A Boy Juggling a Soccer Ball

Christopher Merrill    after practice: right foot to left foot, stepping forward and back,    to right foot and left foot, and left foot up to his thigh, holding    it on his thigh as he twists around in a circle, until it rolls    down the inside of his leg, like a tickle of sweat, not catching    and tapping on the soft side of his foot, and juggling    once, twice, three times, hopping on one foot like a jump-roper    in the gym, now trapping and holding the ball in midair,    balancing it on the instep of his weak left foot, stepping forward    and forward and back, then lifting it overhead until it hangs there;    and squaring off his body, he keeps the ball aloft with a nudge    of his neck, heading it from side to side, softer and softer,    like a dying refrain, until the ball, slowing, balances    itself on his hairline, the hot sun and sweat filling his eyes    as he jiggles this way and that, then flicking it up gently,    hunching his shoulders and tilting his head back, he traps it    in the hollow of his neck, and bending at the waist, sees his shadow,    his dangling T-shirt, the bent blades of brown grass in summer heat;    and relaxing, the ball slipping down his back. . .and missing his foot.      He wheels around, he marches over the ball, as if it were a rock    he stumbled into, and pressing his left foot against it, he pushes it    against the inside of his right until it pops into the air, is heeled    over his head—the rainbow!— and settles on his extended thigh before    rolling over his knee and down his shin, so he can juggle it again    from his left foot to his right foot —and right foot to left foot to thigh—    as he wanders, on the last day of summer, around the empty field.

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A Boy Juggling a Soccer Ball-Christopher Merrill