Samantha Koonce

The Game

Sitting on sidelines pondering the mindless feud of twenty something's from afar, the clicking of sticks like heavy raindrops on a dirty window. Transfixed on jerseys weaving in and out, sideways and backwards impossible to keep focused on just one. Spectators with their eyes gleaming ever forward, minds ablaze with visions of slapshots and hat tricks for the win. Direct and swift but graceful, he who represents all moves unexpectingly forward into what seems to be an immovable rock and just then, a break in the valuable un-silence as the red "0" blinks into a "1" on a flickering scoreboard high above the heads of the eager, young men. Sticks blast upwards in abundant congratulations for the player, a solid boost of confidence. Surely another successful play like that again. Another few measures of time before a noise like that of an air horn sounding its voice in attempts to halt the romping of bodies against each other and against glass. The period is over.