Beth Camp Historical Fiction

Friday, February 20, 2009

#150 Soccer . . .

There’s nae sport in it
if ye canna’ play the game, twist
yer head down, scrub the dirt
off yer leg, and curse
and hope and flail after the ball,
down the grassy field and back,
and hate the other side
‘till the whistle calls done.

There’s just that moment,
an ye don’t know it then,
when the ball sails past,
an yer boot taps it so
it flies good and true.
They look at you different then;
all the rest is remembering.

Tall, skinny, clumsy, and wearing glasses that were too expensive to break, I was last called and played little in the streets when I was a kid. I never understood the thrill of sport until I met up with a group of women over 50 and played my heart out on the soccer field.


  1. I just got around to reading this. I LOVE the second stanza!

    Glad you have come to enjoy the sport.

    Thanks so much for your visit to my blog. Enjoy your time in South America.

  2. Anonymous9:31 AM

    Nice use of dialect here.