Shadowtime

It was about that time of early evening when mothers began calling their kids home for supper, And so it was with Solos and me, who played with our shadows all the way home. We were boxers, feinting left jab, hooking right, never a punch landing, no damage done, but our shadows, fists raised above our heads, bespoke victory. We were bullfighters, Solos a matador, a stick from a tree his weapon, I was always the bull, ill-fated to die by the sword but not without getting in a gore or two, bringing Solos theatrically to his knees but always to rise and prevail, his light jacket a perfect shadow cape. In soccer it was always Maradona-Beckham, the shadow balls all in our minds. It was in basketball that I excelled, Solos wasn’t much of a fan. My LeBron versus someone like his Jimmer Fredette, I could beat him off the dribble all day, any day. Or at least my shadow could, cast against an alley wall. And so Solos and I grew up the perfect shadow players. But something didn’t work out and, now grown, we are shadow workers, shadow husbands, shadow fathers, the best of the best at shadowtime, but sometimes we wonder if that’s all there is.