I was never into sports for obvious reasons. I was frail and the boys would probably crush me if I dared dip my toes into basketball or whatever brute activity they were into.
But I like football. I love the wide open field. I love the smell of grass. I love how changing the earth was. One minute it's caking with dust but after a little drizzle, it would turn muddy.
I remember one scorching afternoon. A breeze picked up some dirt and a couple of leaves. It swirled up and in a split-second, towered like a mini-hurricane. A dust devil of sorts. I tried to chase it but I was too slow. After just a couple of strides, it vanished. Just some dried up leaves raining down to remember it.
And there was this one time during PE class when I tried to catch the ball with my chest. I jumped as high as I could but even my head couldn't touch the ball. It landed a couple of meters behind me... into some guy's foot that kicked it with such immense force. It hit my back. And I was sent down from my jump, reeling from a stabbing backpain.
One time, I trooped before the rest of the class as we made our way to the football field. I ran as fast as I could until my feet could no longer keep up with my pace. I tripped. The next thing I knew, my elbows were already bleeding. I rolled over several times just so they'd think I purposely dived into the field.
And there were countless times when everyone's gone home and I'd stare into the field. Just there, staring.