The Cold Night
The wind was blowing so hard that the trees were bent over, my hat would not stay on my head, and the sides of my face were blistered by the cold blast of air that slapped me. The night sky was as black as coal. My dad told me you have to go. I cried and begged and pleaded and yelled. You have to go.
We arrived at six o’clock. The man was old, gruff, never cracked a smile. My name is Gary he said. Get a ball and go serve. My arms were like thick sausages from all the layers of clothes. My coat puffed out and touched my stomach. Lifting my arm was like lifting an elephant. How can I serve? I thought to myself. It took a few minutes, a few struggles, and losing a few layers of clothing, but finally I tossed the ball in the air, chased it through the wind, swung my arm with all my might, and silently cheered myself on as it crossed the net and landed in. The wind howled.
The man watched me silently. His scarf covered his mouth and nose and his hat covered his eyebrows and so all I could see were his ice blue eyes watching me from beneath his crystal clear eyeglasses. He said nothing. For one hour he said nothing other than forehand, backhand, volley, serve. I wondered if he thought I was good and I worried that he thought I was bad and the wind howled and my nose turned red and my cheeks felt like blocks of ice as I ran and hit and picked up balls.
At seven o’clock he looked at me. Time to go he said. Good job he said. I felt proud. I felt frozen. My dad came and picked me up. Good job he said. It’s cold he said.
The wind was blowing so hard that the trees were bent over, my hat would not stay on my head, and the sides of my face were blistered by the cold blast of air that slapped me. The night sky was as black as coal. My dad told me you have to go. I cried and begged and pleaded and yelled. You have to go.
We arrived at six o’clock. The man was old, gruff, never cracked a smile. My name is Gary he said. Get a ball and go serve. My arms were like thick sausages from all the layers of clothes. My coat puffed out and touched my stomach. Lifting my arm was like lifting an elephant. How can I serve? I thought to myself. It took a few minutes, a few struggles, and losing a few layers of clothing, but finally I tossed the ball in the air, chased it through the wind, swung my arm with all my might, and silently cheered myself on as it crossed the net and landed in. The wind howled.
The man watched me silently. His scarf covered his mouth and nose and his hat covered his eyebrows and so all I could see were his ice blue eyes watching me from beneath his crystal clear eyeglasses. He said nothing. For one hour he said nothing other than forehand, backhand, volley, serve. I wondered if he thought I was good and I worried that he thought I was bad and the wind howled and my nose turned red and my cheeks felt like blocks of ice as I ran and hit and picked up balls.
At seven o’clock he looked at me. Time to go he said. Good job he said. I felt proud. I felt frozen. My dad came and picked me up. Good job he said. It’s cold he said.