Mine

            Whistles scream through air muffled by the concentration that only appears during a game. Cleats dig into the ground, muscles shove until all I can see is the ball, drawn to my stick like a magnet, like there’s no other place for it to go. Feet pound like a drumbeat; heart pumping a racing stream that runs through my veins with a buzzing that propels me forward. Nothing is more natural, nothing but my arms switching my stick back and forth, the even weight of the ball that streamlines out of my stick with the slightest command. Cuts like lightening, passes are no slower than a yell. Eyes that flash, absorb, send my feet moving even before my brain forms a complete command. Adrenaline surges. Instinct picks out the timing, the open lane between dark jerseys that sucks me in like a vacuum and shoots me into the air. I hang, hover, my very core laced with determination, desire, entitlement. This is mine. This is where I’m alive, on top of the world with the ball and my lacrosse stick that’s really just an extension of my arm. A familiar weight lands in my net and my hands shift, tighten and snap seconds before I see the net ripple and gravity returns. Grass slams into my cleats and shifts to send me tumbling to the ground. Voices flood, unintelligible and exhilarating. Hands return me to my feet and send me running, hungry and eager for more.