Yesterday, I spied a blue soccer ball on the lawn rectangle between the asphalt and the sidewalk. I thought about stealing it, kicking it, ignoring it, when, from behind me, somebody called me, “Hey, dude!”
While reflecting on the declining manners of pre-adolescent boys–to whom I am neither mister or sir–I turned. I saw a group of boys holding onto the chain linked fence.
“Pass us the ball!” They call. Not an imperative mood, mind you, but straight up command. But I decide this is not the time or place to go “ghetto” on these kids.
I pick up the ball, check my right and left, step into the road, imagine a glorious parabolic arch over the fence, over the heads of the kids. I imagine most of them having to run back to fetch the ball, maybe one or two left at the fence, an incredulous, gaping look on their face. I punt the ball over the fence.
The wrong fence.
It bounces once, hits a silver van on the side door, then continues bouncing about in the parking lot. The boys run over to the parking lot, checking under cars for their ball. One, maybe two of the kids are still left clinging at the fence, and I swear I hear a snicker or a giggle, depending on the gender.
I don’t know whether to feel sad for the loss of a time when I could punt that ball well neigh twice or thrice as far into the air, or whether to feel sadder for the reemergence of a time when I would get in trouble for kicking balls into cars on accident.
I shrug, and walk back to my apartment.
