I’ve led soccer teams onto interesting playing grounds.
Our club teams play by railroad tracks. Elise and Marie played on a sunk-down field. It’s like a pit Fred Flintstone dug with his brontosaurus. Our tournaments happen at a place called Mazeppa Park. And we played an entire season on a field of mowed down corn.
The creepiest, hand down: The field by a cemetery.
We’re not talking way over yonder. We’re talking, don’t back up from the sideline without looking. There’s a headstone behind you. Grave markers came in handy on errant balls on that side of the field. Turns out soccer balls bounce back nicely off slabs of marble.
Tree pollen. Terrorist brothers. A lost wallet. I internally cursed the olive-skinned man who parked his Mercedes in the fire lane in front of the Harris-Teeter today. Then I cursed myself, also of olive skin, as I rummaged through bags in my trunk looking for my wallet in that grocery store parking lot.
And for cursing the first olive-skinned man in the first place.
I’m not sure whether I cursed the lost wallet, my olive skin, or both.