Sports

Adrian

It was a beautiful afternoon in August; it was slightly breezy and there wasn’t a cloud in the baby-blue sky. School started in two weeks and the kids in my neighborhood were going all out, trying to squeeze all the fun they could into those last precious hours in the park. The kids in sixth grade were especially outrageous. You weren’t allowed to play in the park as soon as you entered middle school. It was an unwritten law set down by years of sun-streaked kids coming and going. This was my last summer. My friends and I woke up early each morning and came home late each night. Dusty, tan and happy, we’d crawl into our beds without bothering to change. It was softball that I was most interested in. Softball. We were obsessed. No matter how many times we’d been told to by well-meaning mothers, we wouldn’t change our interests to something more feminine, like makeup, or clothes. The mothers would sigh and shake their heads, hoping that we would come down to earth by the time middle school rolled around. There were five of us; me, Amy, Francine, Kath, and Becca. Amy was short with red hair and tons of freckles. She was short-tempered, but if you got on her good side, she was as kind as could be. Francine had long blond-brown hair that fell to the middle of her back. She was the quiet one among us, though compared to most people she was incredibly loud. Kath, or Kathleen, with brown hair cut close to her head, was the sports player among us. We all played softball, but she played every possible sport that she could. Becca, with black hair that was always pulled back into a ponytail, was the intellectual one. For some reason, she had been born with a gift for math, something that none of us understood. We were best friends, and we thought that we would never accept another person into our group. The ball met the bat and it flew farther than we’d ever in five years, hit a ball The softball field that we played on was old, so old that our grandparents remember playing on it. There had been several suggestions to tear it down and build a couple of soccer fields in its place. They had been solidly refused, not only by us, but also by more than half the adults in the town, people who had grown up with it there. There were no dugouts like the newer fields, but it didn’t matter to anyone. The grass was mostly brown with scattered bits of green mixed in; cigarette butts were more common than either color grass. The dirt that formed the diamond had not been replaced in a while, making the ground as hard as cement. All in all, the field was a waste of space, but it was perfect for our purposes. Today we were, like all other days, playing softball. It was windy and dirt was getting thrown up in our eyes. There were enough of us only to have one pitcher, one batter, a first baseman, a shortstop and an outfielder. This wasn’t enough, especially toward the end of the summer, when we’d had two and a half months to practice, but we worked through it all, adapting the rules to fit our purposes. We were years older than anyone else, most of the kids having already adjusted into the normal world according to their proud parents. We were labeled The Outcasts and spit on by kids three years younger than us. We didn’t mind the spitting or the names, but if a kid ticked us off, a bloody nose solved matters temporarily. Today Amy was pitching and I was supposed to be batting, when I saw a figure coming toward us. I turned to look, stunned. Nobody, absolutely nobody, ever came to see us. We were used to it. This was someone new. It had to have been, I thought. A ball whizzed by my head and I turned to glare accusingly at Amy. She shrugged, then laughed. “Served you right!” she called. I stuck out my tongue and turned back around, letting go of the bat. It slid to the ground with a soft tap. The figure was closer now and I could tell it was a girl. The rest of my friends saw what I was looking at and walked toward me. We gathered around home plate, all glaring at this newcomer. The girl was tall, over five feet, an accomplishment in us since we’d all been born into short families. Her hair was dark brown, pulled back roughly from her face and tied in a ponytail. The baseball cap that was shoved on her head was dark blue. She was wearing a dark pink tank top, with light pink shorts. It was Francine who spoke first. “Nice outfit.” Amy spat rudely at the new girl’s feet. “I think the mall’s that way.” She gestured with a tip of her head. The new girl stared steadily at them with dark brown eyes, reminding me of a trapped deer. “My name’s Adrian. I came to play softball.” Her voice was quiet, but she sounded self-assured. For some reason, I wanted desperately to save this girl from the fate that she was accepting unknowingly. “OK, you can bat,” I said quickly. Francine looked at me strangely, but I shrugged. Francine shrugged too. “Why don’t you play catcher, then?” she suggested. I nodded mutely. We walked back to our positions. I crouched behind the plate. Adrian picked up the bat I’d dropped. She clamped her hands around it, squeezing hard until her fingers were striped red and white. Her fingernails were painted a light green, but it had started to chip away. Eventually, she shuffled up to the plate. Amy threw the ball perfectly. It was going to be very hard to hit, I thought. I doubted Adrian would even swing. Adrian

