I am riding a bike in circles, headphones on. "Stuck in a moment" is playing through the wires. I go around and around and around in ever widening circles in the highschool parkinglot.

My partner, Peter is there. He is watching me intently through bangs that need to be trimmed. "Chris, come on. We've got to work on this project. Time is running out."

We are walking behind the school, behind the soccer fields, beating a path through the scrub layer of the woods. We wander around for a while before choosing a spot. We start digging, carefully working our way through the layers like junior archaeologists. We don't know what we're looking for but we dig anyway, jotting down notes on graph paper.

Nearby under a tree, an old man with a long white beard is snoring. He does not hear us, nor does he awaken.

Peter is now standing on the hill watching me on the playing field. I'm playing soccer. I'm wearing tight black shorts with a white number 4 on the left leg, a shirt that is half red/half white colored along the diagonal. There is a large black 4 on the back, and my maiden name. White kneesocks with a red top and little blue/red flags holding them up, flapping in the breeze. Also a red bandana, rolled up tied indian style across my forehead to catch the sweat.

A girl built like a Mack truck plows into me launching me into the air. I tuck my head before hitting the ground, easily rolling several times before getting to my feet. Grass stains are on my knees, pieces of grass in my hair.

Beth calls out "Hey, Tumbleweed! Who taught you to fall like that?"

I shrug before heading off to take the penalty kick. I have a determined look on my face as I stare down the goalie who is also me. I run up the three steps, bring my right cleated foot just to connecting with the ball, but I wake up before seeing whether or not I scored.