(Clarkston, MI, U.S.A)
I landed in a plane, but took off on a field. The light green grass of the soccer field, or pitch, as I have heard people from England and other countries say. The pure white lines that stood out from the perfect green. Two big rectangles with netting at each end. Kids with jerseys that were the colors of the rainbow.
A strong and annoying memory refilled the emptiness inside my wandering brain. A coach or dad, deciding the future of the game. The pain was in me, and the glory was inside another star. The coach must have been proud, but later he would be disappointed, like I was at that moment.
There is nothing to learn there, it’s only a place for playing. The beautiful rectangular shape, with the three main colors of the grass, dirt, and lines. I would watch my good friend play on that field long before I would ever play on his team. The red jerseys stood out from the green of the grass. I wanted to play for them, but the separation of states would get in the way.
Whenever I go back to where it all started, it seems like the teams are dancing with the ball. The ball with the black and white pattern that is known around the globe. I realize that they aren't the best quality, but it is like home to me. Brothers and sisters that aren't related, running around on the light green grass. The best words in the world come back. Perfect green, pure white and rainbow jerseys.
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