I wish I could remember it
frame by frame. Center-left,
nearer to the center field circle
than the half moon atop the 18.
I’m not exaggerating. Let me
have this. I think I was dribbling
to the left. Head down. Did I
glance at the goal, so far off,
at their enormous keeper,
several inches past 6 foot?
I did. Absolutely launched
The ball with my left foot –
my stronger leg – just lifted
through it with an extravagant
follow-through, hit the pitch
on my backside wildly, head
up, watching. Listen. This is
no fish-that-got-away. All of this 
was once possible, once happened.

From the ground, head up,
watching the ball beeline,
then knuckle. He didn’t expect
it to carry so far – a step too close
to his right hand post, he dove
a fraction late to his left, and – 
I swear to God this is true – as 
his right hand reached the ball knuckled
over it, then ducked into the upper corner, 
side netting, opposite where I lay splayed.

My teammates crowding, all of us
jumping, a pack of ecstatic 17-
year-old boys, and Pat was screaming
What?! What?! and laughing
And Jesse was shouting I can’t
believe it! I can’t believe it!
That was it. That was the moment 
I’d give away whole pieces of myself 
to play again. Once upon a time, 
I had a body that could do this.

STEVE HENN  wrote American Male, Guilty Prayer, Indiana Noble Sad Man of the Year, and other stuff. He teaches high school English in northern Indiana. Try therealstevehenn.com.