Post by american09mutt on Aug 5, 2009 1:19:12 GMT -5
The sun beats down on a green field. Sweaty bodies move down the length of it, a black and white blur spinning back and forth between them. You stop to catch your breath, sweat running into your eyes, making them tear up. A sharp thud, followed by several softer thuds, causes you to look up. The ball has just gone between the two trees that form your opponents’ goal posts; your team just made the first goal of the game.
Both teams quickly get set for the next play. The teams switch up to keep things fair; switching goalies to forward, forward to defense, and defense to goalies. Since you and your friends only play pickup games together, everyone gets the chance to play every position. You gratefully pull on gloves and go to stand in the goal, bracketed by a lamp post and a large bush. You can feel the muscles in your legs burning from the exertion.
You notice a dark haired young man watching eagerly from the sidelines, following every move. He looks to be about 18 or 19, and has sparkling sapphire eyes. He’s wearing jeans and sneakers with an old sweatshirt. He seems to be waiting for someone, or trying to pass the time. His eyes are focused intently on the match, but he seems to really be enjoying the game.
You play well, keeping the other team from making several goals, but find yourself slowing down after each successful block. As you stand in the goal watching your teammates dribble down the field, a drop of water splats onto your nose. You look up, only to catch the next one straight in the eye. You and several others want to keep playing, but the team captains insist that you call a tie game. You can’t see the young man from before; the bench where he was sitting is empty.
You pull off your cleats and socks, deciding to walk home barefoot. You pick up your school bag, shoes, water bottle, and the ball. It’s your month to keep the ball at your house, and remember to bring it to the games. The rain comes down harder on your walk home; washing the sweat from your body, cooling you off.
Your muscles slowly tighten as you trudge through the rain, and your body feels dehydrated. You juggle the things you’re holding, trying to get your water bottle open and near your mouth. The ball drops from your hands, startling you, then bounces away. Your hand loosens on your bottle, spilling it all down your front. Giving up on the bottle, you just tip your head back and drink down some of the rain. You’re too thirsty to care if anyone’s watching.
You wipe the water out of your eyes and glance around you, trying to spot the dropped soccer ball. It’s lying on the ground near a bench, with a beat up grey sneaker sitting on top of it. The sneaker is attached to a foot, which is connected to long leg. You’re your eyes slowly make their way up the tall figure, finally reaching a rain-soaked face framed by very wet dark hair. His hair is plastered rather comically to his forehead.
At last you look into a pair of bright blue eyes. You recognize him as the guy that was watching your game earlier. The rain is streaming down his face, but he’s watching you without blinking. His features are softened by the littlest bit of baby fat, making him look even younger up close. Now you’d say he’s about 17, give or take a few months.
“You dropped this. Looks like your hands are a bit full; do you need help carrying it?” The words roll off his tongue all together, and it takes you a few seconds to make out everything he said. You nod, trying to smile, but your teeth are starting to chatter from the rain pouring down. You lead him off in the direction of your house, eager to get inside and dry off. “By the way, the name’s Damian.” He offers you his hand, which you shake awkwardly, trying not to drop anything. You tell him your name, then fall silent, walking home without speaking again.
When you get home, you see your brother’s car parked in the driveway. You feel okay leading this strange young man into your home, since your brother is here. You drop your things in the front room and run upstairs to grab a couple of towels. After handing one to the boy, you towel your hair dry. As you rub your hair between the towels’ folds, you glance up at him. He’s drying himself off slowly, and looking around hesitantly at your home.
His blue eyes take in every detail of your foyer, including the water that’s dripping off of you and onto the floor. You ask him if he had anywhere he needed to be, and he replies that he had several hours before he was expected. You offer him a snack, and the two of you sit on the couch to play some video games.
After 2 hours of brutal competition, Damian asks to use your phone. You hand him the cordless and sit back on the couch. He waits as it rings, then you hear him say “Hello Sharon? It’s me Damian.” There’s a lot of shouting from the other end, then he continues “Yes I’m fine! I was watching a game of footy in the park when it started raining. I’m at this girl’s house playin’ games. I’ll give you the address and you can come get me.”
