Beside a road someone dubbed sometime long ago, Granny White, a father, Black, and his young son kick a soccer ball barefoot through the warm, fertile ground of summer afternoon. Tired and a good bit thirsty, father and son walk to where open field meets canopy, and father hoists son upon a raised knee to drink from a rusted water fountain too tall for son’s reach. Son drinks and splashes his own face and that of his father, dampening the ground underneath. The two stand for a moment, feet cool from water and white pavement and slight breeze, absorbing both the flickering radiance of sunlight through treetops and the faint commotion that fills the air. They look around at possibility then stroll to an empty, black-top turf. Son, not quite three-years-of-age, slightly trails with soccer ball in hand. He holds his chin high, but just low enough still to see the steps of father. Once on the asphalt, son walks slowly until he is underneath a towering metal skeleton with a nylon net laced into motionless serenity. He feels the warmth of blackened-asphalt under his toes. With soccer ball still tucked under arm, he looks up with great pause and contemplation and wonder.