Green and damp was the grass I sat on. I think there was a game going on, or maybe practice, I wasn’t really sure. My coach saw me sitting but didn’t say anything which made me think it was just practice, but the parents bundled in their light jackets and scarfs with coffee and chairs made me think otherwise. Either way I wasn’t moving; I didn’t want to come here in the first place. 

The other kids ran around on the other side of the field, following the ball. I coud hear the faint sound of their cleats hitting the grass. I could see the impressions of some left by the heavier footed kids. The dirt was still fragile. It was my favorite when it was slightly soft. When it was soft it was easier for me pull more of the grass up, seeing the white ends, even better when the stringy roots would come up too. I nestled my hand further into the ground, I could feel more dirt on my hand while the tips of the grass tickled between my fingers. 

My shoe was untied, I just noticed. I forgot how bright my shoes, cleats, were. Looking at them now, I don’t think I like them very much. The yellowish green was the majority of it, and it hurt my eyes to look at. Although I think the dark blue spots surrounding it were even worse. The worst of all however was the vibrant orange laces. They looked totally out of place, the entire shoe looked out of place. It didn’t look like a real thing, I guess it wasn’t a real shoe anyways. Maybe thats why it doesn’t have to look real. I reach my other hand out and run my finger along the bottom of it. I didn’t realize they were that sharp. I prick my finger again on the other shoe just to be sure, still sharp.

I loud, long, whistle blow hit my ears and I thwart my head over to the source. One of the guys holding a clipboard blew it and all the other kids clammering about stopped moving. I wonder if that meant it was break time, or better yet, it was over. When I saw my coach ushering the kids to our side I knew it was time for a break. I clenched my fist around the grass as I stood up, tearing some up with me. I look at the strands in my hand, no white ends. I guess it’s just not my day.