It’s the small things I remember;

the time I nearly beat a kid for

diving in the penalty box

then calling me a ‘little shit.’

 

You wouldn’t want to make me feel

small. Ms Gill trying to touch my hair;

Mr Boss invoking my ‘spear chucking’ ancestors…

visiting schools can thank them.

 

To the boy whose ribs I tickled every ball of

my favourite over, I wasn’t talking to you;

crackling laughter – yeah, I played you in the

hope my coaches would hear my cruel music.

 

Hey, guys!

I lengthened my run up each time

you called me lazy,

marked your bodies

with the red dust that

infuses my skin.

I hope you never

got those stains out your whites.

 

I hope that number 7 never forgot

how revenge tastes in Arabic

when whispered under the

dancing banner of the corner flag

(so the ref wouldn’t understand),

 

And I hope,

beneath the layers of new

grass, that somewhere

my initials are still carved in that turf.

 

 

FAHAD AL-AMOUDI

 

Also by Fahad,

STARING AT KIRSTY’S PAINTING OF THE DRUM TOWER OF BEIJING

METTLE CLOUDS AT LAKE LANGANO