11.1b

In my all-consuming quest to become the best I can be without ever once standing out or being noticed, I came into the same snag as always: Rosalyn. Ros was dynamic fire, twisting and contorting into every space she could find. Since she had so much energy, she went out for intramural sports. I was very very proud of her but at the same time very very afraid of the games. Ros walked, fearless, into huge sporting events like she was a goddess, trailing a retinue and letting her hair fly free in the breeze. I crept in like a mouse, keeping close to the walls and avoiding eye contact with anyone who smelled like a stadium bathroom. She blew in like the strong west wind and I faltered my way through the stands like an inconsistent spring rain. Our metaphors didn't even align. That's how far apart we were when it came to sports.

Yet, Ros dragged me into the stadium to watch her play nearly every time. "We're freshman! Homework is for upperclassmen!" was her admonition. So she raged across the field in reckless abandon and I waddled through the stands looking for an appropriate place to sit.

She was so good at sports (or maybe it was her team [but seriously who cares about anybody but Ros anyway]) that her team made it to the playoff final series things in soccer (or football if you're pretentious and confusing). It was the Razmatazz (up and comers) versus Sparkleprince (the favorites to win). Ros would not be on a team called Sparkleprince to save her life. I rooted for Razmatazz, quietly, from high up in the bleachers. The game began with the traditional let's all make a lot of noise and then kick things with our feet and then run back and forth. I wouldn't say I was exactly reading a book, but I certainly wasn't paying attention until the crowd sounded like it had just been stabbed. Then I would look up, make a note of who just scored on whom, and continue not exactly reading. About halfway through the game, the Razmatazz fouled (penalty? Something) a Sparkleprinceplayer, and he got the chance to kick on their goal. It was like the movie Bend it Like Beckham except way less cool because I couldn't make out any grand, swelling music pumping through the speakers on my comfortable laptop in my comfortable room. The crowd quieted to a hush. The score was something to something else. Apparently the game depended on this play. Ros, who played aggressive forward center attack whatever was hopping around impotently waiting for this guy to kick. In the midst of it, he was supercalm. He just smiled at the goalie, waved at the players, and punted right away. I liked him. He made the game shorter. His kick bounced right off the goalie's head and back into play. I only had to look up for the crowdstabbing sound once more before the final buzzer sounded and people stormed the field. Razmatazz lost.

When I found Rosalyn again, she had her hands deep in her pockets and a look on her face that would fry lesser men into a crisp.
"There's always next year!" I said, elated to not be in a bleacher that smelled like making out and urine.

Rosalyn kicked a garbage can. Twice. I shut up and just walked beside her until we reached the exit. Ros whipped around and stood accusingly. I turned to see the boy who had shot the pentalty fault foul shot which had not won the game.

"What do you want?" Ros said, quiet.

"You played well. What's your name."
"Last name Beeswax, first name none of."

I laughed and supplied the rest of the answer. "Middle initial Y."

The boy just shrugged and said "My name's Enrique. You play really well." He seemed to say it like it didn't cost him anything. He walked past us and out of the gate.

"Sooooooo?"

Ros was still pissed. "Shut up."

I don't know why Ros always dragged me to these things. I was no help at a sporting event. I didn't even know how to react to a loss, really. I just knew that it was bad if the game was short, and that's just because Ros told me so. I resolved to fight a little harder the next time she told me to get off my butt and get outside. There were so many videos waiting on the internet. How could she drag me away?