Goals

“Huddle up, hunters,” our leader says.

We are the four fiercest warriors in our unit. Our ineligible brethren wait with bated breath, pigeon toed and stinking of fear. They have nothing to be afraid of, because no obstacle will prevent us from securing our victory. The leader kneels as a sign of respect for what we are about to do and begins to review our battle strategy.

“Remember, keep your hands free,” the leader concludes before he releases us to the hunting grounds. Diego, our tallest warrior, nods to the group and cuts a path to our territory, prepared to defend it to the death.

Scores of indentured servants watch as we take the field. We can feel their anxiety; their restless eyes trace our every move. Several of our retinue fidget uncomfortably in their seats, crushed by the vast stores of provisions and warm clothing we require for this excursion.

A distant screech signals the start of hostilities. We advance, preparing to meet our opponents head-on. Within minutes, we lose the nimble Sofia to a particularly beautiful dandelion.

“Sofia! Game face!” our leader cries. She wrenches the stem from the earth, shedding petals as she sprints to rejoin us.

I take the center line, swinging my arms widely to signal my intentions to my fellow warriors. My legs are aching to run fast. We’ll cover more ground the wider we can maintain our formation. For a short stretch of time, we keep pace with each other. Soon, we’re winded and stumbling. Mateo whines for the restroom, clutching his genitals.

It’s been minutes since our last break for provisions. The tang of orange slices lingers on my tongue, a distant but refreshing memory in this otherwise ruthless campaign.

On the horizon, the enemy approaches. Our quarry is in their possession, lolling idly at their feet. Mateo charges but is pushed to the ground by the enemy, a warrior far too large for this engagement. He releases a cry, high and keening, calling for his mommy.

The giant continues to penetrate our defenses. We’re no longer in position to confront them; now we’re scurrying in their wake. I look up to see Diego, our only warrior equal in height to this behemoth. There’s fear in his eyes, but he’s scrunched his face in an expression that could only be interpreted as “mad.”

The enemy closes the distance to our territory. Diego shifts from foot to foot, palms outstretched. He’s the only warrior permitted to use his hands, and they stand at the ready.

Inexplicably, the giant decides he’s come far enough and swings a leg back, booting the quarry high into the air. Diego leaps with the agility of a cat and punches the shot far into the distance. The threat is temporarily averted. We celebrate Diego’s decisive action, still a bit stunned by the giant’s lapse in focus and strategy.

Yet somehow, the enemy is granted another attempt to launch an attack on our territory. I do not understand this reason, although our leader has explained it to us several times. Somehow, we’re penalized for defending ourselves if the prey leaves the confines of the hunting grounds by the efforts of one of our warriors. Even worse, this is one of the few times the enemy is permitted to use their hands.

Naturally, the giant steps up. His superior height should allow the enemy warriors to initiate several different strikes. Luckily, they are all overtaken with the desire for conquest. It is a great honor to be the warrior responsible for the victory. Instead of spreading out across the hunting grounds, they group together close to Diego, hopeful to take their shot.

The giant returns the quarry to the field and it rolls short of the enemy’s feet. Sofia is standing nearby; face upturned to the sky. She’s not watching for the enemy, though. There’s a pretty pink cloud overhead. It’s shaped like a bunny rabbit. All eyes are on her as the quarry thumps her shins. Startled, instinct takes over and she runs toward our territory, nearly into Diego’s arms.

“Other way! Turn around!” our leader shouts. Sofia doesn’t hear him. She’s never had the opportunity to launch an attack, and whether it’s on our territory or the enemy’s, she’s not going to waste this moment.

Diego comes to our rescue once again, this time kicking the quarry far into the opposite end of the hunting grounds. It remains in play. Our territory is no longer threatened, but the enemy takes possession again.

I confront them directly, sliding on my side like I’ve seen the older warriors do in their battles. The quarry rolls free and the warriors descend. I join the fray. Our legs gallop at top speed, a herd stampeding across the plains. We are a teeming mass of limbs and joints; feet and shins kicking with no regard for accuracy. Someone’s boot is untied and the plastic-tipped lace stings, whipping our ankles and crackling against our shin armor.

“Clear it, clear it!” A shout from our leader refocuses us. The bloodlust abates.

Finally, I give my legs permission to stretch to their full potential. Our prize rolls faster now, flashes of black and white blurring together. I nudge it forward every few seconds, just as our leader taught us in his extensive training regimen. We drilled this scenario for three weeks, two afternoons at a time.

The rival hunters chase me down. I call for reinforcements, but it’s just me. Sofia has fallen behind again, ensnared by a passing butterfly. Mateo’s indentured servants are tending to him by the sidelines, wielding an icepack and the Bactine potion. Our leader was unable to select another eligible hunter. No one is coming.

I release a savage cry and kick the quarry as hard as I can, desperate to retain possession. My efforts are rewarded; the gods’ favor guiding the ball to its destination.

It rolls neatly into the enemy’s territory and nestles in their net. The sidelines erupt as a loudspeaker rumbles.

“Congratulations to our PeeWee Soccer League Champions, the U5 Jaguars!”