There’s something dystopian about a playing field at the end of winter, at the end of the day. Not the mowed-grass-moist feeling of anticipation that comes in early spring nor the winding down of summer feeling as the players leave early on school nights. Those still retain an sense of expectation, that in just a few hours the participants will return and the sound of play will resume amid the green rectangles. No, this feeling is one of uncertainty, where the unknown is a palpable presence thwarting the anticipation of the resumption of joy. The azure sky, the pure pigment blue undiluted by reflection from a colored earth; the grey ground, green no more with little hint of returning to its seemingly normal state; the chilling wind, rushing the wisps of clouds as if allowing them to build into cumulus towers would disrupt the mood. The future here holds no promise, no relief from the gradual spiral away from the optimism of the past.
In this state such elements of our entertainment wait, these tools of play stored in the open against the hope of yet another season. Field, frame, open space, level ground and netting. They await the return of the players to renew their definition, their meaning and reason to exist. Though it is their change we look for as harbinger of the new season – warmer blue sky, green grass, taut netting – they do not see their own future, are unaware of their fate in the coming days. Today they wait, as yesterday and the prior day, for the yet-again fulfillment of their purpose at the hands of their creators.