The Practice Field

The coach is walking about on the field. The grass is still wet with dew, but until the rays of dawn bring their sparkle to it, all it can do is dampen his sneakers. He runs a few checks on the electronic nets at both ends of the field, scuffs the damp toes of his shoes against the red and white circles dusted onto the grass, studies the painted white edges which delineate the field.

By sunrise, when the players are jogging onto the grounds, the coach has his whistle around his neck, his megaphone at his hip, and a fierce grin on his face. "Get in position, boys!" he barks, and the young men comply.

Each takes his position in one of the interleaved red and white circles, all about fifteen feet from each other. Two stand ready, each guarding one of the nets. They begin their warm-up regimen: pushes, squats, stretches, all under the approving eye of the coach. The whistle's shrill call puts an end to this, and the players adopt their ready stances, slightly crouched, hands out.

The coach throws a ball out onto the field. It reaches its apogee, then freezes in its motion. A pulsing light appears at its seams. It begins blue but gradually begins creeping toward red. The nearest boy grins, making a throwing motion with his left hand. The ball darts off in a new direction, freezing again as another player holds out his hand to stop its course. It hangs suspended in the air, the pulsing light again indicating a growing state of agitation. None leave their circles at any time.

The other boys are yelling. The words are meaningless; all are exhortations to throw it in some direction, or to be ready to intercept it. The current master of the ball makes a gesture; again the ball darts off, unsupported, only to be deflected by an invisible force. The author of that interception grins and again exerts his invisible influence.

The coach watches the practice with great interest, blowing his whistle once or twice as the ball's radiance reaches its red and final stage on occasion. A few times as the ball passes the boundaries of one net or another, a general whooping cry of triumph is let forth by the responsible team.

The game ends as the sun fully rises. "Okay, boys," the coach calls, "get showered up and get to your classes. Harnsby, good work out there. Shafer, watch your intercepts."