Right shinguard. Left shinguard. Right sock. Left sock. Right cleat. Left cleat. Each time the same. Every Sunday for six years. Standing up in the small laundry room of her suburban home, she quickly opened the door to the garage, and grabbing the black backpack leaped over the threshold, down the few steps, and into the blue Honda Civic.
As the car rolled along on 295 North, the white and yellow lines whipping underneath it as if being swept under a sweeper vehicle, the girl let her throughts travel beyond the backseat, beyond the rolled up window, deep into the file cabinets of her mind. She visualized her play, how she would make every save, punt every ball perfectly. Deep in her visualization, she almost didn't notice the car park at the pristine fields in Princeton.
The girl grabbed the black backpack and jumped out of the back of the sedan, greeting her teammates as they all headed to the field together.
Her brown ponytail bobbed high on her head as she ran after a stray ball, her long legs carrying her quickly back to her practice. After about an hour the referee blew his shrill whistle, signaling the teams to come forward for the equipment check and the rules. Game time.