The other day, while walking down a hill, I came upon a man and his son enjoying the morning, as they passed a well-worn soccer ball back and forth on the street.
They each greeted me with a cheerful “good morning!” as the father, standing on the downhill slope, gave a firm kick up toward the boy, who looked to be about seven or eight. Obviously the lad had been given the easier end of the deal, since a missed ball on the downhill side of that steep incline could lead to quite a chase for his shorter legs.
I’m not an athlete or an avid sports fan but in that moment, I found myself reminiscing about my own experiences playing on equally angular terrain as a child, only without the benefit of asphalt. Living on a hill in a high mountain desert of New Mexico, baseball was the sport, soccer not being on the radar in those days. We played untethered from adults in this rural environment. There was no handicap for size and gender. I was always the smallest no matter what age, and at times the only girl. When we played baseball, I took my turn along with the rest on the downhill slope. That was the catcher’s position.