for my sneakers. Despite being deserted for weeks now, the light blue floor holds many crooked smiles that are betwixt malevolent and familiar. Not unlike my parents, it is difficult to distinguish the pair. A funny thing I learned a while ago is that if conjecture is stuck on the line between two vastly different notions long enough, it will be impossible to assign it to either. This rings about faintly in my mind as I force my eyes awake and away from the still ground.

The gravel makes no sound as I set upon it. I turn around, intending to absorb the landscape in its entirety.

I reassess the past half hour. Thus far, my interest has been stimulated by dribbling a tattered soccer ball, trudging about the turf, touching the ice, trying to crack the ice, leaving the ice, scaling the even more slippery hill, and absorbing as much nature as was present here. If there is any lack of mystery or adventure, I owe it purely to the thirty year old principal who converted a quarter of this old field into a parking lot.

Then there is the ice. It didn't bother me that it was the only thing that didn't stay for all these years, or that its presence would become more unwelcome with the burgeoning heat waves in this day and age.

Turning to my car after a final view, I begin to understand something. Nature was born one way, and at the behest of prospective men, we altered it according to our preferences. Many a time when a person examines the state of life in its undisturbed course, they are bedazzled. It appears to be the mix of nature and their own ideas, however simple or complex, that fuse together into something prodigious. But, among those people are the ones who inspect the details, connect the dots, find that indescribable piece which allows the senses to inflame the imagination in ways not found in any structure. I was one of those people who has come back many years to the place that I was always fascinated by, hoping to gain some understanding of why the mind was tricked for a second into thinking the world was more than solid.

In the end, I discover something far more sapient. Feeling is knowing.

Maybe that will suffice.