The Game
After the match, lively chatter and lukewarm cervezas flowed in earnest. The common language of who could pick out the open man, the places we’d seen, and what the future held so far from home rattled off metal clad trailers and diesel behemoths liberally dusted with the pulverized clay that permeates every surface in the heart of the Bakken. Observing moments of the beauty and encompassing kinship that is soccer, some of the spectators were there with ulterior motives. Could any of these able-bodied young men be recruited for a start-up oil company in dire need of labor?
Huge amounts of money were at stake, a deal made or lost depending on the whims of man and nature and highway conditions from New Mexico through the Texas panhandle. The whole affair was a gamble from the starting whistle, conjured by chance encounter on the trail and just as easily blown away with the prairie wind. The prize for the victors of the impromtu competition? Fleeting glory and a twenty-four pack of the least expensive beer.
(to be continued)
the half-moon gone red -
a cloud of dust thickens
the atmosphere
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