Gratuitously plagiarized from my xanga

Hello racoon sisters! I am perhaps undeservedly proud of this entry and thought you might appreciate it more than my usual xanga audience. This all happened on Sunday.

Since I was there from the beginning, I will tell the story. It is a story of passion, of mud and bruised shins and interlocking hexagons and pentagons. Mostly, it is a story of really wanting to play soccer and not letting a stupid "Field Closed" sign stop us.


It was drizzling very lightly at about 3:45 in the afternoon yesterday when Alex dropped me off at Mike's house. Mike was just pulling up his super soccer socks and gathering keys and things when I got there. I, alas, had no such socks, and looked rather disproportional in my fitted t-shirt and extremely baggy shorts, but I had my killer black Adidas shoes, and so all was well. We drove on over to Soule field and while we were heading into the parking lot and Mike was telling me who'd be coming, I noticed a rather dull but prominently placed sign in the middle of the field to my right. "But what if the field's closed?" I asked Mike, who was looking straight ahead. "It won't be," Mike assured me, not knowing what I had just seen. Alack, for though our soul(e)s were willing, the turf was weak, and the sign said "Field Closed" in large letters. I pointed, and Mike gazed at the uncompromising text incredulously. "Why would they close the field?" he wondered aloud. Evidently it was for the well-being of the grass as well as the people and animals who liked to trod upon it, at least until the weather let up. "Violators will be fined for any damages," I noted with a chill down my spine. Mike seemed unconcerned, and pulled up the sign after we'd parked and stepped on the field. It was then that I knew we were hoodlums, possibly masterminds in training. Today, muddy soccer fields, tomorrow - the world!

Eventually more people showed up - Ben, Sam, Dan, and three of Dan's friends who shall remain nameless so they can sleep at night (not because I don't remember their names). Sam, Mike, Nameless Friend #1 and I formed Team Anna's, as I was wearing an Anna's t-shirt and Sam wanted me to serve him and the others burritos after the game (a soccer ball's chance against an army of sea urchins, my friend). We were leading 10-2, then we switched sides and reset the scoreboard. The game was proceeding rather evenly when a white rocketbox appeared over the horizon like the fin of a shark, an omen of what was to come. Then, a few minutes after Alex stepped onto the field to watch us have our illegal fun, the cop car drove along that fateful road where Mike and I had first spotted the sign over an hour beforehand. We didn't even notice the cop, tall, white, and slightly tubby as cops often are, until he announced his presence via a harsh Bostonian brogue. "The field's closed. Did you read the sign? Who took the sign down?" he demanded, with the foolhardy confidence from feeling the weight of the Law on his side. Pride shaken, heads drooping with shame, we walked off the field, except Mike, who attempted to place the sign back in its original hole. Was it karma that he was unable to restore the sign to its original upright position after our lawlessness had defiled its purpose and rendered it meaningless? Perhaps. Eventually Mike and Ben leaned the sign up against the side of one of the goals, walking away as the cop traced their retreat with eagle eyes. The sign's bold lettering faced the road once again in triumph, for although it could not stand on its own, the long arm of the law held it up against those that would seek its downfall.