Practice ends, and we stay a little longer. Sun is down but sky still glows in yellows, lavenders, and grays of an autumn way when days shorten, world cools, and heaven stirs in clouds and change and uncertainties, feeling of storm and rain.
In the twilight, he practices shots. He aims for spots of the goal and not wide-open middle that will be covered in a game.
Some score. Some go high, others to the right.
Each kick, he hustles and chases down the ball; gathers, resets, and practices again.
In wooden bleachers, I’m not a coach right then—just a dad, caught up and captivated in observance of my son; witnessing in strange of light the way he plays and works when there’s no one there to see.
I can see he’s dreaming games—the way he raises arms in after when a kick scores true; his hustle in repeat, game still going on.
In the stands, I’m silent, simply happy to be present—to witness his play in the tempered glow and fading light of day and elementary age.
Days shorten, world cools, and heaven stirs with change of a tomorrow I can’t see. So I love the now. Present and grateful, I live time with my son—caught up and captivated in strangeness of light—as he plays and rehearses out his dream.