Young Memories

The day my friend Forge and I had a hose and a lamp post. A water shooting device and an electrical current. That warm sunny afternoon where you could feel the sunlight penetrate your bare skin, giving a cozy tingle, became a pleasing memory. We were shooting the hose all around his driveway and yard when out of nowhere a shock shocked us. We kept spraying randomly and jonesing at the chance for a sharp tingle. We never put together why we got such a jolt, but I still remember how much fun it was to shoot that hose around waiting for electrocutions.

Bam, whimpers, bam, bloodied knees. Street hockey with my step-brother and our neighbors was quite an adventure. After biking home from Loring, we would get together and play street hockey until the sun started to set. With our red metals nets, old sticks, and variety of pucks you would never know what would happen in a game. It was the closest of moments. I felt a bond with my step-brother. A network created. He taught me, and I played. My middle brother would join, and we would play. A new game. A new life. A lot of fun afternoons spent on the pavement.

Every year recess soccer changed. The second-grade "Dinmore Versus" chants fell on deaf ears in third. New teams, often unfair, bandaged by the common-hood soccer gave. You fought as the underdogs, enchanting yourself with a picture of glory. You laughed as the expected, waiting for your hammer to fall. But that moment the ball fell in your feat. The first touch you gave, which put the world on your shoulders. The slide to keep possession. Everything for your team. For glory. There is no feeling like it.