Consolation Prizes

It is a fine afternoon for footie in Toronto. Our footie field is a large, pebble-infested driveway with green weeds spurting sporadically across the grayish court. A small red net is leaned against a beat wooden shed. I am appointed keeper. The web designer and the Persian are appointed strikers. Everyone is excited. The Persian, being of a jocose disposition, resolves to frighten me. The animated fellow strikes the ball confidently, intending to bounce the ball off the shed a mere two feet above my venerable head. However, the ball launches far above my head, far above the shed, and over the rickety fence, far into forbidden territory. The Persian, no longer in a festive mood, cusses and grumbles. The designer and I laugh.
"You'll have to hop the fence, man", I advise. The errant striker's countenance changes rapidly, and his face broods, as he's affronted by the eleven foot fence. He's so unnecessarily hesitant. I'm suddenly struck that he might of never scaled a fence before, being a foreigner and all.
"You go", the frightened young foreigner pleads.
Being raised in suburbia, I've been climbing up walls since I've been mobile; thus, I promptly hop the fence with much deftness. I land in firm soot. I beckon for to the Persian to trespass some, thinking it would be good for him to engage in this small, insignificant act of rebellion to retrieve his ever so sentimentally valued football, that is increasing in sappy value every subsequent minute of its lostness. Finally, he comes crashing over the fence in the most maladroit manner imaginable. The designer stays behind.
The Persian and I find ourselves in some unruly, trumpery-filled side yard. The ball--not in view. We sift through the strange, abstract junkyard searching deeper and deeper into its heart of darkness. A crescendo of pressure amounts when a bourgeois appears from the adjoining yard. We pose as fellow residents and bid him "Halloa".
The search is a hapless endeavor (save the discovery of a volleyball, which is promptly booted out of its home territory) and us two raiders retreat back over the fence to consult with the design man and, eventually, with the errant striker's girl.
"You two followers of Galileo," I begin, speaking to the forlorn striker and his girl, "calculate the height of the ball and its velocity to discover the ball's travelling distance."
Contrary to logic and reason, a scientific investigation is deemed unnecessary. Further, I suggest posting images of the ball around the city, and I'm accused of a Hunter. S. Thompson impersonation.
Perhaps the ball has been reunited with Goliath? Unlikely.
Resigning to defeat, the Persian raises his glum eyes towards me, and murmurs, "You better blog about this."
Consider this your consolation prize.