Yesterday I was like the Algerian soccer team. Bursting out of my front door, I was filled with cocky fervor, certain that in no time every baby sprouted maple that had wedged between the pavers on my patio and taken root would be dead in no time.
This morning, I realize the maple trees are like the U.S. soccer team: enduring, strong, and determined to survive.
After a liberal coating with ground clear spray last night, I expected to see withered carcasses ready to be plucked and dumpstered. Instead, there they were, growing in the hot morning sun and laughing at me.
Now this means war.