Recess

On a sunny autumn day, a class of seven-year olds run smiling here and there, sometimes in a group loosely following a single white soccer ball, sometimes just willy-nilly pedaling the air for sheer joy. Their brightly colored t-shirts flash by in carefree chaos. In my day, long before soccer’s popularity in the U.S., recess involved controlled games of dodgeball with a large, softish red-brown ball. A girl with blunt blond hair reminds me of younger me, only her round face gaily laughs. All the kids have such body confidence—no fear of hurt while hurtling themselves across the playground. Today, as if they were born knowing how, every child on this playground expertly uses the inside of the foot to kick the soccer ball, which sometimes slams the window of the gym where I plod along, grateful I can still walk, on a treadmill.

I must have glanced away because I do not see what happens outside to change these kids from play to war. Suddenly I see about ten children flogging one boy with their jackets. He presses his back into the window where he cowers and covers his face with his own jacket. A tiny boy in a pale green shirt elbows through the mob and presses his own body into the victim’s in a tight hug until the floggers stop. As the mob disperses, the little one lets go and wipes away the victim’s tears. They split and resume running with the rest of the class. A teacher saunters over but kindness has intervened before authority could.

Quickly covering the playground from one edge to the other, the class continues their jubilant celebration of youthful freedom. I am jealous of the one hot pink and one turquoise bobby sock of a poised girl with brunette pageboy and sunglasses. Why couldn’t different-colored socks have been permissible in the 1950s? Between long kicks sending the throngs chasing the soccer ball the length of the playground, this girl turns constant cartwheels during which her sunglasses stay on, of course. And her Breck-shampoo-ad pageboy falls back perfectly into place, too. In ten years, she’ll be on the cheerleading squad. Homecoming Queen, too, I bet.

At times during their scattershot soccer efforts, a child stops the ball by placing one foot on top of it. After speedy strategic survey of his surroundings, he directs his next kick. These kids’ feet are firmly on top of the world. Though they are too young to know this, I am not.