Fourteen

The blare of the vuvuzela almost hit a mad-dog pitch. An audible Doppler effect trailed that other rough-hewn pitch, the field and stained the contours of the open stadium. The impetuous blue shirts the gorgeous long-haired Italians chased after their birthright, the Holy Grail reconfigured into checker print, perhaps stitched by one of Dali’s fellow tribesmen, the bitter thought made Kenya’s favorite son lament his roots.

A corner kick whizzed by and the checkered blur small as a string of obsidian diamonds stole the Kenyan forward’s nerve. The obnoxious jeer of the vuvuzelas grew to a deafening height while Giacosa raced past M’bami. A quick pass, a failed tackle and suddenly the Italians pushed deep into Kenyan territory. Only the sure hands of the goaltender kept the score locked at nil.

Get a grip, put yourself together, Dali muttered under his breath. He swore his elusive, mischievous soul mate, Benga, was running by his side. No. Not now. The image, so real, Dali jammed his elbow and thought he’d been fouled flailed his arms to plead his case to the indifferent referee. The big-eared ref, who understood French, raised a yellow card and Dali’s teammates made a big stink. A wave erupted in the stands and Cape Town geared itself for a breakneck fight.

When the half ended no score, a brief hiss like a deflated ball seemed to rise.

Oliech, once the star striker who a few short years ago nailed the key goal in Nyayo Stadium to put The

Harambee Stars ahead of Zimbabwe, looked meticulously haggard. The spring zonked from his steps, his shoulders sloped, his chin hung crooked. Deniis Oliech may have been from the Luo tribe, but it was another life-changing man that made Dali quake. He almost slipped, again, out of his shoe as Benga slipped an arm around his neck.

“Cheer up Sport,” Benga said.

Dali peered all around, his teammates already crossing the sidelines, the crowd restless, and Dali’s heartstrings all but snapped.

Benga tapped Dali’s chest.

“You’re alive, go get it,” Benga said.

“Where are you?” Dali asked his hollow voice dry as a straw mat.

“I am following you,” Benga said.

“Don’t tease me this way,” Dali said, grabbing Benga by the shirt, but his fingers wrapped into his palms and he was unable to grab cloth.

The wind clipped Dali behind the base of his skull, the wet fuzz scaling the back of his neck tingled and an indomitable whir rang in his ear. Nothing had prepared him for this gargantuan charge. He went dead below the knees— not a single itch between his toes. His head buzzed and he zipped off the field without harming a leaf of grass.

“Dali, Dali,” the crowd cheered.

His self, inert.