Coming of age

I tried hard to arrive
in time
to the soccer match of my
eldest son
which took place
in a small park
in the middle of
the city.

But I was late.

He was already on the field.

He´ s seven and not a very good player.

He´ s strong and an athlete but doesn´ t like soccer.

I promised to bring him
something to
drink
and eat.

But I arrived late.

Some boss held me in his company
with stories I´ ve heard
before.

My son´ s mother, whom he has not a good relation to
at the moment,
already took care.

She didn´ t bring anything, but at least she was there
in time.

I watched my boy play.

He lost the ball, didn´ t fight much,
didn´ t run much.

He´ s a loner.

Dislikes the team.

They´ re better than him,
but they´ re also
dumber.

And he knows it.

I was sad and proud.

When the game was over,
he didn´ t come to greet me.

He cooly walked away to the
park´ s
exit.

The little boy in his red sports dress
disappeared under the
green leaves
of the old trees
without turning
his head.

Proud, lonely, free.

My son.