Anyone who knows me knows how much I get a kick out of metaphors but unfortunately, the following experience can’t be put in a bottle. If it could, I’d be a billionaire. Maybe that’s what make these kind of episodes prosaically poignant. I took a light jog to Will Rogers State park and arrived to see a wide open verdant polo field, the small close corner of which was occupied by a friendly soccer game featuring cones marking off the playing area, two nets and a dozen men of varying ages as well as ethnicity chasing each other up and down the grass. For some reason, I reflected on how even if playing soccer was fun to me, I would never dart around with a bunch of guys I couldn’t relate to on a philosophical level. Also, maybe because I was never very good at soccer in grade school despite being athletic. 

After nearly completing the full perimeter of the polo field, up ahead I studied a middled aged fellow standing in front of the closer net as I approached. All the action was to the left at the other end and he listlessly stood waiting for his turn as goalie to be up. Upon running behind him, I decided to do a second lap, the furthest I had run in years. Suddenly, an opposing player booted a hard shot at the other goalie, a tall young guy who blocked the ball to the side of his face only to watch it ricochet into the net. A chorus of groans and cheers erupted. 

I rounded the corner cone to start a second lap when the player who just scored surprisingly broke free again and pursued the ball. However, this time the tall younger goalie charged forward, kicking the ball high in the air out of bounds, rolling right in front of me. I immediately registered the metaphor of the random chance to interact with the game by sending the ball back into play. I knew the possibility of shanking the kick was high so I didn’t swing my leg too hard and made full contact with my foot, softly tapped the ball on the ground straight over to a waiting player who thanked me. Resuming my momentum, I chuckled at the timing once again. Earlier, I think about not imagining myself playing soccer with this group and the next thing you know I’m kicking the ball back to them. Would it happen again? The grey haired goalie was now engaged as I finished the second lap and sure enough, just as I jogged behind the net a hard shot hit the right goal post and bounced out of bounds. Cries of exasperation rang out and I shook my head smiling, inspired by the ongoing pattern. Would it happen one more time after a third lap circling the giant space? Was I somehow a magnet for the ball, every time I passed by?

During the next time around the field, I pondered my extensive penchant for noticing metaphors and wondered if it was a form of mental thumb sucking. Metaphors don’t change the workings or pressures of life. Shortcomings and compulsions still hinder harmony. The need for diligence and follow through remains even if degrees of astonishment punctuate our perception. When the end of the third lap arrived, nothing was happening in the game, which now had new goalies. I decided it wasn’t such a significant metaphor to share with others, stark though it may have felt to me. Jogging behind the net, the action appeared haphazard so there wasn’t a chance the ball would careen my way again. Passing the far corner cone, I headed for home relieved to have talked myself out of putting too much import on kicking the ball back to the game. It was time to grow up and stop fancifully twisting happenstance just to keep myself entertained. Might as well leave that metaphor behind. Suddenly, a man’s voice directly behind me shouted, “Thank you!” I twisted around to the see the ball swiftly spinning directly to me. Without hesitation, I lined up once more, realizing there was further distance and a greater chance for error because of the movement of the ball, not to mention coincidence mocking my previous thought. I smacked the ball with more force, sailing the synchronistic orb just to the left of new goalie who made an easy catch.

There was no need for another lap.