You loved football as a little girl.

When Halloween rolled around,

You'd put your jersey on. 

I'd look out my window and announce," Paige is a football player again!"

You stopped when the boys left you out. 

They didn't pass to you.

Every year you won the Walkathon at Dorthy Fox. 

You would run laps at every recess.

All recess long.

You would wait at the door of the classroom like a racehorse.

At lunch teachers had to force you to eat because if you had it your way, 

You would have run laps the entire time.

You were simply the best, most determined athlete. 

It was glaringly apparent. 

You told me that you wanted to beat all of the boys. 

God, I know that feeling.

Now you're 23. You joined a women's flag football team. You ask your coach for footage of your practice. You are determined to be the quarterback. Monday is your Sunday because you don't want to miss a game on TV. The Olympics will have flag football in 2028. Your goal is to train to go. You are in love with this life.

You tell me that you crave getting back to our roots. 

I do to. 

Let's go back to the mill town

Where we grew up. 

We both remember Coach Chris' tattoo. The one on his elbow. It looked like it hurt. It was a circle with some shape in the middle. We can't remember what. 

We learned all of our curse words out there.

I learned that I'm a lefty.

We want to run and play...

"I joined a coed soccer team," I say

"You still playing defense? You were always a mean defender," Paige says

"Naw, I'm scoring goals over there on left wing."

"Damn, OK..."

Just like 3rd grade when Paige and I had firey looks in our eyes.

That field was our earth, or energy, our life.

We were electric, Part of a team.

Nothing else existed outside of that Kentucky Bluegrass rectangle. 

We loved the hot coco that Chris' ex wife would bring from Starbucks where she worked. In big cardboard catering containers. We remember the taste. The kind of memory that takes you back to the smell of orange slices in a plastic bag. Jeromy would eat them rinds and all. We would gasp every time. Those cold games behind Dorthy Fox where the field was so muddy that the ball suctioned into the ground where it landed.

We want to run and play...

"Be a part of something bigger than ourselves," You say.

Dear Friend,

We are home.

I am on the wallball court and

You are playing spike ball with the boys.