Darin was both predator and prey on this warm August evening.

He skirted around the muddy rim of the stream, eyes scanning for frogs while his ears strained to hear even a note of his mother’s yell. With the purple haze of dusk already descended, Darin knew it was only a matter of time before her call wafted down to him along the breeze. He was on edge, not because he didn’t love his mothers voice, which sounded like baked goods taste, but he knew he was up against a clock.

Hunting frogs was not dissimilar from fishing. It required patience and stealth, both of which did not thrive under pressure. Darin’s sandal squelched deep into the mud, sending a few small frogs leaping for the safety of the water. He could’ve pounced, but for a master frog-catcher like himself, these weren’t worth his time. They were hardly frogs, let alone trophies.

Then he saw a prize frog. Green, brown, and bulbous, it sat calm on the upcoming bank. This frog exuded a power over the zone, like a camouflaged blimp. He seemed beyond confident in his safety.

Darin slowed his gait and lowered his body, steadying his net. It was his favorite weapon, and he saw it as that–a weapon. Thus, he called it Excalibur.  It fit him well and it was the only net he trusted to get the job done. It was sturdy and swift, and for those reasons it had cost him all his Christmas money. It cut through the air with wise precision and it was covered in mud–a reminder of past battles. Yet somehow, it remained as regal as ever.

Darin’s breathing slowed, inching ever closer to his prey. The last couple steps were made in near slow motion. Darin prayed that the heart that hammered around in his chest was only loud in his ears.

The frog king continued to sit, unsuspecting on his grassy throne. Within reach, Darin struck, bringing the net down with the boldness of experience. His prey tried to escape to the water, but was too late, finding his way blocked. It squirmed in its cage and Darin leapt forward to secure the catch.

He walked back along the edge of the stream; the former cautiousness gone. Replacing this was a giddiness. The raucous buzz of success.

And just in time too, as he heard his mother’s call asking him to return home.

Darin didn’t like third grade all that much. He wasn’t good at sports. He was no Picasso, and he’d come in last at the poorly named Fall Fun Run three years in a row. His parents had just finalized a divorce, and his younger sister was already better at multiplication than him.

It had been a rough couple years for Darin, and an even tougher spring.

But he’d caught the largest frog in the stream and, for today, that was good enough.