GOALS IN THE THROAT OF ADAM

You know the boys are mad when the bell goes by 4:30 & there's this joyous cry like victors of a war, legs and balls rush to the field & our school compound is a riot of jersey colours.

The ball twerks across the field and legs are after it— it desires to escape them but they only mean to get it to its destination: the post. 

Nah! It's there resting and soon they bring it back and it starts a new process of running, the post is the price.

The boys who play ball in my school exchanged their tibia and fibula for strong rods. Their tarsals, metatarsals, and phalanges feel like red-hot steel forged in a fiery hearth; what else could propel a ball into the hands of the creator, only to have it slip away before he can react.

In the field, many people are playing because it's as large as a state but everybody is watching other groups playing, and when the post yawns and a ball slips in, everybody shouts GOALS! Why are other groups shouting goal? Why not shout 'pass the ball'? Why not 'shoot'?

It's because goal makes everything goal!