Fifteen

Italy goofed. Battipaglia owned a clear shot, netted it clean then peeled off his jersey. He dropped braggadocio onto the grass his slack mouth wide as the crossbar, his kneeprints matting the turf. They bonged his shoulders. Bravo, Batti, bravo.

Offsides.

Disgrazia. They raised their fists, tempers, and blamed each other at will. Oh, there was room for a scapegoat. How the momentum changed. The reigning champs couldn’t put it past them, the ominous loom of defeat waiting in the wings. The sky opened and a soft weepy rain fell. A small accumulation, until it picked up and the gush drifted sideways. The players sloshed across the field, pride swelled to a new girth.

The double-teamed Dali floundered, whiffed a short pass boot-marked for him. The charge herded on, a fearless tangle of arms, hopes, and disgruntled will. Oliech met fate wally-eyed bumbling midfield, palms spread. Okay, maybe last game’s handball was no fluke. The aging striker hadn’t the chance to set, he lunged, dove into the ball and the goaltender blundered, guessed low. Oliech lifted the ball past the goaltender’s meek arm. The Harambee Stars had finally notched a splendid win.

Then it poured thick splotches. A bolt of lightning scratched across the sky, one peg closer to infinity. They say you cannot argue with numbers, but the inner heroics of the boundless mind bend the rules.