For two sublime years, we were the wingers. We could outrun the field.
For those two years, at Upton Hall school, all lacrosse matches depended upon us.
“Pass to the wing!” the captain would screech to the fumbling, tangled slowcoaches in midfield. “Pass to Minna! Pass to Flic!”
With the ball caught, cradled, we’d fly over the muddy grass. And the goal would tremble into sight and the opponents’ keeper would lumber out in her creaky shinpads and our own forwards would prance up, neighing for the ball. But most times, our momentum just carried us on, we couldn’t…
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