Memory

I yenned desperately for a sip of frigid water. But there was no time. My opponent was advancing the dull yellow ball playing at her feet. Quickly, I wiped my golden hair from my sweaty, tired face. I sprinted toward her. My rusty orange jersey billowing in the warm breeze. She snarled as I stole the ball directly from under her. I raced to the opposite side of the field, gaining more and more speed with every passing second.

I was nearing the goal. This was it. The seemingly relentless game was already in overtime. If I made it we won. If I didn't. . . . The idea was almost unthinkable. I needed to shoot. The defense was approaching. I kicked fiercely at the ball. The goalie was not ready. It skimmed the seam of her glove. Nevertheless it flew into the goal.

“//Yes!//” the Tigers screamed, too excited to line up for the handshakes. We ran to the cupcakes, sitting calmly in the shade patiently waiting for us. I eagerly ripped the top of the box off and grabbed three cupcakes. One with chocolate frosting, no sprinkles was quickly and hastily devoured, for I did not want my mother to notice that I had snatched so many. I gazed down at the almost empty box, and compared the thrilling taste of victory to the sweet taste of the cupcake that I was eating; the cupcake was much better.