White v. Green: The Albaicin
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There I was: Albaicin.
Friend’s son playing team in green.
Granada boys. They looked like pros.
You had to see it. Who’d suppose
that pros could be just four feet tall?
Age eight and nine? A size four ball?
In Spain, it seems (at least these parts),
boys imitate TV, with hearts
from hands, prone to collapse
with no contact, or slightest taps,
but how they knock the ball about!
They missed a few before the rout,
but when I saw “4” kill a pass
chest-high with instep, then the class
began to show. Then came the worry.
Goals would follow in a hurry.
Last one headed. Top left shelf.
I had to smile despite myself.
I’d never witnessed such a score.
Good guys: nil. Green: twenty-four.
Now, just to cap it, in these quarters,
winners, en masse, seek supporters,
clapping, beaming ‘Mom and Dad!
Look at what a son you had!’
For all this, my mind still goes back:
that late and lonely White attack,
when “4” was beaten over top
and knew at once he had to stop
his marker. Such is love of winning.
Two hands. Shove. And, so, in sinning,
ensured his keeper’s sheet stayed clean.
Envy, sure, thy colour’s green.
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