Something about the onset of fall, with those post-summer dips into the mid-80s and that tantalizing realization that the seasons are changing, always takes me back to my childhood.
That occurred to me while on a run the other day. The air was just a bit crisper, the temperature beautiful and the sun sagging low in the sky like a fat man testing the limits of his hammock. The sun seems to get tired this time of year — like it just can’t radiate heat like it used to. And thank goodness.
A feeling came over me — maybe the way the air felt as I gulped it down, or the fact that I wasn’t drenched in sweat like I was underwater. It triggered vivid memories of being a kid and playing outside this time of year. It was my favorite time of year.
When you grew up in Tampa, there was nothing better than the start of October. It signaled you could finally go outside without risking heat stroke, or worse, spontaneous combustion.
“Dang, Johnny just lit up like a Roman candle again,” was never uncommon to hear. “Get the fire extinguisher.”
But the first inkling of fall was a wonderful time, and as I ran, I remembered soccer practices on a sandspur-laden field that sat next to the crosstown expressway. The sandspurs seemed meaner that time of year, and they all stood at attention like toy soldiers, just daring you to slide through them. Any kid who did was given a pair of industrial-size tweezers and two weeks off to pluck them all out.
You could play forever that time of year, it if it weren’t for the sun drooping so low in the sky so early. It cast long shadows across the land, making it even harder to spot the wily sandspur armies who were laying traps wherever they could.
While the air was cooler, the sun seemed to get harsher and more intense. And it was definitely harder on the eyes as if magnified through a gigantic lens. This just added another challenge to the sport.
You looked west at your own risk. God forbid some sadistic stooge sent a ball flying out of that side of the field. You managed just a glimpse of it rocketing toward you, only to wake up two days later in the hospital. The imprint of a soccer ball was still tattooed across your face, and your teeth didn’t feel right.
It made me remember what it was like having asthma that time of year. That was never easy as a kid, your lungs feeling like they had filled up with cotton candy. The colder weather brought it out, and I would run about hacking and coughing like I was trying to expel a squirrel from my lungs. I half expected to see a furry little critter launched out, but luckily never did.
So many things rushed back to me: The smell of car fumes lingering in the air, and the stench like someone nearby was burning tires in their fireplace. How daylight savings time would come to a close, nixing our playing out late. How we would have to get used to wearing pants again — we would all walk around for the first couple of days like we had a case of poison ivy on our unmentionables.
It meant the holidays weren’t far off, nor were the two days of Tampa winter when we might actually have to dig out a musty coat.
The air seemed to move again, and even with my asthma, it was cool, crisp and a pleasure to swallow. Tampa heat could scald the lungs as you breathed, but fall air was like a balm.
As the sun dipped low along the horizon and the world turned lager gold, I reminisced about those early years. Then, out of habit, I ducked when I thought I saw a soccer ball heading straight for me out of the western sky.