From Dares to Cleats

  Soccer was always my sport. I loved to play, always going to practice. Whether sick, tired, or sore, I went. That is of course, until they wouldn’t let me play any more, due to injury. And it all started with a dare.
  All kids use the monkey bars. Some walk across the top, others swing from bar to bar. All the cool kids sit on top, laughing at the losers who aren’t part of the group. I am not one of the cool kids. I am one of the kids to frightened to climb those shiny metallic bars of death. That is, until the dare.
  It was a general dare, not directed toward me. It was for everybody standing in the vicinity of the wall. “Bet you’re to scared to climb the bars. Dare you to walk them like we do. Dare you!” Now, I may be one of the children who are afraid, but I am also one of the kids who don’t want any one to know. After all, I have to keep up my image of badass second grader.
  I put forward my proud face, the one everyone has that says, I’m not scared, just a little nervous. I knew I was going to do it, so I did it quickly. I took my quivering legs to the monkey bars, shaking like a nervous horse, as they got taller and taller. When it got to the height of Jack’s beanstalk, I almost balked. But with the calls of “Chicken, bock, bock!” and the terribly original ones of “Scaredy cat!!” pushing me forward, I quickly made it to the top. I dragged my legs that felt weighted with lead towards over the top ledge. I slowly forced myself to the standard sickly standing position. The one were you’re hunched over, hands outstretched to catch your clumsy body when it over corrects itself. Then I stood up. Wow. No wonder the cool kids like it up here. I turn to display my accomplishment to its best advantage when I make the fatal mistake of any height climber. I look down.
  Time slows as I fall to the ground. The instant hush of the student body causes me more distress then the feeling of weightlessness that covers my entire body for the course of 5 seconds. If only it lasted longer.
  The weight of my body slams down on the arm I flung out to catch my self. As the teachers rush me towards the nurse, the only thought in my head is, I hope I still can go to my game.
  It turns out my nurse isn’t that great. She sent me along with a “You’ll be fine,” and a sucker. Of course I didn’t mind. I had my game right after school. To bad my mom has such good eyes.
  She sees the bruise. “Nothing to worry about. I don’t even feel it.” I tell her. She gets that worried mother look in her eye but still lets me play. Which is good, because my team sucks without me. Or at least, I thought so. I did score 3 out of 5 goals in the first half. It’s the second half that sticks vividly in my mind. There is only one girl on the other team. She’s 3 inches taller than me, which made her into a giant by my eyes. She had blonde pigtails. She also wore metals cleats, which, by the way, are illegal in this sport. At least in my age group. And they hurt, as I soon found out.
  I made a mistake. I didn’t look down. The foot came out of nowhere aiming for the ball, but tripping me. And then came this crunching noise as the foot connects, and an excruciating pain that felt like needles exploding in my arm. The feel of a scream working it’s way up my throat that was swollen with tears, quickly bursts from me. The sight of my mom, running across the field with a panicked look on her face causes the tears to come out. Apparently the sight of my arm caused hers to come roaring out as well. We both kept them pouring on the ride to the hospital. Good thing my dad isn’t that emotional.
  The pain came from the two places where my arm was broken. Turns out, I wouldn’t need a cast if I hadn’t played in the game. So I ended up missing twice as many games as I would otherwise. By the time that smelly red cast came off, the entire soccer season was gone. And the days certainly did not fly by. That’ll teach me to hide things from my mom. Or so she says.