By Elana Forman
Boston 2010: The World Cup Fiasco
A few blocks from Quincy Market
tan-skinned soccer fanatics
galloped through artificial rain.
Their Spain jerseys clung wet to them
from the fountains on Liberty Street.
They were screaming and cheering.
“Espania Espaniiaaa! VIC-TORY!”
I smiled, and raised my fist in the air too.
Nobody even turned.
Their fists went higher and their hair was dripping
like a wet dog’s
on their red and yellow shirts.
They had signs in a language
I only knew one word of
and banners painted rotten tomato.
They had a vuvuzela.
Yeah a vuvuzela.
I didn’t have one.
I had my voice though.
Even that wasn’t enough.
“Espania!” I yelled, wanting to celebrate too.
Their brown eyes turned my way, probably wondering why
a blonde-haired American was celebrating their country.
“Espania!” I yelled again.
One snickered. Another half-smiled.
“Espaaannniiiaaaa!” they sang, and I knew I was outnumbered.
I wished I were rich in culture.
photo © 2006 Chris Metcalf | more info (via: Wylio)
Cement coating cement coating cement coating
trash, and a dead possum too.
His Nike sneakers, gold accents on red
beating on the gray court
like a metronome.
A wiry fence with grease stains
makes his territory known.
(We don’t dare go there.)
The chains on the basketball hoop
cling in celebration
every three-pointer he gets.
Every heartbreak, every triumph
is spent on this court,
his orange, deflating ball in hand.
We watch. We sometimes cheer
but mostly we sit
all the way over here
on identical papers.
Writing about things
we’ll forget tomorrow.
To fail is our worst nightmare
so we learn to use cursive
One day we’ll all go on to some
But he won’t
And he doesn’t mind.
He punches the air thrilled by his success.
Elana Forman has been published in “TeenInk” monthly magazine, as well as her high school’s literary journal. She also writes for her school newspaper. Elana is sixteen years old and in the tenth grade. Her hobbies include soccer, banjo, piano, mock trial, chess, writing, and hockey.