Cast iron confident little soldiers in white polo shirts and grey slacks stomped across a grassy pasture. The football marched back and forth in a cloud of mud and soot. Traffic sped by the chicken wire fence. Honks and screeching brakes nullified the shouts out far beyond the bounds of supervision.

James clothesline-tackled Craig, catching his throat in the crook of his arm and twisting through the collision. The ball flew into the air for a moment and through the gauntlet of saliva, I snagged it, scampering past the nearby end zone marker. I spiked the ball mercilessly and with what was considered the appropriate display of triumphant male aggression, I raised my fists to the sky. Thank God for James and his physical prowess. Damon now owes me 15 friendship bracelets.

Shrieks of pain and the sound of flesh slapping flesh brought me down from my cloud. Damon, drooling with anger, slammed James’s head into the dirt. Like any oxford playground gang member, I sprinted to his aid with wild swinging arms. Hands from behind closed around my neck and I swung around, kicking for the groin.

To think, it had all started as a lovely metaphor: football. Alas, we removed the formalities and carved our own fiefdoms. Each day after, we chose sides and clashed with righteous anger… only bringing the ball along for liability insurance.

All so Roman, all so Catholic – blood in the sand, blood in the grass – conflict mediation, ego adjustments…guilt. It takes a lot of industrial bleach to turn mud blood white.

A non-nun sat my brother and I down on the curb. Our Ivan Drago crew cuts glistened in the afternoon sun. I fidgeted, rubbing at the dirt between my eyes. He twiddled his daydreaming thumbs.

“The twin terrors,” she stated like a detective. Her arms swung behind her back as she paced back and forth in front of us. “You will be sitting in the hallway during recess for the next two weeks.”

Thank heavens nobody inquired about the Spanish. Our holy land was in good hands.