Drive slow as you pull in to the grounds of the athletic association. Somebody’s little sister is running across the big gravel parking lot, in a pink dress with pink shoes and curly chestnut hair. Go on past the baseball field on the left and the building that holds the basketball court, snack shop and restrooms on the right. You’ll see the soccer field straight ahead of you.

When you get out you can feel the heavy August air. A mosquito lights on your arm and it starts to itch. Walk past the trucks, cars and a SUV with “Welcome Home Clay Aiken” and “We love you Clay” written on the windows in what looks like a wax crayon. Pass between the overflowing garbage bins and some tall chain link boxes. You might wonder what they’re for. Last year someone decided to build batting cages but they never finished them.

You sit on the wooden stands with a few other parents and watch your kid set his blue Gatorade bottle down and run out to meet his coach in the middle of the field. The coach is dressed all in white: shorts, shirt, cap and shoes. It’s the first practice of the season, so the boys don’t have uniforms yet, and are in a rainbow of colors. All of them have their cleats on though, and tall, black socks over shin guards.

Try to ignore the bleachers, which are not that comfortable, especially because there’s nothing to lean on if your back is sore, and the smell---it’s been raining a lot lately so the air around you smells like a mixture of muddy pooled water, cigarette butts and dogs.

You can jingle your car keys around in your hand and feel their sharp edges, or play with your cell phone, if you get bored. It’s going to be too dark soon to read a book, even if you had brought one.

The field in front of you is big, with short green grass, and a metal chain link fence around it. Spread out evenly around the fence are what look like very tall telephone poles-eight of them-each with five lights beaming down. Behind the fence, at some distance, is a line of green trees, and behind the trees, clouds like a mountain range. They aren’t moving at all, but they get darker as the sky turns from dusty blue to slate blue to navy blue to a warm black.

The boys on the field are running laps and then kicking goals, and the sound of shoes hitting the grass and smacking the ball come from in front of you. Behind you, you can hear a cell phone ringing and a man’s deep voice talking about football and a woman telling a long story about how her daughter got diagnosed with diabetes this past week-“she said, Mama, I passed out in the shower, and now my stomach hurts…”. But all the voices seem to get lower as the crickets get louder and louder. Up high, in the sky now black, is a moon that is soft and three quarters full.

The boys are taking a break now and run back to the stands to get their drinks. They’re breathing hard. Their short spiky hair is wet, and sweat gleams on their twelve year old faces and forearms. Some of them bang the chain fence with their open hands as they pass it, or high five each other before they reach for their bottles. Welcome to a new season.