PH 670- Einsteinium

The seconds crawl along inexorably. You wouldn't have thought one second is such a huge interval of time. It is funny when you try to quantify time... by time. You're staring fixedly at your watch, and you're thinking, It's taking hours for that seconds-hand to move. And then you smile, realising the impossiblity of the thought that just crossed your mind. Of course, that doesn't stop you from boring through the watch with your eyes, willing those second, minute and hour hands to move at ultra-sonic speed. But after a while, you stop bothering about the minute-hand, being resigned to its inexplicable immobility, its stubborn defiance to move over from the current minute to the next. It gives the minutest(pun unintended) flicker of motion when the seconds-hand trundles around the dial to complete one full circle, in about as much time as it would take you to go to the moon and back... twice. And this tortorous crawl around the circle continues, the minute-hand obliging with a barely perciptible motion after approximately an eon. These eons drag by, painfully, brutally, until 50 eons complete their life-time... and the class ends. Nirvana.

There's no one around, you are just walking across the ground, and the ball is in your way. The goal is inviting, mocking even, as it gapes open, challenging you to put that sphere of 8-inch diameter inside it. You kick it, making perfect contact between ball and foot (you just KNOW when a perfect strike happens). And the ball speeds towards the huge, open area between the goal-posts... and hits the post! As always... ALWAYS. The ball rolls over to someone else, who promptly puts it it, just to show how it's done. Nothing's been said, but the challenge has been thrown. You can't wait to put on the shoes, the socks, the dirty T-shirt. Six others have got wind of the proposed battle and have, with miliary precision, been didvided into two sides and are standing in perfect formation. As you run out of the room, you steal a quick glance at the clock, and for some reason, the time registers in your mind... barely, but it registers. Out on the field, the first kick is taken, and it's Game On. At the end of it all, when you trudge back to the room, wiping your sweat off, you glance at the clock again. Three hours??? THREE hours??? Three hours which had flown past at Mach 4. You shake your head as you remove the socks...

Relativity Explained.