Late in the game, we were losing to a physical
Chaos team, when my Katy tackled late, high,
and hard and drew a red card. Sitting
on the bleachers, I practiced what I’d say
in the car. We’re against poor sportsmanship.
Don’t let anger get the better of you; Someone could get
hurt. It didn’t help your team to lose a player,
especially when it sought a comeback.
That was how my mind rehearsed it.
But my heart gave the following translation,
and I quote: “Yadda, yadda, yadda … sought
a comeback … blah, blah, blah.” My heart looked
me square in the face with fierce eyes and went on:
“How ass-kickingly cool is it that our meek Katy
would fight—literally fight—for her team who’d been
shoved around all afternoon? F-the rules! F-the Chaos!
If a boy did that, he’d be a team leader.
Make no mistake, Katy used her cleats to stake
a claim today, taking a stand for maybe
the first time in her sheltered adult life!
If you say anything to her after the game, you
tell her I said so. You just tell her!”
My heart could get excitable like that,
and it beat on quickly as the game expired.
In the car ride home I didn’t say anything.
I just patted Katy’s thigh—and then gripped it.