There’s a cute little park across the street from my building and when I leave for work in the morning, I often catch the sights and sounds of school-aged kids making good use of their seemingly endless energy.
One particular weekday, I was dressed a little more formally than usual, sporting a knee-length beige coat, black dress pants and sunglasses to shield my eyes from the early morning sun. As I was passing by the park, a football landed at my feet.
I picked it up and found myself looking right at a group of young boys not much taller than the waist-high fence that separated us. They started moving toward me, hands outstretched, ready for me to hand them the ball.
I glanced at the boy standing the farthest from me and launched the ball into a perfect spiral. It sailed over their heads in a smooth arc, painting dumbfounded expressions on their faces as their wide eyes followed the ball’s path until someone snapped back to reality and snatched it out of the air.
They all turned to stare in my direction, and finally, one of the boys found his voice. “Hey, miss!” he called after me, but I was already walking away. “Do you play football?!”
I stopped briefly to glance over my shoulder, over the rim of my sunglasses, and smiled.
Actions, as they say, speak louder than words.
