Twenty-two

A sharp pain split through Dali’s brain bifurcating whatever he presumed to be truth from what he believed were his convictions. All he wanted in that fuzzy instant was to cram sense into the kid, lead him straight. Also, Dali wanted to instill a depth of values, give the kid the gift of joy or lead him on the path to uncovering it.

The kid picked at a stray thread of skin on his callused palm. His wet, matted hair too sparse on his huge, ovoid head, and he slumped as if carrying a satchel wedged with books. How could somebody with such maddening speed and crisp agility slump? The team’s mascot jammed his fat sneaker into a green duffel bag squashing towels, warm-ups, sweaty socks, and other paraphernalia. Dali imagined his gut as the bag. How long before he’d burst from bullied feelings?

He accepted a ball hurtled at him, kissed it off his fervid temple, headed it back high to the kid. Bffff, the kid rebashed the header and then a series of kicks and caroms ensued. The ball spun in wide liquid arcs. Whether the kid darted after the ball or teased Dali with his seemingly hackysack moves he couched a vicious strain in his neck, a wiry blue vein seconds from popping out like a worn spoke snapping off a rusty bicycle wheel.

Then the kid stopped cold in his tracks, turned his back on Girma Dali. He headed off the field and Dali felt empty, stupid, lost. He trailed the robotic ingrate with heavy, clumsy steps.

“Wait,” Dali said. “Give me a second.

The kid let his shoulders slump and made a crude noise as if farting through his lips.

Dali nabbed the subject, tugged his jersey sleeve and the kid almost fell back. Dali thrust his hands to break the fall, but the kid recovered and dusted himself off as if he soiled the core of his being. The kid appeared on the verge of rolling his vacuous brown eyes until Dali sucked in a chestful of air, Dali’s pectoral muscles and broad shoulders filled every stretchy fiber in his shirt.

The kid stared dead in front of him, not at The Harambee Stars greatest legend but an empty field. It was a cardboard moment. Dali saw himself as one of his billboards donning Nairobi’s streets. What irony? Here Dali, flesh and blood, and quivering soul had the chance to step out of his walking billboard and connect with a needy countryman, a gifted player and it all seemed perverse. Dali flinched. The prospect of not being able to get through to this young man frightened him. Worse, he imagined a gruesome untimely demise shadowing him and never being somebody’s mentor.

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.

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.