There is the grass like velvet,
and the net like a web
catching the dreams of almost-thirteen year old boys,
and sometimes the ball–
most of the time the ball, (he would want me to say).
A light rain sprinkles the summer-dusted windshield when he approaches and asks to stay
in the dusk, with his coach on the bench lifting his nose to the cooled air
and towards the sudden emptiness of green as the cars move through the asphalt eyebrow.
Parents rub their eyes, thinking about dinner; they will mention homework, too. Headlights brighten.
But here I sit and there he goes.
He’s hard to spot at the far end of the field as the trees pick up wind and sway above his quickening form.
He moves faster,
and then he is fire.
His face stills and his leg springs out from behind
the other one bent and stable
and then forward, connecting his blaze to the ball:
between father and son
as the neon-pink ball expands the flesh of nylon.
A smile forms and he turns away to skip down to the far end of the field, again.