Santo, He Said His Name Was!
A cloudy Sunday morning invited a breeze that swept past me as I sat in the Community Park by the Calangute beach in Goa, watching him whizz past beyond the last defender and put the ball into the net whilst the keeper was waiting to fetch the ball that would land in sooner or later. He was moving his legs almost involuntarily as if he’d programmed them to do what was necessary. Fourteen, I presume he’d be, not much of age to choose between good and better before things could take a turn for the worse. He was playing as a free spirit, one who had no strings attached or bills waiting- the very spirit which feeds on peace that I hunted for the past few decades and found it here, in a beach house in Goa.
I sat down to grab my veggies and carbs and there he was, walking with the demeanor of a crowed king, his legs replicating the moves he made putting up a highlights of what took place on the field. I smiled and said to myself “Yes, he’s good”. He sat by the window, a table from mine and was taking deep breaths. He must have missed out his oxygen while all he could see was the goal. That was what must have revitalized him and kept him going. I went over to his table and asked his name. “Santo” said he and quietly slipped away from my sight and into the meadows.