A Break from the Norm

Lonely bicycles stand neglected, like the child who was missed in the pick-up kickball game. The lucky bicycles are whizzing by, carrying loud and boisterous adolescents. I see many familiar faces, but they are obscured by a crowd of anonymous youth. Bits of conversation float across the field hockey field. Many of these tidbits include the desires beat one another to the finish line, or to explain how the dirt found its way into the girl’s eye. Some of the more competitive youths fly across the worn path, racing each other as if their lives depended on it. Meanwhile, lackadaisical boys and girls wound there way through the fields, enjoying their moment outdoors. The dirt path snakes its way across the back of the field hockey field, down the band practice field, and then meets with the nature trail. Our competitive children dash towards the dictator of the afternoon, the gym teacher. The stragglers chug their way across the lawn to catch up with their speedy comrades. A short break allows clarity. A soft breeze caresses the corn in the nearby field. The breeze increases in intensity and blows through the leaves and needles on the trees. The smell of freshly cut grass mingles with withered corn stalks. The moment of peace it lost in the return of the preteens. The dictator gave new commands, and they are followed with obedience. A fresh objective yields new leaders of the pack. Boys and girls struggle to maintain the first-place position. Maturity has reached a new low in the comments and actions of many of the boys.
The baseball scoreboard stands guard in far right field, honoring those students who have already graduated. The easiest way to make sure your child’s memory is engraved into the heart of the school is to donate anything sports related. You are hailed as a hero, a philanthropist of monumental proportions. Across the way, the empty baseball dugouts looked derelict and skeletal. They long for the blooming of flowers and the fall of a warm rain. That would mark the turning of spring and the return of the baseball players. Then, the dugout will be occupied with teens filled with angst and excitement. The equipment, sunflower seeds, and water bottles will cover the floor, and the dugout will look more like a home. The sound of a helicopter yanks me out of my reverie. The noise is all around, but the chopper is nowhere in sight. Suddenly, it bursts forth from the cover of the trees and houses, climbing higher and higher. It turns, and leaves the campus in a whirl of beating blades. My attention is drawn to the bicyclers once again.
They do not stop, and they do not slow down. They fear the reaction of the dictator, and they do not want to face punishment. One brave girl continues to cut the corner at right field. I wonder if she will continue looking for the easy way out for the rest of her life. White, puffy clouds cast long and irregular shadows across the field, offering shade to the students. Not much shade is needed today, due to the stiff breeze. Two buzzards circle overhead, searching for an exhausted bicycler to fall off. Rising above the school the American flag flutters; a beautiful symbol of freedom and liberty. The dictator calls her class in, and the dash to her begins yet again. One lone boy is fighting to finish his last lap, but appears to be enjoying his jaunt nonetheless. The wheels stop turning, the chatter stops flowing, and the tranquility returns.

God Bless