After a lot more yelling he says goodbye and hangs up. “Well I guess she’ll be here in a few minutes, guess I better go wait out front.” You offer to wait with him in the foyer. “By the way, are you doing anything tonight?” he asks out of the blue. You tell him that you don’t have any plans. “Would you like to go to a pro footy game? I have a couple of tickets, and I can’t use them, so I was wondering if you’d like them?” he rambles on until you finally manage to stop him, and accept the tickets.
He digs them out of his pocket and hands them to you, just as a car pulls up outside, horn honking. Damian runs out through the rain and hops into the car. You can see the woman driving, and she looks worried and angry. You hope he doesn’t get into too much trouble. You wave as the car pulls away, a guilty looking Damian sitting hunched over in the passenger seat.
The tickets are for 3rd row seats on the left-hand side at the arena downtown. You can’t believe Damian would give up such good seats for any reason! Maybe he found out he couldn’t go at the last minute? You realize you don’t even know who you’re going to see. The tickets say “Rival Grudge Match” in big letters. The match is between two of the best teams in the region, one of which happens to be your favorite. You convince your brother to take you to go see them, and he’s happy to get out of the house for a few hours.
You dress in a clean pair of jeans and a nice green sweatshirt, paired with black sneakers with white soles. At the arena you barely find a parking space, and make it in just in time for the game to start. You make your way to your row and spot Damian standing there next to two empty seats. Beside him is an older man that looks to be in his late thirties or early forties.
His bald head gleams slightly in the bright arena lights, and he smiles at you like a favorite uncle. The smile is infectious, relaxing you instantly. He tells you his name is George, and he that he works with Damian. You catch him wink at Damian when he says that, but can’t figure out why.
You slide into your seats to watch the soccer game, eager to see your first live pro match. You spend the entire night talking to Damian about the plays that are made and calls you think the ref got wrong. Eventually you get up the courage to ask why he invited you to come. Turns out he was supposed to come with three of his friends, but they all bailed at the last minute, so he asked George to come.
“This afternoon I saw you playin’ footy, and you were really enjoyin’ it. I figured you would appreciate a good game like this one.” You smile at him, grateful that he had stopped to watch your game. On one particularly exciting play, Damian leans forward and grips your wrist, pointing intently at field. You follow his gaze, barely able to cover the thrill that ran through you at the touch of his hand on your arm.
After giving your wrist a gentle squeeze, he lets go, taking his hand back and clasping his other hand in his lap. You can feel the place on your arm, the very spot where he touched you. It feels warmer than the rest of your arm, giving it a slight burning sensation. You rub the spot while watching the game, not really noticing what your hand is doing.
A few minutes later, you realize you are still rubbing your wrist. You pull your hands apart and slap them on the armrests, glancing over at Damian to see if he noticed. His hands are still clasped together in his lap, his eyes fixed on the field. You let out a slow, relieved breathe. Then you notice that Damian’s hands aren’t just clasped together, he’s actually rubbing the hand closest to you with the opposite thumb. As you watch he glances down at his hand, his eyes wide and amazed.
He glances quickly up at you, catching you in the act. But instead of looking weirded out, he looks guiltily back at the field. Still staring fixedly away from you, he moves his hands deliberately apart, and places the on his knees. He doesn’t look back up at you for the rest of the game, and his lively banter slows to a near stop. Confused and a little hurt, you sit quietly next to him, listening to your brother and George talk animatedly over both your heads.
The game ends, your team winning 4 to 3. The teams were both quite good, but of course you’re thrilled that your team won. Shrugging off his odd behavior from before, you try to engage Damian in a deep play-by-play of the game. He livens up, happily focusing on picking apart the individual passes and goals. You smile at him as you talk, enjoying having such a knowledgeable companion to talk to for once.
In the parking lot you say your goodbyes reluctantly, afraid you’ll never see him again. Damian hesitates before handing you a small, folded piece of paper. Tucking it in your pocket, you gather up the last of your confidence and give him a quick hug goodbye. Before he can react, you spin around and walk off toward your car. Half a beat later your brother catches up to you, eying you with surprise.
Upon reaching your house, you run upstairs to take a shower. You don’t want to talk to your brother just now, still on a Damian high. The steam and heat help calm your racing heart. You return to your room refreshed, carrying your clothes and the towels from earlier in the day. Just as you go to place them in your hamper, you have a thought.
