a passagem
sergiolira
It means nothing. A bunch of guys on the beach, kicking around a ball. Nobody keeping score…and it wouldn’t matter if they did, because it means nothing. Everybody laughing, everybody swearing, everybody having a good time. An admiring shout and a delighted whoop when it happens, that perfect moment. That’s all. Play continues.
But it happened and you felt it. That perfect, perfect moment when your body did exactly what you wanted it to do. You shifted a hip, turned a foot, stopped the ball dead, passed it off with exquisite precision, a shallow bending arc the trajectory of which would require a roomful of physicists and blackboards to accurately define. Flawless, exact, absolutely pure. And it meant nothing.
It stays with you, that moment. You remember it, all the way down at the cellular level. You try to repeat it, and sometimes you do. Sometimes you only come close. Mostly you fail. But the feeling stays with you. It’s just a moment. One moment in one afternoon on one day in one year of your long life. How could it mean anything? How could it possibly mean anything?
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