Persistence

Jessica Morgan was ten years old and was already sure she was no good at anything. Her parents were eminent historians who studied the Civil War. They each had written numerous books and articles on the subject of Civil War history. Everyone Jessica knew seemed to admire them, including Jessica herself. To Jessica, her parents appeared to have limitless confidence and skill. She, on the other hand, had never felt successful or competent at anything she tried. Sometimes, Jessica wondered how she could be so different from her parents. One hot summer afternoon as Jessica sat reading, the telephone on the wall beside her rang loudly. She picked it up on the second ring, placing a bookmark in her book. “Hello?” “Jessica, it’s Cassie.” “Oh, hi.” Ten-year-old Cassie Parker had been Jessica’s closest friend for six years. The girls chatted for a few minutes, and then Cassie said, “You know my brother’s old kayak? Well, we’re getting rid of it.” “That beat-up one with the wooden paddle? Why?” Jessica was surprised. She knew he loved that old kayak. She herself had seen him using it. “My brother Aaron got a brand-new kayak for his eighth birthday. Now my parents are dying to get the old one out of the garage. I thought because you live right on the creek and you don’t have a kayak, maybe you’d like it.” Jessica hesitated. She didn’t know the first thing about kayaking. What should she do? Suddenly, she heard herself say, “Sure, I’ll take it. My parents have always said I could have a kayak if I wanted one, but I’ve never had the chance to get one.” “Now you’ve got a great chance. So, you want it?” “Yes, I do!” Jessica’s heart leapt. She was really getting the kayak! “OK.” Even if she couldn’t see Cassie’s face, Jessica was almost positive her best friend was smiling by her pleased tone. “I’ll bring it over Saturday morning at ten. Is that OK?” “Yeah, sure! Bye.” “Bye.” Jessica’s heart leapt. She was really getting the kayak! Jessica hung up the phone again and considered opening her book, but she was too excited to read. Tomorrow she would have her very own kayak. Visions filled her mind—visions of herself moving silently, gracefully through the marsh creeks behind her house, cutting the water smoothly. Visions of racing Cassie time and time again, propelling herself swiftly past Cassie’s red kayak, winning dozens of races. Then the dreams were abruptly cut short. What if she was horrible at kayaking . . . just like everything else she’d ever tried? The visions changed to pictures of herself floundering in the water, having tipped over her kayak, of herself running into the banks of the creeks and getting stuck in the mud. Jessica knew she was rarely any good at anything, and, now that she thought about it, was positive that she would be as bad at kayaking as she was at video games and tennis and soccer and everything else she tried to do. All her friends were good at something. Cassie was a straight-A student, Ginny was the best pitcher on the local baseball team, and Lila was always talking about her most recent experiences climbing mountains. They had never been mean to Jessica when she failed to do something as well as they had done it, but she nevertheless felt embarrassed every time they looked at her, smiling kindly, and said, “Come on, Jess, you know you can do it. Just try really hard.” Jessica’s mind drifted back to last April, when she and her friend Lila had gone to their hometown’s annual spring festival. There, among all the usual attractions, was something new—a climbing wall. “Hey, let’s give it a try!” Lila had said enthusiastically, stepping forward. Jessica had had a sinking feeling, but she had agreed because she didn’t want to appear as though she were afraid to try. As the girls neared the wall, Lila confidently stepped up to the more challenging side, while Jessica uneasily approached the easier one. They were given harnesses to put on, and began climbing. The movements felt unnatural to Jessica. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t seem to find any handholds. It seemed that she stayed in one spot forever, awkwardly attempting to move upward. Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen Lila, scrambling steadily higher. As Jessica tentatively pulled herself up another notch, she heard a sound that made her heart sink. It was the ring of the bell from the top of the climbing wall. That meant Lila had already reached the top and was on her way back down. Jessica, convinced she couldn’t make it any further, gave up and headed toward the ground. Even now, the memory of that day made her cringe. She was still thinking about that day, and about how she would probably have a similar experience with kayaking, when she went downstairs for supper that night. Only Jessica’s mother, Elizabeth, was at the dinner table—presumably her father, James, was still working hard in his study. “Hello, Jessica,” said her mother, putting a plate of spaghetti in front of Jessica as she sat down. “Hi. Cassie called. They’re giving away Aaron’s old kayak.” “Oh? Why?” “Aaron got a new one for his birthday Well, anyway, Cassie called me to offer the kayak to me. If it’s OK, she’s bringing it over tomorrow.” Her mom smiled. “I hope you’ll like it.” The rest of dinner passed in silence—they were both hungry, and felt no need to talk. After eating, Jessica read her book and watched television awhile, and then went to bed, apprehensive about the next morning. *          *          * Jessica woke abruptly at the insistent ring of the alarm on the clock radio sitting on her nightstand, which read eight o’clock. She got out of bed, showered, and changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and by that time it was eight-thirty. Only an hour and a

