On Friday, I write with the Five Minute Friday group at Lisa-Jo Baker’s. There are some days I don’t want to write (yes, like today) but this community of encouraging writers helps me push through and get a post done! It’s only five minutes, there’s no editing and at least one will swing by with the kind words a blogging writer needs.
The cans of orange soda in the doorway of the fridge have dwindled down to none. No more late afternoon boat rides or early evening fishing trips; no more need for Orange Crush already cold. Brisk winds call for the turtlenecks at the bottom of the cedar hope chest and for hand-knit sweaters that dress me in a mother’s love.
Smokey wisps whisper of warming fires inside; car exhaust lightens white in the cold morning air at the bus stop.
But most of all, there is the click, clack, slide of field hockey sticks. Flat side to flat side, curved side to curved side, hooked together. A description that will mean nothing to those who chose the soccer team and mean a whole world to the girls who battled ferociously all while wearing plaid skirts.
I wrote about it here when I was nineteen and just remembering it thirteen years later makes me cry for the sheer life of it all. How we ran and we spit and we bled and we yelled and we played a sport that is dominated by men in many places and virtually unknown in America. And all this in a skirt. How the beauty and the roughness met there in perfect harmony: elegant wings sprinting ahead, sending the ball across the field while goalies wrapped in helmets and padding charged.
I haven’t found any intramural leagues around. Just those falls, forever etched in my mind.