December 10, 2008
There are different kinds of memories. This one is visual, no, spacial. If I could share the physical sensation with you of my mind remembering that large sun hat, and her dress, and the way she had sat in the front row with a complete disregard for what sitting in the front row of a sporting event meant (as expressed by her ridiculously out-of-place attire), I would talk to you about a flash, no, a spark and a liminal, ghost-like sensation in my chest and arms and legs and fingers, and yes - I think it is there - in my toes, too. But I may just want to believe that my toes remember her too, it is more poetic that way. Like so many other things we cannot see or otherwise measure. Like the smell of the thing. But I am getting ahead of myself now. What I wanted to say is that it took all of my intestines to invite her to come watch me. Because I knew she probably would not come. It was a precondition of being allowed to get close enough to her that I could fall in adoration: she would not adore me back. For one hour before the start of the game I scanned the crowd every 5 minutes, straining to make out the faces in the back row, trying to see beyond my eyes and interpret her looks in the way a person leaned forward or sat down. I thought for sure a person who loathed anything competitive the way she did would sit in the back of the stadium wearing large sunglasses, where no one would see her. But no, five minutes before kick-off she paraded in with five friends in tow and sat in the front row. With a blanket, a picnic basket, a sun hat and a dress. I had never seen her wear a dress before. She was on stage again, acting. I had invited her to prove that I was aloof enough to not care if she didn't show up. And she one-upped me by stealing the stands. I wanted her to come because every moment I knew her, every role she played was pitch-perfect. She performed life. Everyplace was her stage. But me, I had only this one place, 50 yards by 100 yards. And I just wanted her to see me . . in my element . . . once.She was gone by the time I was put in the game. I knew she would be, and I glanced over my shoulder, really, only to be sure I felt her absence fully. But I said this was a spacial memory. And here it is. She dominated even that space. A thing that had been barely more than two dimensional, my position on a triangle between the ball and the two goal posts, had suddenly become enormous. I was constantly checking my position in reference to the ball the goal posts and the place where her huge hat had been just moments ago. She was the only other person I had ever played for.And here is the last bit, the thing I loved before her. I never really wanted to play again after that season. Do I give even that to her? I could say she took it from me. That she outshone it so, that she changed it irrevocably. Or do I keep that for my own?
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smerdyakov (anonymous) says...
Beautiful writing. All rings true, and elegant. Except the part about you playing footbal ... is this fiction?
December 10, 2008 at 12:52 p.m. ( permalink | suggest removal )
billy (Billy Keefe) says...
It is true, I was quite the football player in my younger days, European football that is.
December 12, 2008 at 10:08 p.m. ( permalink | suggest removal )
cutny (anonymous) says...
Good story. Nice writing. Crushes can be so maddening and exciting at the same time.
December 20, 2008 at 11:46 a.m. ( permalink | suggest removal )