It was hot. 32 degrees hot. The air was heavy. The sand on the football pitch was burning the soles of my feet. I was the only player without boots. I hopped from one foot to the other. I looked for a tuft of grass to stand on. The advert for the under 12s girls’ trials had said, No Boots, No Game.
“Line up, NOW, you lazy bunch,” shouted Jimmy, the academy coach from Nairobi. His shiny, red Kenya football shirt strained over his round belly. Sweat streaked down his cheeks. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. “You,” he said, shoving his big hand into my chest. “Are you wearing your grandmother’s underwear?” He laughed. Shaking his head, he turned away. Some of the girls sniggered. I breathed out slowly. He hadn’t noticed my bare feet.
Jimmy split us into teams. The luminous orange vest he threw at me stank of stale sweat. It swamped my skinny frame. At least it covered the shorts I’d borrowed from mum. “I don’t know why the academy’s wasting my time with girls this year,” said Jimmy, to no-one in particular. “Get on the pitch now. The sooner we start the sooner I’ll be home.”
The match was frantic. The ball bounced high off the hard ground. Our tall defender, Dama, hoofed it up the pitch. This was my chance. I kept my eyes fixed on the ball. I took it down gently with my left foot. I spun and hit a shot so sweet that the ball broke the saggy net that hung from the goalposts. The goalie ran into the bushes to retrieve it. Jimmy lifted his shades away from his eyes, slowly nodded his head and started writing on his clip board. I think I saw him smile.
