Telling: Altars & Artifacts



At the game on Saturday, Gus was fleet and focused. One moment caught in my mind, he stood, poised to shoot, his arms held straight and slightly flared from his body, wrists flexed and fingers spread as if he were supporting his weight on his hands, in mid-air. The shot was good. It was the first of three he made in the first ten minutes of play. After that they moved him to defense. Near the end of the game, he was alone between the goalie and a boy who'd broken away with the ball. Gus crouched, turned his hands palm forward and holding them just at knee level, flickered his fingers in a "come on to me" gesture. I almost fell over with the joy of his audacity.

A Mother's Journal

field notes from
1997 - 1999