You gingerly lift your sweatshirt, bringing it to your face. You cautiously sniff it, once, then twice. It smells strongly of Damian. You press it tightly to you face, inhaling deeply. You toss the laundry in the hamper and scamper over to your bed. You plop onto the mattress in a daze; mind fogged with the memory of that hug. It was short and sweet, and you know you’ll never forget it.
Both teams quickly get set for the next play. The teams switch up to keep things fair; switching goalies to forward, forward to defense, and defense to goalies. Since you and your friends only play pickup games together, everyone gets the chance to play every position. You gratefully pull on gloves and go to stand in the goal, bracketed by a lamp post and a large bush. You can feel the muscles in your legs burning from the exertion.
You notice a dark haired young man watching eagerly from the sidelines, following every move. He looks to be about 18 or 19, and has sparkling sapphire eyes. He’s wearing jeans and sneakers with an old sweatshirt. He seems to be waiting for someone, or trying to pass the time. His eyes are focused intently on the match, but he seems to really be enjoying the game.
You play well, keeping the other team from making several goals, but find yourself slowing down after each successful block. As you stand in the goal watching your teammates dribble down the field, a drop of water splats onto your nose. You look up, only to catch the next one straight in the eye. You and several others want to keep playing, but the team captains insist that you call a tie game. You can’t see the young man from before; the bench where he was sitting is empty.
You pull off your cleats and socks, deciding to walk home barefoot. You pick up your school bag, shoes, water bottle, and the ball. It’s your month to keep the ball at your house, and remember to bring it to the games. The rain comes down harder on your walk home; washing the sweat from your body, cooling you off.
Your muscles slowly tighten as you trudge through the rain, and your body feels dehydrated. You juggle the things you’re holding, trying to get your water bottle open and near your mouth. The ball drops from your hands, startling you, then bounces away. Your hand loosens on your bottle, spilling it all down your front. Giving up on the bottle, you just tip your head back and drink down some of the rain. You’re too thirsty to care if anyone’s watching.
You wipe the water out of your eyes and glance around you, trying to spot the dropped soccer ball. It’s lying on the ground near a bench, with a beat up grey sneaker sitting on top of it. The sneaker is attached to a foot, which is connected to long leg. You’re your eyes slowly make their way up the tall figure, finally reaching a rain-soaked face framed by very wet dark hair. His hair is plastered rather comically to his forehead.
At last you look into a pair of bright blue eyes. You recognize him as the guy that was watching your game earlier. The rain is streaming down his face, but he’s watching you without blinking. His features are softened by the littlest bit of baby fat, making him look even younger up close. Now you’d say he’s about 17, give or take a few months.
“You dropped this. Looks like your hands are a bit full; do you need help carrying it?” The words roll off his tongue all together, and it takes you a few seconds to make out everything he said. You nod, trying to smile, but your teeth are starting to chatter from the rain pouring down. You lead him off in the direction of your house, eager to get inside and dry off. “By the way, the name’s Damian.” He offers you his hand, which you shake awkwardly, trying not to drop anything. You tell him your name, then fall silent, walking home without speaking again.
When you get home, you see your brother’s car parked in the driveway. You feel okay leading this strange young man into your home, since your brother is here. You drop your things in the front room and run upstairs to grab a couple of towels. After handing one to the boy, you towel your hair dry. As you rub your hair between the towels’ folds, you glance up at him. He’s drying himself off slowly, and looking around hesitantly at your home.
His blue eyes take in every detail of your foyer, including the water that’s dripping off of you and onto the floor. You ask him if he had anywhere he needed to be, and he replies that he had several hours before he was expected. You offer him a snack, and the two of you sit on the couch to play some video games.
After 2 hours of brutal competition, Damian asks to use your phone. You hand him the cordless and sit back on the couch. He waits as it rings, then you hear him say “Hello Sharon? It’s me Damian.” There’s a lot of shouting from the other end, then he continues “Yes I’m fine! I was watching a game of footy in the park when it started raining. I’m at this girl’s house playin’ games. I’ll give you the address and you can come get me.”
After a lot more yelling he says goodbye and hangs up. “Well I guess she’ll be here in a few minutes, guess I better go wait out front.” You offer to wait with him in the foyer. “By the way, are you doing anything tonight?” he asks out of the blue. You tell him that you don’t have any plans. “Would you like to go to a pro footy game? I have a couple of tickets, and I can’t use them, so I was wondering if you’d like them?” he rambles on until you finally manage to stop him, and accept the tickets.
