More Than Rivals by Mary Whitney

over twenty-five years, Jack had played soccer and still continued to play a pick-up game a few times a month. His movements around a soccer ball were as innate to him as walking. When the ball rolled up, the two others immediately took note, by first glancing down at the ball and then looking for its owner.  
    Jack paid little heed. A glimpse of the ball caused him to react as if a stranger had accidentally bumped into him from behind. He responded without interrupting a second of his speech. His right foot trapped the ball, and his left firmly kicked it away. He didn’t look around or miss a beat as he spoke.
    Less than a minute later, the ball returned to the threesome, and he again was the only one not to find its owner, though this time his eyes drifted downward in curiosity as to what was at his feet. The sight of a rogue ball was second-nature to him, so he didn’t think twice about another kick off to the side. He knew he’d sent it off with a force that ensured it wouldn’t return.  
    When the ball came back, swift and hard, it hit him on the right foot. The speed and strength behind the ball was enough to shift his attention along with that of his companions. It wasn’t a stray ball rolling around the grass—someone had intentionally passed it to him. Though he was in dress shoes, he reacted as he would on the field if one of his teammates had playfully sent him a ball. With his left foot, he moved the ball just far enough behind him so he could kick it up to his hands. After his little kick, the couple from Del Norte laughed and complimented him, while he looked for the ball’s owner.
    Twenty feet away from him stood a young boy dressed in a shiny yellow soccer uniform, with long yellow socks and muddy cleats. Jack smiled and lifted the ball toward him. “This yours?”
    “Yes,” the boy answered eagerly. “You’re good. Will you play with me?” A few seconds passed before he quickly added a “please” as if he’d remembered his manners.
    Jack tossed the ball to the boy and laughed—as did the couple from Crystal City. They said they should let Jack go and talk to other people. Shaking their hands, he said goodbye and turned around. The crowd from the event had dwindled to only a few, and he’d spoken with most of them. He spotted the boy again, who seemed to have resigned himself to playing alone as he slowly dribbled the ball.
    “Hey!” Jack called. “Do you still want to play?”
    The boy turned and grinned. “Sure!”
    Spying some stairs near the boy, Jack walked over to the railing and hung his sport coat over it. He rolled up his sleeves and turned to the boy. “I’m not wearing my cleats, so you need to give me a break.”
    “That’s okay.” He kicked the ball over to Jack.
    Once again trapping the ball underneath his foot and flicking it up to catch it, he walked over to the boy and extended his hand. “My name is Jack Bengston. What’s yours?”
    “Luke Harris.” Still smiling, he shook Jack’s hand. “Can we play now?”
    “Sure.” Jack chuckled. He looked off into the distance. “But where are your parents?”
    Luke pointed to a bench where an elderly man sat reading a newspaper. “That’s my grandpa. We’re waiting for my mom.”
    “Okay.” Jack nodded to the bench. “Why don’t you introduce me to him?”
    The request for an introduction wasn’t motivated by Jack’s desire for a potential vote. He simply wanted permission to spend time with the boy.
    Jack followed Luke to the bench where the man was engrossed in The Wall Street Journal . He heard Luke say something to the man, but Jack didn’t understand it and the man didn’t move, so Jack extended his hand. “Hello, sir. My name is Jack Bengston. I’ve met your grandson, and he asked me to kick the ball around with him. Is that all right with you?”
    Whether it was from failed hearing or his concentration on the paper, the man startled when Jack spoke. “Ah! I’m sorry. I didn’t catch all of