It's the football field i remember as my first love, wonderous white arms imposing long, winter worning shadows upon the freshly mown grass. Slowly but surely, more and more details find their way back to my reminiscent mind. There was a srum machine up on the hill, and a small equipment shed, ravaged by rust, savaged by seasons. Other sights; sly snakes slithering up, down and across the green giant leaving a white track in its wake, like a skilful sky writer. But the best part of it was the players, proudly wearing their heart on their sleeves, scooting around like a circus of fleas, handling the ball with such care and running with such elegance it was like watching the dance of a kimono girl. Today, however, it is bare, which signifies my turn. Smooth, slippery shoe soles attempt to gain a grip on the dew covered grass. I strike a pose and gaze around the field and view what one day will be mine, my domain, my domain to dominate with such grace as the current owners. I loll in the sun in my high minded psyche, almost in a game, feeling as battered and bruised as the jersey as i am wearing. I can see the dressing sheds over by the rusty equipment shed. It's doors beckon me to enter but a stubborn brass lock stands in my way. The day will eventually come when i set foot inside the sacred site. My thoughts return to its original objective, to play on the hallow turf of the football field. I gradually move toward the fields edge, then, upon arrival, I sprint out onto the field, i chip the football, regather, feign a pass to a shadow team mate, I sidestep the opposition, find a huge gap in the defence and slice through it like no one else ever has and I sprint to the try line and score right under the black dot. I stand up and grasp the goose skinned ball, I draw it towards my nose and savour the mercurial smell of the freshly mown grass and the synthetic of the ball. It's an older, more age-worn field now that I watch games being played on. My sagging, ageing eyes scan the ground and see the ripped up surface below the grass created by endless people running over it like a stampede. Where I was once the onlooker wishing for my playing days to come, I am now wishing for my playing days to come back to me. Instinctively i place a foot on the touch line and feel it all coming back to me. The pace; the blood sweat and tears; the pride; the adrenalin and overall the joy of playing I missed.