My Cardboard Balcony

Expectations by Belinda Roddie When I was eleven, I joined the youth soccer league thinking I'd get grass stains on my knees, my thighs clotted from the dirt while hugging a ball between my knees. My sister was good - no, she was great. A fullback, defensive, kicking away all attempts at a victory display. She was more than okay. Put onto the field at the start of the game every day. I was midfielder for about five, maybe ten of each of their games, before I was called out and someone replaced me. Sometimes, it was for twenty minutes. I didn't touch the soccer ball much. And one night, the coach simply forgot to put me into the game at all. He apologized to me profusely, but it was that night when I realized something that took me a little bit by surprise in my pre-teen mind. I didn't get green on my shorts or my jersey, I didn't stop goals or offensive players. I stopped pretending like I was some growing athlete for show. The bottom line

Suppose she found him living in a trash can off the corner of Palm and Tustin. He wouldn't be green or furry, but he certainly could be grouchy. Suppose he shook her hand with a banana peel on his head. Smelling of coffee grounds and sour milk. The garbage man at his finest. That'd be something. But suppose they fell in love later and when he washed up, he truly was a gentleman.