"This game is a marathon and it's a test of mental strength." He'd smile and he'd nod. "This is still according to plan," he'd say. He'd award us with high-fives as we walked off the pitch, he'd tell us we were doing well. I don't know how our coach did it, but he never stopped being encouraging. Joyce never stopped believing we'd turn the tide. She scolded us, in our downcast faces, and her voice, firm and determined, kept us right there. Our captain never let it show, she never let it show.
Yesterday was a tough game. It started off well and for a fleeting moment I thought to myself that we were really going to pull it off. We were leading, we could win. But as the wind picked up and as the zinc roof clanged noisily above our dug-out, I felt a change in the trees and in their rustling leaves that tell all. The leaves tell all.
That was the game. And it was heart-breaking because my fear had turned to hope, and my doubt into confidence. But all that fell into the dirt as soon as the last ball was hit, striking the ground, making it's way quietly and obediently into the hands of the pitcher. That was the game.
It was a small game. And we lost because we were the weaker team, and they were our Goliath. Or our David. Whichever way you look at it. Nothing to get too upset about. It's just another event to swallow down with soup and cold gravy.
The game was a marathon and we lost the race. But it's still ok, it's still ok.
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