Late enough to have forgotten about the last, and yet the next is still out of sight. Mid-summer season brings with it the heat and stillness, allowing seepage from the past.
Warm days of youth lead to cooler evenings. Soles of feet hardened by this time, making shoes an afterthought. He is waiting for the game.
They gather on the wide expanse of lush deep green grass, watered by a system none of them understood. In the shade of the anonymous building they spread out for the start. Simple enough. Bases spread far, guarded by the older boys, and the young fleet footed youth like himself run like the wind, dodging the tags, and reaching safely, breathing heavy, and laughing loudly. Never better.
As he waited for the throw away he led off the base, he dug his toes deep for a swift exit to the far bag. Off and running. With only the thick summer air in his path, he was seemingly, in his own mind, un-catchable.
Suddenly he felt a tremendous shock and pain to his foot. At full stride he began to roll head over heels as the sky went white and his eyes saw black. He lay in the grass but did not comprehend the cause. Kids gathered and then sprung away in disgust. He squinted at the foot and saw a large thorn, the length of a Popsicle stick, punctured right through from the bottom and out the top.
Everyone stayed away in fright. He began to feel the pain. And then, as suddenly as it entered, his just-older brother grabbed the foot firmly in one hand, and yanked that thick thorn right out in the direction it had come.
Immediate relief. Immediate respect.
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