Thursday evening, the street lamps buzz with their orange glow, and we head down the street to the park for Ender's soccer game. His excitement pulls and snaps him like a rubber band around the field with his buddies. . Other boys and girls seemed to have grasped the concept of the general rules of the game and the taste of competition and victory. But Ender has taken firm hold of happy oblivion. I've stopped cringing every time the ball rolls past his stop or he kicks it toward the other teams goal. I smile now in admiration. He is beaming with fun.Last year, he was fixated on how fast his left elbow cranked when he ran and holding a little blonds hand. This year, he sits on the field line cone if he has to go the bathroom and is adamant about "holding it". He's a pin ball pinging through an obstacle of friends feet. and is innocent of any self inflicting criticism. Why must things change? Could he just hand it over to me when his childhood is through with the delusion of of it? Well, yes, I'd rather have him keep it, but I'd also like for him to share while he still has plenty of pious naivety. If I believe hard enough, maybe I will shrink back down to ginormous living like Ender.
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