Through the low branches of the trees that line the road at the entrance to my high school lacrosse field, I see Aaron waiting for me on a patch of thick grass. He stands in front of the goal, an aluminum frame and frayed, hole-ridden netting, and lets one fly. I park the car and reluctantly step out into the August heat. Only a few years ago, this place was as ordinary to me as my bedroom. Now, my eye picks up every peculiar feature the sloping crown at midfield, the swampy drainage ditch next to the parking lot, the cluster of droopy pine trees by the main road.
Aaron asks lots of questions about college lacrosse how I scored my favorite goal this year, how many free sticks we get, if getting hit by those big defensemen hurts as badly as it looks. My favorite goal would probably be the one I scored against Vermont, I tell him as I scoop a ball and wing it at the net. My shot misses high. We get two sticks per season and extras on top of that if they break. I continue by telling him that yes, getting hit by big defensemen does hurt, but you only really feel it once the game is over. My next shot clangs off the crossbar, and I scoop another ball and flip it to Aaron underhand. I realize that I tweaked my back on the first shot, which was already tight from a long day at my intern desk. My body feels middle-aged, and it's muggier than a greenhouse out here in the swan song of another Minnesota summer. I've been outside for all of two minutes, and my shirt is already clinging to my sides.
Lacrosse is the only sport Aaron plays. He tried football in seventh grade but quit after one season because they made him play defensive end. He's short, maybe a bit undersized, and has the stout body of a shifty attackman. His hands, his best attribute, are quick, soft and ready. He doesn't complain about bad passes, just tries his best to catch them even when I mess up and whip one at his ankles.
Today is his first day of school, so I ask him about his teachers between chugs from his yellow Nalgene. Mr. Roberts? I had him for social studies too, I say, but no, I never had Ms. Adams for math. Aaron is in the advanced track, taking as a freshman the same course I took as a junior. He went to computer science camp at Northwestern last summer, in addition to leading his local team in scoring. As we ease back into the drills, jogging downfield and tossing behind-the-back passes, his dad, an engineer, waits in the car and knocks off emails on his Blackberry. He drives his son 30 minutes each way for our sessions, arriving early so Aaron can take extra shots. Afterwards, in the shade, he'll ask me about team strategies and how I stay in shape during the offseason. I can tell they talk about lacrosse a lot.
In two weeks, I'll go back to school out East. In a month, my teammates and I will try to pass our coach's run test, a grueling series of shuttles that is feeling more and more impossible as the date approaches and my split times do not improve.
For now though, Aaron and I find a rhythm. My back has loosened up, and we're cruising through a pick and roll drill, alternating positions each time through so we both get to shoot. I come off of Aaron's shoulder just below the bottom of the crease, bearing in to cut off my imaginary defender. I start to turn the corner, but Aaron wants the ball. "Yeah, yeah," he shouts, and in one quick motion I step away and loft a pass over the back of the net. It's too high I start to curse myself for tarnishing an otherwise perfect play.
But Aaron reaches up, extending his arms so far that his bottom hand almost leaves the stick entirely, snags the tailing ball and buries it low and away.
"That was a good one, Aaron," I say, as we stop to gather up the loose balls. He looks up.
"Huh?" he asks.
"I said, that was a good one." He nods and we dig out the rest of the balls from the net. We're both panting, realizing our exhaustion. My gloves are truly soaked now and the tape on my stick is peeling off from the moisture. Approaching the end of our time, we line up the balls eight yards straight out in front of the net for wind up shots with our strong hands a little indulgence after an hour of working on weaknesses and bad habits. Aaron gives me the first pass, and I snap the ball, low to high, into the top right corner, my favorite spot. My back feels limber and strong now, my whole body suddenly working in sync. It's hard to imagine what it was like being in pain, now that everything feels just right. I pass to Aaron, and he nails the left post with a side-arm shot: a miss, but a good one. A breeze comes across the field from the main road, whose traffic is nothing but a wash of distant noise as I catch another pass and spot a glimmer of white twine just before releasing the ball.
If the sun doesn't go down, there's a good chance we'll be out here all night.
