The court had seen many visitors in its lifetime. It had watched as men, young and old, rose and fell to the beat of a leather ball for many years. It had heard the rumblings and the whispers of those who rose and fell and it knew that some, a choice few who entered its realm, were special. It had seen the faces of the men who seemed tied to the movement of the leather ball as they watched these few, and it learned to grasp the knowledge that the expletives and the looks of anguish were signs of respect. It grew to understand the workings of the game and the systems of all those who played it.


The court knew not of the troubles of the world, for those who set foot upon it spoke little of them. They came to it as a place of refuge, a place to play their game. And the court understood its purpose.


During the time of the snow, as it had heard the men call the great white powder, the court had its time of rest. Its cracks were soothed and the constant pounding of the leather ball on its weary underbelly subsided. But, once, it remembered two figures who interrupted its slumber. One was wrinkled, graying, and faded, and the other small, blonde, and vibrant. They trudged through the snow, each with one hand between them, occupied by the other’s warmth. In his opposite hand, the old man carried a shovel. In the boy’s, clutched against his side, was a new leather ball.


The court had not often seen this type of visitor, and certainly not during this season of the year. It sat with a silent curiosity as it was scratched free of its blanket, anticipating what was to come. Finally, a portion of its surface large enough to play the game inside was free from the snow.


Words were absent from the interaction between the man and the boy, and the only thing that could be heard on the court that still evening was the steady repetition of their leather ball as it rose and fell, rose and fell. It was a sound the court had come to love, but that night it went unnoticed. You see, the court had learned through its years of silent observing to find those who were special even without the help of men. Tonight it had found one in the blonde boy with the rosy cheeks, but he was special in a way it had not yet come to understand.


Every night during that time of the snow, after the powder had fallen, the two figures came back to the court. Every night the old man would shovel off the snow, and every night the boy would walk across it and the steady beat of the leather ball as it collided with the court’s rugged surface would begin again. The court watched without understanding.


Finally the white powder was gone, and the court was once again the home of men, young and old, who rose and fell to their game. The court was no longer empty during the night, but it felt as if it were. Words seemed cumbersome now, and so the constant dribble of the leather ball became a comfort once again. Steadily the court fell back into its rhythm, and its purpose was remembered. It was strange, but the court no longer found many men who were special ever again after that season of the snow when the two figures came to play their game. Monotonous, often, is the routine of those who have seen a better way to spend their days.


The season of the snow came again, and on its first night two figures once again emerged from the darkness. The man and the boy, hand in hand, shovel and ball. And so it was for years to come. Each time the court felt the tickle of the white powder it heaved a sigh, and each sigh brought a new crack onto its flawed surface. Each year it waited for the man and the boy, and each year they came. The boy a little taller, the man a little grayer, the ball a little more faded, but they always came. The court did not notice the year in which the boy first held the shovel and the man the ball, nor the first time the man seemed less of a man than the boy that he brought. It did not notice the cracks on its stomach, nor how the sound of the leather ball seemed distorted as it hit them. It cared little about these things, for the man and the boy were back. So it watched their beautiful interaction, without understanding, but filled with joy.


As seasons passed and times changed, the court received less and less visitors. Its original purpose seemed to be lost, but it always remembered the boy and the man. No more did the shouting and the fighting of the men who rose and fell with their leather ball echo in its domain. Words became less and less prevalent – a fragment of a passerby’s sentence here and a shout from across the street there. The boy and the man, with their blissful silence each year, became its purpose. It craved the wordlessness, it wanted nothing but to nurture the relationship that it could not have itself.


The season of snow came once more upon the old court. Eagerly it breathed in anticipation for the boy and the young man, its cracks ever widening. They did not come. Not the first night after the snow, not the second night or the third night or the fourth or the fifth. They did not come. The court felt what must have been its heart as it rose and fell, rose and fell, being ripped from it’s chest and falling out of his stomach. It cracked and bent, realizing how far it had truly fallen from the days of old purpose. It longed for the wordless companionship of the boy and of the man. They did not come.


The last snow of the season had fallen. The court’s cracks lay ripped open under the blanket of powder, untouched and abandoned. The court rose and fell, rose and fell, hearing nothing but the sound of meaningless words from the past. Then, slowly, a footstep cut into its memories. And another. The boy, with a shovel in one hand and a torn old leather ball in the other, stepped once again onto the court. He shoveled violently, tears streaming down his rosy red cheeks, until the place where he had played his game his whole life was finally uncovered. He looked down and he saw the cracks and the creases and the bends of the court. He fell to his knees without a word. Perhaps it was his grief, or perhaps it was his brokenness, but in that moment his eyes beheld the purpose that the court had thought unreached. He realized that it had grown old and broken and weary together with he and the man - that the bends and the cracks and the creases made a perfect indent - the perfect indent of an imperfect heart.