Mist rises from the Bermuda grass, coaxed from the blades by an early morning summer heat. The kind of sticky hotness that makes it feel like your arms are attached to your sides. The remaining dew on the ground clings to the soil, pressing against mother nature in futility, trying to avoid evaportation.
Such is life in a Columbia summer. Hate it while you're there, miss it when you're gone.
"Work it!" Coach Pinkel screams. Droplets of saliva hang in midair for a fleeting moment, before crashing into the wetness of the ground and becoming one with it.
"Did I stutter? Tigers, show me how you work it!"
We had to twerk. There was no other option. What's worse, we had to like it. Not pretend to like it, not feign participation. He'd know. He always knows.
A man was struck in the groin yesterday. I fear what's to come. Remember me when I'm gone.