Graham:
There’s something strange about being back at a place I used to love, and seeing how much it’s changed over the years. I pull my car into a parking slot at the Recreational Sports Center and grip the steering wheel, taking three shallow breaths before looking out the window. The exterior of the main Indoor Sports Building—once chipped and run-down—has been renovated into something elegant, painted a deep maroon with a massive logo above the doors.
Even though I’ve been here about a million times, nothing feels the same. I unlock the door and gingerly get out of my car. It’s a green Jeep which I got for my sixteenth birthday.
The hot air gets to me quicker than I thought. It’s barely a week into summer vacation but it feels like July. I've taken no more than a few steps on the walk-path, when I see it. The soccer field. Which used to seem miles long. Where there have been so many memories, most of them at the LLSC (Little League Soccer Camp). I scan the crowd of heads, looking for some sort of familiar face, which I don’t find. Obviously. Most of the LLSCers are only ten years old.
I sigh as I kneel down to shove my feet into my cleats. And that’s when I spot him.
“Coach Dayson!” I jump to my feet with half of my left foot hanging out of my shoe, and then I trip and face plant onto the ground with a painful thud. He turns around, right when I’m coughing up the green turf.
“Graham?” He says as he helps me up, and I feel a pang of embarrassment. The boy he’d known a while ago wouldn’t be this clumsy, “Is that you?”
“Yeah it is, actually,” I shake his hand and brush the turf off of my sweats.
“Gosh, well, you always did know how to make an entrance. You were also quite good at kicking the ol’ ball, weren’t you, son?” I shrug my shoulders and his eyes wrinkle into a smile, “Ah, now you’re looking like Graham. Always with the shoulders. Let's just hope that you can keep up with the littles this year, now that you’re officially an assistant coach. Trouble makers, all of ‘em. But to be fair, you were just like that at their age, always with the–” He was cut off mid-sentence. A brunette girl who’s wearing the same LLSC uniform as me, appears behind him.
“Sorry to interrupt, Coach,” She says, shooting me an apologetic glance, “But I was doing attendance and I think we’ve got a missing camper. Have you seen Timothy… Kicklighter?”
He turns his attention to her, trying to figure out the issue, while I gaze at the field. The kids are already starting to kick practice shots, so I go over and introduce myself. That’s when Coach calls out to us all, officially starting practice. I assume my position at the goal, catching balls half-heartedly. Although, my mind is elsewhere. I can’t help but feel nostalgic about it all.
The smell of cut grass pulls me backward in time. For me, this place wasn’t just a summer camp, it was a lifestyle.
I remember, back when I was an LLSC camper, I used to go to the woods on the other side of campus, and play hide’n seek with some girl named Millie. After that, we would go buy king-sized 3-Musketeers bars and sit in the lounge room, laughing until our cheeks hurt and our bellies were full. When the assistant coaches would come looking for us and ask us where we’ve been, we would just shrug our shoulders and flip the question. “That’s not important,” Millie would say, “What about you? Where have you been?”
I smile at the thought of her. Neither of us kept in touch after that summer. I don't know why. I guess it was just one of those things that sort of just… vanished after some time.
There are some things I still remember about her though. Like, the small ball-shaped scar on the side of her temple, her lightning fast kick, and of course her dazzling smile.
Now I’m smiling again, and for a second I forget where I am. But the ball doesn’t. It comes at me lightning fast, heading straight for my face, and before I can dodge it, it pummels me in the nose.
Loud and painful.
And then everything goes black.
Millie:
I’m practically dragging this noob by his ear to the locker room. Blood is rushing out of his nose at a wicked fast rate. The only two things I’m thinking as I kick the door open are: 1) Damn, it must suck to get clunked in the face by a 10 year old, and 2) Who the hell approved this guy?
I sigh and grab my first aid after leaning the guy against a bench. Once I’m finished cleaning the affected area, I roll up a wad of toilet paper and hand it to him. He takes it but is clueless about what to do next.
