Sarah's homework assignment last night was to write an essay about what might happen if you'd had the opportunity to meet Jackie Robinson. This is her story.
This weekend I was going to sleep late but at 6:00am on Saturday Jackie Robinson knoked [sic] on my door. I was so surprised. I said, "Oh my god. What are you doing here?"
"You won an art contest. I'm the prize. A lesson."
"I don't want to learn baseball. I want ice cream."
We went to Coldstone. I got a milkshake. So did Jackie.
Now every Saturday I wake up thinking I'm getting to meet someone famous.
And she doesn't even like Coldstone.
After reading this, my brother referred me to a few stories he wrote at age 10. The comparison (or contrast), is striking.
Ah, boys. Someone should have referred him to the school psychologist.