Jacquelyn O'Connor

Up until a year ago, my family owned a beach house in Cape Cod. My siblings and I would always play games on the small space of grass between the house and the sand. We would jump off the deck and land on the true green grass, barefoot. We played soccer, lacrosse, baseball, etc. Inevitably, the game ball would make its way under the deck, which was on a slanted hill of dirt and rocks. The smallest person playing the game would get down on his hands and knees, tuck his head under the boards, and slowly creep towards the ball. They would look like Spiderman when he crawls up walls. Although only a few feet away, the missing possession seemed miles distant. With jagged rocks slicing into his soft flesh, the journey to grab the ball was excruciating. His team mates would be above him pacing with impatience, and if he turns his head back he can see their antsy feet making quick strides while waiting. The game couldn’t resume until he returned with the game ball. His palms are sweating, his crouched body is shaking, and the soles of his feet are cut and scraped. He sees the ball in the furthest corner of the deck, as if it were smiling at him in mockery. Looking around, he sees other various treasures, such as his brother’s empty green Pringles cylinder, his neighbor’s Barbie doll with no legs, and his mother’s dried out pansies.  He waddles like a duck, foot by foot, and hears a jingling noise. It is the sound of the tags clashing together on the collar of Frankie, the neighbor’s cat.  Taken by surprise, he jumps up to chase the cat, but bangs his head harder than ever. The heroic applaud he is welcomed with makes up for it when returning from under the deck with the ball. The soccer match resumes. Two minutes later, little P.J drew his foot back and gave a mighty kick, only to result in the ball rolling right back under the deck. “Not my turn!,” we all shouted.