“You’re supposed to shove it up your snout, in case you were wondering.” I say, and then roll my eyes when he groans, “It’s probably not going to be the most comfortable thing, but it'll help ease the bleeding.” I walk over to sink and start scrubbing my hands.
“Thanks,” He says, gaining a bit of strength, “And would you mind explaining to me who the lovely little knucklehead was, who thought it would be funny to hammer me in the face with a soccer ball?”
I smile, “That would be Timothy Kicklighter. Me and Dayson found him by the vending machine, scarfing down a bottle of chocolate milk.” We found him shortly after I talked to the Coach. And thank goodness we did because it has lead to the most eventful afternoon of the week.
He snorts, “You have got to be kidding me. You know, this must be typical for Mr. Kicklighter. It’s a great name for the kid, too. Fits him quite well.”
This time I laugh for real. “Anyway Noob, what were you thinking about when it happened? You were, like, totally lost when that ball struck your nose.” I look at him expectingly.
“Oh, well… That’s not important. Why were you staring at me? That’s what’s important. And also I am not a ‘Noob’.”
“You really need to work on your defenses. On the field and off.” He shoots me a glare and I hand over a smirk.
“Fine, I was thinking about my time as an LLSCer. That’s it. Happy?”
All the smugness washes off my face at once, “You went here? So did I.”
“Huh,” He says, unmoved, and picking at his tissue, “We must not’ve seen each other. There were a lot of kids I didn’t know back then or maybe–wait, what’s your name?” He looks over my face, from my eyes to my ears, clearly looking for something. I tuck my hair behind my ear, revealing a scar right below my hairline. “Oh my god,” He says, “You’re Millie.”
He doesn’t say it as a question, because it’s not.
“Yeah. Wait, how did you know that?” I ask.
“Your scar. We used to joke about how it looked like a soccer ball. Remember?”
Information was coming at me too fast. “We? But, there’s only one other person who— wait, what's your name?” I look at him, searching his face now. But nothing clicks.
“Graham.” He says, and I freeze.
Why am I not saying anything? Is he who I think he is? Yes. There’s no other explanation, because there’s no one else who would’ve instantly made that comparison to my scar. He’s here, standing right in front of me. So why is nothing coming out of my mouth?
“Should we, like, hug or something?” He finally asks.
“Oh, um…” I hold up my hand and he reluctantly high-fives it. “Well, that was awkward.” And I instantly slap my forehead because I realize I said that part out loud. Thank goddess he says what he does next.
“Just how I like it.” He winks, and I smile.
Just then, Coach calls from outside the locker room.
“Practice is over, guys. Do you need any help with—yecch,” He walks in and looks directly at the tissue hanging out of Graham’s nose. “You might wanna take that out, son. It looks like it's done the job.”
Graham nods and his ears turn the same shade of crimson as the tissue as he walks over to the trashcan and plops it inside. His nose looks a lot better than before.
“See Graham Cracker, all better. Now would be a great time to thank me.” I whisper on our way out.
“Yeah, thanks. And, you still remember that nick-name?”
“Of course.”
He smiles as Coach Dayson waves a final Goodbye then he gets in his car and drives off, leaving us alone. “So uh, I’ll see you around Millie?”
What, no way? This can’t be over that fast. “Graham Cracker wait.” I call out. He freezes almost instantly.
“Yeah?”
“Well so I–I was wondering, is that your car over there? The rusty green one?”
He pauses. “Yeah that’s it. How in the world did you–”
“Oh shut up, I know you Graham.” That, and also his is one of the three cars in the parking lot, so it was pretty easy to tell.
Another pause, and he finally takes the hint. “Do you need a ride or something? I’d be happy to bring you if you want.”
And I want. “You know, I’d love that. Thanks Graham Cracker.”
He starts up the engine and it buzzes not-so-subtly. “You’ve got to stop calling me that.” His words are savage, but his tone is playful.
“Whatever you say, Graham Cracker.”
He chuckles and sighs.
And then we’re on the road.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.