Thirty-nine degrees. A smothering-cold
rain falls, soaking immediately to the
tender skin. Piles of snow on the turf.
Tempers flare instantly. Profanities,
hollering, accusations of favoritism,
tripping. A mist blooms, rising up from
the artificial green, billowing out into
the black night. Twenty-two heaving
chests puff-puff, puff-puff, scattered
across the field, making their own
clouds. An orb shimmies and slips,
desperately, unrelentingly, into the net.
The rain pours harder. Final score: one
– three. I think of it as love – love.