He digs them out of his pocket and hands them to you, just as a car pulls up outside, horn honking. Damian runs out through the rain and hops into the car. You can see the woman driving, and she looks worried and angry. You hope he doesn’t get into too much trouble. You wave as the car pulls away, a guilty looking Damian sitting hunched over in the passenger seat.
The tickets are for 3rd row seats on the left-hand side at the arena downtown. You can’t believe Damian would give up such good seats for any reason! Maybe he found out he couldn’t go at the last minute? You realize you don’t even know who you’re going to see. The tickets say “Rival Grudge Match” in big letters. The match is between two of the best teams in the region, one of which happens to be your favorite. You convince your brother to take you to go see them, and he’s happy to get out of the house for a few hours.
You dress in a clean pair of jeans and a nice green sweatshirt, paired with black sneakers with white soles. At the arena you barely find a parking space, and make it in just in time for the game to start. You make your way to your row and spot Damian standing there next to two empty seats. Beside him is an older man that looks to be in his late thirties or early forties.
His bald head gleams slightly in the bright arena lights, and he smiles at you like a favorite uncle. The smile is infectious, relaxing you instantly. He tells you his name is George, and he that he works with Damian. You catch him wink at Damian when he says that, but can’t figure out why.
You slide into your seats to watch the soccer game, eager to see your first live pro match. You spend the entire night talking to Damian about the plays that are made and calls you think the ref got wrong. Eventually you get up the courage to ask why he invited you to come. Turns out he was supposed to come with three of his friends, but they all bailed at the last minute, so he asked George to come.
“This afternoon I saw you playin’ footy, and you were really enjoyin’ it. I figured you would appreciate a good game like this one.” You smile at him, grateful that he had stopped to watch your game. On one particularly exciting play, Damian leans forward and grips your wrist, pointing intently at field. You follow his gaze, barely able to cover the thrill that ran through you at the touch of his hand on your arm.
After giving your wrist a gentle squeeze, he lets go, taking his hand back and clasping his other hand in his lap. You can feel the place on your arm, the very spot where he touched you. It feels warmer than the rest of your arm, giving it a slight burning sensation. You rub the spot while watching the game, not really noticing what your hand is doing.
A few minutes later, you realize you are still rubbing your wrist. You pull your hands apart and slap them on the armrests, glancing over at Damian to see if he noticed. His hands are still clasped together in his lap, his eyes fixed on the field. You let out a slow, relieved breathe. Then you notice that Damian’s hands aren’t just clasped together, he’s actually rubbing the hand closest to you with the opposite thumb. As you watch he glances down at his hand, his eyes wide and amazed.
He glances quickly up at you, catching you in the act. But instead of looking weirded out, he looks guiltily back at the field. Still staring fixedly away from you, he moves his hands deliberately apart, and places the on his knees. He doesn’t look back up at you for the rest of the game, and his lively banter slows to a near stop. Confused and a little hurt, you sit quietly next to him, listening to your brother and George talk animatedly over both your heads.
The game ends, your team winning 4 to 3. The teams were both quite good, but of course you’re thrilled that your team won. Shrugging off his odd behavior from before, you try to engage Damian in a deep play-by-play of the game. He livens up, happily focusing on picking apart the individual passes and goals. You smile at him as you talk, enjoying having such a knowledgeable companion to talk to for once.
In the parking lot you say your goodbyes reluctantly, afraid you’ll never see him again. Damian hesitates before handing you a small, folded piece of paper. Tucking it in your pocket, you gather up the last of your confidence and give him a quick hug goodbye. Before he can react, you spin around and walk off toward your car. Half a beat later your brother catches up to you, eying you with surprise.
Upon reaching your house, you run upstairs to take a shower. You don’t want to talk to your brother just now, still on a Damian high. The steam and heat help calm your racing heart. You return to your room refreshed, carrying your clothes and the towels from earlier in the day. Just as you go to place them in your hamper, you have a thought.
You gingerly lift your sweatshirt, bringing it to your face. You cautiously sniff it, once, then twice. It smells strongly of Damian. You press it tightly to you face, inhaling deeply. You toss the laundry in the hamper and scamper over to your bed. You plop onto the mattress in a daze; mind fogged with the memory of that hug. It was short and sweet, and you know you’ll never forget it.