Fútbol Sala

¡A un solo toque! ¡Más rápido!
¡Acho, Maciu! ¡Más rápido, coño!

They’re taking it in turns to yell at me
every time a neat pass avoids my boot
and cannons off my ankle into touch.
They zip the ball across the parquet floor,
drawing triangle after triangle.

Sunday league at the Rec in Dockenfield
didn’t exactly ready me for this —
my squelching boots used to fight through the box,
stretching for a cross that everyone missed,
before I lumped a clearance down the line.

But our shoves and jokes in the dressing room
remain the same, as does the scent of sweat
and Spanish equivalents to Deep Heat,
as does a freeing of pent-up muscles
from hours in an office or factory,

as do the shared attempts to re-enact
our childhood dream of scoring a winner
that arrows into the top corner.
We wheel away in triumph.
Nobody chants our name.