J. limps off the soccer field to the nearby bench. On the field, the game continues, but a cluster of students buzzes about J. I edge closer, trying to gauge if this is a real injury, requiring teacher intervention, or not. I listen to the hum of conversation about J., keeping my distance, not wanting to escalate the injury with an audience, but ready to move if needed.

“Hey, buddy, you good?” a boy asks, clapping his hand on J.’s back.

J, a veteran soccer player and injury milker, shakes his head somberly and clasps his ankle.

Another student stands on one foot and demonstrates how to wiggle his ankle back and forth. “Maybe you can do this,” he suggests. “It helps me with my ankle.”

J. wiggles his foot a few times and grimaces.

A third student commiserates, “Yeah, my wrist still hurts from last night when I was jumping on my bed when I was going to sleep.” He wiggles his wrist tentatively. (I immediately grimace myself, commiserating with his parents!)

(Meanwhile, on an important side note, it was PJ and stuffy day. So, you need to know that this cast of characters is mostly wearing pajamas, and many of them are clutching their beloved small stuffies. It adds a certain nuance to the scene.)

Oblivious to the injury drama, a first grader who’s been showing off his stuffed cat’s skills to me throughout recess, runs in and out of the scene.

“Look, Mrs. Hogan, Kitty flies!” He races by again, and his stuffed cat soars overhead.

Behind me there’s some sort of feral game happening and a young girl in my class is standing still with her head thrown back. “Aroooooooooo! Aaaaaroooooooooo!!!!” She’s howling like a wolf over and over again. Suddenly, a few kids give chase, and they all race across the playground. Standing by the soccer field, I can hear the intermittent howls.

“Look, Mrs. Hogan, Kitty can jump off the pirate ship!” the first grader enthuses as he zooms past, and poor Kitty goes sailing through the air again.

Back at the bench, another boy approaches J. (who, by the way, is looking pretty perky at this point). The boy holds out his hand. Nestled in it is a rock. A large piece of nondescript gravel from the strip of rocks that edges the building.

“This rock might cure you,” says the budding shaman, solemnly handing it over. J. takes it and looks at it carefully, turning it over and over. He looks a bit confused, but game.

I realize suddenly that the howls have ceased and glance over to ensure all’s well in that corner of the recess world. After scanning the playground, I spy Wolf girl. She is lying on the picnic table as still as can be. Several classmates are pretending to dig into her stomach and are apparently eviscerating her with unholy glee. They lift handfuls of imaginary guts to their mouths and dig in.

J, miraculously cured (Was it the rock?), suddenly stands up and races back onto the soccer field with no trace of a limp. The rock falls to the ground, bounces once or twice, and then is still. The crowd disperses.

Super Kitty flies by, narrowly avoiding a collision with my head.

Such is second grade recess.