Faded red on one side, black and worn on the other, some would say it appears purple. These colors stand out as I’m staring down the head of my lacrosse stick. Slowly my gaze moves down, observing the plastic material. My eyes stop to inspect my makeshift tape job intended to keep the valuable dyed head in place. Arriving to the long, light blue shaft, the metallic material glistens in the light like a sword ready to be wielded by a warrior. The stick ends with battered yellow tape; so decrepit it appears to be polished. My attention is transferred to the scoreboard; the game is tied with less than a minute.

The stick is calling out to me. I lift the shaft from the grassy bedding on the sideline and race off toward the field. The metal shaft is surprisingly cold against my palm, an act of revenge the stick plays on me for not keeping it warm with use. My hand leisurely moves up the frigid surface of the shaft to the netting. I press against the pocket to feel the crusty surface from lacrosse balls scooped in muddy playing fields. The netting is made perfectly for a lacrosse ball to be cradled within its grasp.

My extra hand slowly moves down the second half of the shaft, this time paying closer attention to the dents and divots. Closing my eyes, I envision the sound of metal on metal piercing my ears as each defender adds a piece of history to the colony of dents on my shaft. My hand glides to the end, and I feel the worn down tape, smoothed from numerous cradles.

The stick recoils like a shotgun as I catch the pass from my teammate. I cradle twice to reassure myself I have control. The colorful head is yearning to launch the ball to the goal. I pull back and let the white rubbery ball sail free. My ears burst from the crowds cheering, as the ball bounces between the goalie’s stocky legs. The goal’s net embraces the ball like a mother welcoming her son home. Feeling the vibration of my heartbeat in my hands, I savior my triumph while trotting off the field in victory.