The sweltering Haitian afternoon churns like boiling pea soup with the
cheers and jeers of a dangerously invested spectator section, as well as the
frenzied shouted commentary of a seasoned commentator normally known as the
head nanny. The players, faces squinted and shiny with perspiration, bolt
across the patchy field in striking red and navy soccer uniforms generously
donated by Nike. They play with incredible speed and finesse, and some may have
gone professional in a more conducive environment. The walls that enclose the
stadium are not those of an actual stadium; they are the tall stone and cement
walls that seal the orphanage safely in from the chaos of downtown
Port-au-Prince. Spectators from the outside world perch atop them to watch the
excitement unfold below them. It’s a nail-biter of a tournament; neck-and-neck,
orphanage-against-orphanage, they play with sheer zeal and the crowd
reciprocates.
(This was my original exploded moment, which I neglected to post and then became the introduction paragraph to my article about Albert)
