Tournament

Our parents bind a riband in the forehead rivaling some type of blessing. We smile as still smiles- the Bolivian Football team's poster covering a void in the dining room.

Nothing surprises in a first match.

At a fair time you recognize who wants more: To win the ball and the right to win the ball, To blow the candles while shredding your lungs, To find gifts under the pine without a name and a claimer, To date the girl who changed seats in class, shifted school, moved out of town to finally remember you, To drink the rum that someone left in the counter bar thinking of you along the bum that watches his car, To have fame in the hood of being who should not be or having kicked that ball at a fair time.

Following a new whistle, the shadow of who you were while learning to run after the ball has not yet scored but celebrates facing the TV's zapping and the world cup chromos.