we play with a retired professional but none of the other kids mind— his alcoholism has gotten the better of his muscle memory and god doesn’t he look bad
the ball is an old piece of garbage made from a kind of industry plastic half-flayed alive by loving kicks that expose the moldy gray rubber inner- sphere like some soft eyeball
and, behind one of the goals, the boy who plays goalkeeper only on Wednesdays lounges like a pimply Greek sculpture— unable to move as an epileptic fit lazily puppeteers his body while the players pass the ball into his gut and I step aside, too— my stomach aches so badly for the crispy joy of cold cereal I can’t play—
some days are like that—shed of their seriousness because it’s more fun to play without a defense even though we’re always losing **** it I just scored a goal!