Echoes | Teen Ink

Echoes MAG

By Anonymous

Althoughtime may fade events,
it cannot fade memories.
I realize this as I walkinto the abandoned and cold stadium.
As I look around, I am surrounded byintense colors
green and red,
and the familiar metal stands
that stillharbor echoes of excited fans.
The glowing moon has replaced the high andscorching midday sun.
Now only the brilliant stadium lights illuminate theempty coliseum.
They used to shine brightly into our eyes
when we looked upto see a flying, fleeting soccer ball.
Our determined eyes were fixated on theuntamed animal flying about the sky.
The ball sent slight pain oncontact,
when kicked it flew away again
like it met the wrong pole of amagnet.
I glance over to the right and see what used to be
the glowingscoreboard counting the time
of our short-lived adventures; now it is dark andvoid of life.
As I step onto the turf, I feel the soft springing feelingagainst my shoes
that I have felt many times before.
The turf feels almostlike soft, spongy carpet under my feet,
tempting a player to lie down on thisrosebed full of thorns.
But I remembered how misleading this feeling is
asI lean down, and feel the prickly spikes of the alluring green carpet.
When Itook a sudden rapid fall, the turf would burn like fire
on my bare skin as itrubbed against me.
Reminiscing, I breathe in the cool, crisp Novemberair.
I remember midday practices when no one
could escape the burningrubber smell of the red, seared track.
Now as I feel the cool night's breeze,I remember the same cool nights
when I still had sweat raining down myface,
soaking my black jersey and nylon shorts
that made a swooshing soundas I ran.
I could almost taste the dry mouth
awaiting a cold sports drinkto quench a mighty thirst.
I reclaim my seat on the empty bench, whichnow
lacks the company of players eager to participate.
I feel the coldmetal against my legs
as I sit and look out into the empty field. I can almosthear the echoes
of a whistle blown, the scoreboard buzz, and behind me theechoes
of the cheering fans from the stands; support no matter what theconditions.
My ephemeral adventures are now long gone, but I can stillsee
the blinding lights and the all-knowing scoreboard. I can stillfeel
the ball, the turf, and the clinging sweat-soaked jerseys. I can stillhear the echoes
of what time has taken away.
All the fast-paced plays areover and the crowd has left,
but in my mind, I am still playing thegame.

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