THE WIND BLOWS
Here’s the second episode of our blog event of Heritage Storytelling, creating a dialogue between FILA items and Springtime mutability. In this new series, hats are protagonists: elegant, soft, moved by the wind, just like emotions.
What do birds think of, when they don’t fly? When they’re on the ground or in their nests, when they do not dominate air fiercely, just like those who know they can do something that most of us can’t do.
That’s what I’m wondering here, courtside, sitting on a bench while I wrap my calves in bandage. ‘It’s a simple muscle sprain, you’ll be back playing in a couple of weeks’, the doctor said yesterday. It could be true, but my muscle still hurts, a lot.
It occurred while I was playing, I know what you’re thinking. Not at all. As it often happens, the most stupid inconveniences happen when you chill and don’t think about it. One week ago, I went to buy this FILA cap; as I got out of the shop, full of joy, I didn’t pay attention to the possibility to meet some small steps on my way. They were three, actually: my gaze ignored them all. It was a jump straight into the void. You ought to know that to have long legs isn’t always a privilege: it just means that your feet are going to touch the ground in a faster way, getting hurt more easily.
The rest is history, as somebody would say. A story with me lying on a bench, wearing a cap I hoped to show off on court, but that is actually here with me on these desolate bleachers. The other guys are all playing – they’re running, jumping, pirouetting: nobody really cares of those who limp, it’s a waste of time. Thus, I decide to move, along with my crutch. The sports arena is surrounded by a small park, a shabby turf. ‘Stupid cap’, I whisper as I take it off. It’s your fault if I am here on the ground, while all the other ones are flying. The answer to my provocation is a gust of wind that takes my cap a little away from here, in the grass. I’m not gonna lose this stupid cap. Me and my crutch try to move on, they’e six steps but look like twelve. I bow towards the ground and I pick up it up, it’s a cap but it looks like a top hat. As I pick it up, in fact, a surprise appears, as if by magic.
It’s a robin, I suppose. Birds all look similar on childish books, and when you are young nobody teaches you how to distinguish the different species. However, judging by his dark red feathers, I would say he’s a robin, in the end. His right wing is wounded: he’s not able to fly anymore, just like me. It allows me to touch him, while he looks at me with small, vitreous eyes. I think he trusts me, maybe he found one of his own. My cap has just become his new nest, welcoming him until my dad is coming to pick us up.
I don’t know what birds do think about when they can’t fly, but my feeling is that in these days, as we both are going to take care of each other, looking at the sky from the ground, I will find out.
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