The Ground Beneath His Feet

He was accelerating down the left flank, toeing the ball forward exactly the same length each time, as though there’s a hidden magnet controlling his touch with the ball. With curved legs like a taut bow, he, a consummate dribbler, sashayed his way past other defenders, constantly cutting inside, and let out a stunner, a banana kick that saw the ball curve away from the charging goalkeeper into the far post.

I remember this solo rhythmic run of my father here—once his home ground—whenever I walk past it, his six-foot-frame image popping up whatever direction I look at.

First published in f3

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