after Victoria Chang

Soccer–died doing what it loved sometime in March of 2016. It was always beautiful outside when Soccer was around, and when it was not as beautiful, Soccer would live on through muddy evening drills. Soccer had many tall, beautiful children, and named all of them Captain. They rose like flyaway hairs and would tell you to man the fuck up. Soccer raised them to be stiff, like frigid, dewy turf. Soccer lived under Dad’s roof, dripping with white light on the TV screen, and they told you in unison that could be you. Under Soccer, only the strong prevailed. Soccer loved how fast you could run, like how you loved your childhood, you loved nice girls, you loved being mercy-ruled – mercy meant Soccer was being kind. Soccer loved ripped toenails and juice packs. But Soccer hated pussies. Soccer hated benchwarmers. Soccer hated little girls who didn’t kick balls hard enough. Soccer mocked them from the glossy confines of the TV when they got home. Although Soccer is survived by its devoted Captains and its TVs, you can still feel Soccer all around you, as if it had never died. It breathes in the wind of open fields, and it calls to you, like your dad from the sidelines. Like Captain from inside the empty, red-tiled locker room. It tells you you look fast. You run in the field for Soccer, even though Soccer doesn’t exist anymore – you didn’t even bring a ball. See? Soccer whispers. The tip of your cleat catches on a mud divot and you feel it trailing down your toenail – Soccer loves you. Look at what you’ve let go to waste.