ABSTRACT
I have no photograph from the day when, as a young boy, I got lost on a family outing in Bear Mountain State Park. We were walking back to the parking lot when I stopped to watch a group of men playing soccer. I couldn’t have been more than five or six and remember being intrigued, almost to the point of hypnotism, by the players’ concerted effort of running after the ball, kicking it away, and running toward it again. I had no idea what the game was called or how it was played, but I found the rhythmic play of intense physical energy, focused on the white, round sphere, continuously in motion, to be captivating. It was a warm day, probably in the summer, and although I have no memory of anything that preceded the moment I stopped to watch the soccer game, I feel sure it had been an idyllic day with my parents in the country.
