Brushed Silver and the Fountain of Youth

The hands of the desperate student in Square 3 launched the cruelest possible play. They cherry-bombed me across the playground. It was an unusually hot spring day, and the sun obliterated my line of sight as I attempted to follow the ball. Nevertheless, I took off. By ten seconds, my sneakers collected a few extra strides off the well-worn asphalt. I had reached the red ball, grabbing it just before it rolled down the slopes of the storm drain. With 5 seconds to get back, I knew I wouldn't make it. It seemed like Square 3's Hail Mary had been intentional. I could be intentional, too. I never turned back, vindictively making the gym across the playground my new port-of-call. The screams of inconvenienced players gave wind to my sails.

Four-square was an adrenaline-fueled distraction, but the lifted veil of being "out" reminded me I existed for more than some patchy painted pavement and a woven-plastic ball. Square 3 not only knocked me out of the game, but all the way down to Maslow's first step. I was so thirsty, my mouth forgot the taste of water. But my brain knew I needed it, and my legs knew the way.

I breezed past the bustle of field-day activities. Pogo stick practitioners attempted to beat the five-hop record. Plastic jump ropes clacked on the floors, as Double Dutch competitors nodded their heads to the rhythm of the rope, timing their upcoming entrances. Hula hoop hopefuls were being recruited for their careers as spinning tops. And at the center of it all, naive net climbers thudded to the pile of folding mats below the woven climbing ropes. Their attempts at a graceful dismount fell decibels below the mats' screeching protests, as the cushions were ripped off the velcroed wall earlier that morning.

20 seconds of weaving through the coordinated chaos, and I arrived at my destination. The Water Fountain. Our gym's enclosed fountain was built for giants, you know, fifth graders. I mounted the little allocated step-stool and slammed my round trophy into the push button. I used my whole body weight for the maximum waterfall, partially from fatigue, and partially from determination. The motor hummed while cool water shot out. Could I ever get enough? My reflection distorted in the brushed silver, like an abstractionist's painting, I lapped up the water, refilling my childhood mana.

"One, two, three, two, one, you're done!" The other children yelled behind me. They chanted it again, and again, but how was I to stop?

Water rules meant nothing to me. Nothing existed in these moments but fresh, cool water. The water had never been so clear. Trevi Fountain? Fountain of Wealth? Fountain of Youth? Nothing could beat this, the purest of aqueducts, this water, here, from the fountain of a public school gym. A welcome oasis from the marathon I just completed, the water found its way not only into my mouth, but to my face and shirt. I wondered if my hair should go in, just for a quick soak. I contemplated living in the water fountain. Could this be the greatest invention ever made?

A teacher pulled me away. They may have been leading the gurgled water chant of my surrounding classmates, but seeing me unmoved, decided to step in. Clutching to the four-square ball, I bore arms, but no weapons. Evicted from my watery throne, there was still value in the memory of my time on top. As the last of the water dripped from my face, I smiled. It was the back of the line for me - either for the water or for four-square - but I was ready for round two with Square 3.