It's starting to smell like Falll

The smell of ripe oak and maple leaves evokes memories of soccer. Fall is soccer season. This has been tattooed into my left eyebrow by a fellow Bengal's teeth and braces.

John lay on the field worming as I stood with blood rolling down my face. Both of us had gone for a header at the same time. Given that I managed not to cry, I've never cried in public school, medics surrounded him and left me to bleed. We were losing sunlight.

"Uh, can somebody help me," I asked as politely as a seeming victimizer could. The self-proclaimed medics pulled out some gauze and stuck it to my brow. This stopped the bleeding but didn't replenish the flesh and hair.

John's mother had driven her minivan onto the track to ambulance her son to safety. My parents weren't there.

After the game, I made a collect call in the empty school hallway. No one old enough to drive was home. I hung up the phone and stood there for a moment while my eyes prickled with red. It was too late to cry. I had to catch a ride and figure out how to deal with the gash in my face.