Losing Grip

Alex clenched his teeth as he heard his sister’s taunting voice. “Look at Alex! Look at him! He’s scared to go up!” With a swift move, Alex wiped the sweat from his forehead, pushing his auburn hair out of his eyes. He had waited all summer to come here to the outdoor rock-climbing center in Alberta, and now he was afraid to start climbing! Stalling, he adjusted the red helmet that protected his head and looked over at his sister Cory angrily. She had their mother’s red hair and green eyes that were always full of reckless fun and determination. “I’m not scared, Cory” he said quietly “I’ll race you up!” Cory looked surprised but nodded curtly and gripped the first rock. Alex copied her. Their mum, looking doubtful, pushed back a strand of her loose hair. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Alex has never climbed before . . .” “Relax, Mum,” replied her daughter impatiently. “We’re both on harnesses, it’s not as if we’ll break our necks or anything. Could you say ‘go’?” “Oh, all right. Ready . . . set. . . go!” Alex shot upwards. His small, lithe body twisted and turned as he reached for each new rock nailed in the artificial surface. His feet found tiny footholds to brace his body. His belayer, holding on to the rope so that Alex would not plummet to the ground, looked at him in surprise. “The kid’s good! How old is he? I’ve never seen someone go that fast in my life! Did you say he’s never climbed before?” “I’ve never seen someone go that fast in my life!” Alex’s parents watched their eleven-year-old son as he reached the top of the course; fifteen-year-old Cory arrived quite a few seconds after him. Alex had a small smile on his quiet face as he was let down to the ground by the amazed belayer. Cory then floated down on her harness, looking angry. “Where did you learn to climb like that, Alex? Why didn’t you tell me?” “I- I didn’t know I could,” said Alex softly, a little scared of this unknown talent. “I didn’t know” Cory’s face softened. “Well, what are you waiting for? Try a harder one!” Cory and I are so different, reflected Alex. She’s a daredevil, always pushing her luck. She doesn’t care about danger, and it’s got her broken bones more than a few times. I like challenges, sure, and I always push myself further, but I’d prefer to read instead. As an afterthought, he added, I wish I were more like her. *          *          * During the next two weeks at the Outdoor Climbing Center, Alex’s talent flourished. By the last day, he was climbing the hardest courses as if they were horizontal and flat. He almost cried when his parents reminded him that they were leaving the next day. “It’s not fair!” he yelled, losing his temper for one of the first times in his life. “I want to stay here forever!” “Nevertheless, you have school in a month, and you know that we can’t stay here forever, Alex,” said his father. Cory looked at her father. “Come on, Dad. Can’t we stay another day?” “No. We have to . . .” Her father was cut off by his wife, who wanted her family to stop arguing. She addressed her husband sternly. “I have a compromise. Right now, as you all know, we are going to Greece because I want to see the Parthenon and the Greek islands—and the mountains. The mountains, I have been told, are wonderful, and we can let Alex do some real climbing there.” She watched her son’s face brighten considerably; he had almost forgotten about the trip to Greece. Alex knew every piece of information there was about the ancient Greek gods and goddesses, and he was eager to see Athens and the Parthenon ruins. Her husband smiled and said, “I knew you would think of a solution, my dear.” “Honestly,” she said to her family. “What would you do without me?” Cory rolled her eyes. “Well,” she said, sighing. “I suppose we have to see the Parthenon?” Knowing that the answer was yes, she continued. “Alex, we can climb some real mountains now!” Even though she wasn’t as exceptionally good at this sport as Alex, she still excelled at it, as she did most sports. Climbing was the one in which Alex claimed victory over her. *          *          * Late that night, the sixth night that the family spent in Greece, they arrived at a small inn near the coast of Greece. They had hired a horse and cart for the trip, because Alex’s mother claimed that she would not travel in cars any more than she had to. Alex grinned. His mother sometimes got carsick on ten-minute drives—a four-hour ride over the rocky roads of Greece’s countryside would be torture for her. The past six days had been spent touring the sights of Greece; Alex had been in heaven, but now he was even more excited—the next day would bring mountains! The air was warm and laden with the sweet scent of flowers, and everyone, especially the children, was drowsy. “The Hestia Inn,” murmured Cory sleepily as she saw the small wooden sign hanging on a post. “And down that lane is Artemis Inlet. What is it with these people and the old Olympian gods?” The moment she said it, she regretted it; closing her eyes, she winced slightly as her brother opened his mouth indignantly. Alex started to talk a mile a minute about Artemis and Hestia. He explained that of course an inn would be named after Hestia, the goddess of the hearth. The owners might want their fire to be always bright and warm, and as Hestia had tended the fire of Mount Olympus, it stood to reason that she would be the one the ancient Greeks called on when they named inns with fires where travellers could