Turf

The turf is wet. Tinny rap splashes out, booming and the players are bouncing Like boxers, ready for the air-balls That they cleanly tap and set on the ground With the surfaces of their cleats. The rap is crashing. The rain is dripping From a sky done raining, Just feeling sorry for itself. Number 21 runs on the field With a ball between her feet. Meeting a teammate she fakes, Jumps over the ball Landing, sliding, beside it. She does this twice, Bent with elevation, Her ponytail swinging. Halftime. 21 has seen every white line on the field up close by now. If not for the clean turf Her jersey would be dirty and covered in mud. Still fighting, Number 5 scores. We scream for her. 21 goes down again. Up again. She is half-crouched, So close to her defender she is almost leaning on her as the ball flies 21 jumps incredibly, legs bent, and viciously snaps her head Sending the ball at a different angle. And 5 scores again. 21 goes for the goal in the next minute, One of many runs. "One rule: Don't hold", I hear in my mind. She bolts, bent to it, Jumping over legs. Lightning. Sticky defense, No go. And again, She takes it and runs, Maradonna, Spinning, tapping. So close to a wrong-colored leg, Split second evasion. The shot flies down the middle. Her toe rips a spray of black rubber From the turf. Too high. In exasperation She bends over, Head by knees. And straightens up, Watching the keeper punt the prize. She explodes out of the crowded center again, Leaping but watching For options. The ball is sent, Is slid back to her, And nothing has taken any heart out of her. End of the stride, Slide, Shot! Deflected. Volleyed hopefully. In. Top of the net. I am sent in, full of excitement. I start to congratulate the replaced player, But she's singing, Teasing me encouragingly. "Yeah 28, It's your birthday..." 21 is leaving the field also. High-fives. (Always high-fives...) "Hey. Hey. Go score a goal, Okay?" Just that simple.