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How could I not watch her
fly down each wing, disturbing
not a blade of grass yet destroying
our defense. Running, dancing,
through our players, making
ghosts of them, insipid against
the shinning star.
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Powerful. But never a hint of a foul.
I dive at her feet in a desperate bid,
somehow get the ball and brace
myself for an impact that never comes.
She’s jumped me, pulled out at the last
second, I feel a hand on my
shoulder ‘good save.’ And she’s gone
again, to mastermind our
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1-0 down at half-time. She, the
architect of the sweet free-kick that
I could only stand and admire. The
rumors fly around, that she’s averaging
7 goals a game. I glance over –
all that running and she hasn’t broken a
sweat. Face the picture of composure.