Wednesday Nights in May

There's something rare and perfect about a Wednesday night in May.  While Grant practices with his team on the field, I am walking in Heartland Park.  It's late in the evening but it's still light outside.  Because it's summer.

Finally.

Summer.

Again.

Most people would say it's hot but to my body, which has been chilling in an American icebox office for many hours, the ambient air temperature is perfect. 

The breeze slips against my skin like silk.  Soft and smooth and light. 


I pass a family - a mom, dad and three children.  The dad is running next to one child on a tricycle.  One child is on a scooter.  And one child is sitting in a wagon, pulled by the mom.

Five people.

Five modes of transport.

I smile at the first child as she passes me.  She stares back at me menacingly and shouts something to her father over her shoulder.  I think she is shouting about me but I can't hear her because I have my ear buds in.

Also, I don't want to hear what she says.   

A man is pressure washing the cement steps of a fire escape.  Between us is a high fence with razor wire. 

For many months we thought it was a prison.  But it is a public water works building.

The razor wire is not there to keep people in.  It is to keep people out.

The air is cooling and practice will be over soon.  Grant and I will drive back home.  He will put his muddy cleats on my dashboard and I will get mad. 

None of this would have come to pass on a Tuesday night in June.  Or a Friday night in November.  It has to be a Wednesday night in May.

Wednesday nights in May are special.  

They are rare.  

They are perfect.  

It has to be a Wednesday night in May.