Restraint
Dribble. Dribble. She’s been running full speed, effortlessly, back and forth, for ten minutes now. Drip. Drip. The stream of sweat begins where her golden locks meet her pale, freckled face. Sweat drips past the vein above her temple, noticeably raised from intense focus. Where the stream meets her rosy cheeks it releases droplets every few seconds, like a dehydrated waterfall, onto her fire engine colored jersey. As the other ponytails run in frantic circles, in each step she pushes the checkered ball with the grace of a ballerina toward the goal. It’s as though a butterfly erupted through a sea of gnats. They are playing a game, she is showcasing an art. Everyone in attendance can see she is different. Everyone in attendance knows this is more than a game for her. Every set of eyes on the green canvas is on her. A purple jersey begins to approach her. Her brow furrows, each fold in her forehe...