Fifth-grade recess was a time of discovery. All around me, the bustling playground broke into groups; it was war, and we were picking sides. The self-appointed cool kids walked around while the stragglers followed. The nerds took over the plastic playground to have heated discussions. The sporty kids played football in the center, dirtying their clothes on the grass. I was somewhere in the middle, talking with my friends by the swings. It was perfectly sectioned, and I was supposed to be content staying inside the unspoken lines. A single fact stands out to me about that year: fifth-grade gave value to quantity before quality. It was safer to stay in numbers than risk setting out alone to the outcasts; it was better to have ten fake friends than one valuable one. The balance we had created remained righted as spring approached, but that was soon to change.
It is relevant that I now present an earlier scenario: the summer before fifth grade. My father was searching for ways to connect with his only daughter. In the end, it was football that stuck. Throwing our neon nerf ball at dusk before dinner every evening and again in the morning. It seemed only fitting that my July birthday brought the gift of a real, pigskin football into my arms. When fifth-grade September rolled around, I was reminded that my school didn’t have a football team. It also crushed me that the single spot of quarterback was not handed out lightly, especially to a girl. It was only the passing sessions in the greying dark that I found a place to store my passion.
That fall, the fifth-grade boys started playing football at recess. They would form two teams with the two most popular captains and section out across the soccer field. Fall freezing winter, winter melting the spring, they would bring the fraying ball to every recess. I would watch from the swings as my friends talked of the latest celebrities and the pleas to their parents for social media. Sometimes it was hilarious, and I found myself laughing, but I was slowly getting bored with the once exciting school recess. When I suggested we play football, they seemed uninterested and vaguely disgusted. I let it go, but I asked again when recess came the next day. It was spring, and all they wanted to do was talk. I pleaded with them, but even my closest friends declined my offer. Finally, I decided that I would go by myself.
When I stepped out of my friend group lines, it was spring fifth grade. I walked from the woodchips onto the grass. The boys let me join easily enough, but I was the final pick. They already had even numbers, so I made them odd. Surprisingly they didn’t mind that one team had more players than the other. In the end, it did not even matter: I was not thrown a pass that day. Or any other day for the next two weeks. They threw me the first pass on a sneak play. In other words, they knew the other team would never see it coming. I caught the ball and ran towards the endzone before being tapped out. I was not trying to get a touchdown; I was trying to solidify my appearance as something other than a girl. It worked, and I started getting more passes. My friends noticed that I was no longer standing alone on the field but becoming one of the best picks. What I looked forward to the most was the surprised look on the boys’ faces when I threw a perfect spiral. It was not expected, especially from tiny fifth-grade Ava.
By the end of the spring, most of my friends had joined me on the field, and recess became a little less divided. I became bolder in conversation, in the classroom, and in public. I started making decisions that benefitted myself and my goals without waiting for the group. That year I learned not only how to play football but how to start a movement; I realized that the most attractive quality I can possess is confidence.
It is relevant that I now present an earlier scenario: the summer before fifth grade. My father was searching for ways to connect with his only daughter. In the end, it was football that stuck. Throwing our neon nerf ball at dusk before dinner every evening and again in the morning. It seemed only fitting that my July birthday brought the gift of a real, pigskin football into my arms. When fifth-grade September rolled around, I was reminded that my school didn’t have a football team. It also crushed me that the single spot of quarterback was not handed out lightly, especially to a girl. It was only the passing sessions in the greying dark that I found a place to store my passion.
That fall, the fifth-grade boys started playing football at recess. They would form two teams with the two most popular captains and section out across the soccer field. Fall freezing winter, winter melting the spring, they would bring the fraying ball to every recess. I would watch from the swings as my friends talked of the latest celebrities and the pleas to their parents for social media. Sometimes it was hilarious, and I found myself laughing, but I was slowly getting bored with the once exciting school recess. When I suggested we play football, they seemed uninterested and vaguely disgusted. I let it go, but I asked again when recess came the next day. It was spring, and all they wanted to do was talk. I pleaded with them, but even my closest friends declined my offer. Finally, I decided that I would go by myself.
When I stepped out of my friend group lines, it was spring fifth grade. I walked from the woodchips onto the grass. The boys let me join easily enough, but I was the final pick. They already had even numbers, so I made them odd. Surprisingly they didn’t mind that one team had more players than the other. In the end, it did not even matter: I was not thrown a pass that day. Or any other day for the next two weeks. They threw me the first pass on a sneak play. In other words, they knew the other team would never see it coming. I caught the ball and ran towards the endzone before being tapped out. I was not trying to get a touchdown; I was trying to solidify my appearance as something other than a girl. It worked, and I started getting more passes. My friends noticed that I was no longer standing alone on the field but becoming one of the best picks. What I looked forward to the most was the surprised look on the boys’ faces when I threw a perfect spiral. It was not expected, especially from tiny fifth-grade Ava.
By the end of the spring, most of my friends had joined me on the field, and recess became a little less divided. I became bolder in conversation, in the classroom, and in public. I started making decisions that benefitted myself and my goals without waiting for the group. That year I learned not only how to play football but how to start a movement; I realized that the most attractive quality I can possess is confidence.
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