“I’m sorry about today at school.”
He returns his other hand to the post and swings his body until he gains enough momentum to swivel up top. “It’s okay,” he says finally. “You should really see it from up here. It makes the field look like it stretches forever.”
I shimmy up the side of the goal post, teetering at the top. Hadir scoots my direction and offers his shoulder for balance. Once situated, we slide sideways toward the center of the goal, legs dangling beneath us.
“Wow,” I say and look out at the field. “You’re right.” It extends perfectly straight, yard after endless yard, cleaner and brighter than anything in all of Kabul.
“How many people do you think will come to celebrate Nikpai?” Hadir asks.
“Our teacher said four thousand can fit,” I say. “But I think even more will come.”
“I think so, too.”
We sit silently for some time, as the moon appears to move further away in the sky.
“You know what’s funny?” I ask.
“What?”
“I think this is the most peaceful spot in Afghanistan.”
Hadir laughs. “Yeah, maybe.”
Just then, an odd hissing sound erupts around us, quiet at first but louder with each second. My breath catches, heart pounding in my throat. Hadir and I glance at each other, then look down the ever-reaching field to see a symmetrical array of sprinklers raised in the moonlight, reflective umbrellas of water spraying from each head.
“One,” I say.
“Two,” he says.
“Three!” we shout together and leap from the goal post to land triumphantly next to the soccer ball. Just like that, Hadir runs and dribbles. I sprint down the opposite sideline, leaping over sprinkler heads, laughing at the mess of it all. He kicks a long pass and I push harder, feet pumping against the saturated soil, trying to beat the ball to the sideline. The leather slaps the inside of my foot. Trap. Go. Hadir darts downfield, shouting “Here, Pirooz! Here!” His feet slice through shimmering grass, and he’s almost to the penalty box, when I think of Nikpai, the way nobody thought an Afghan could win an Olympic medal. I make the final pass and fall onto my back, sprinklers showering me with water. When I hear Hadir grunt to take his shot on goal, I don’t have to look to see if he’s made it. I raise my leopard fist and shout at the sky. Somewhere in the distance, Hadir hollers back, the ghosts of Kabul Stadium hollering right along with him.
Just the Dog and Me
I’m outside in the middle of the night again, just the dog and me. The whole neighborhood’s asleep. Cooper’s sniffing every blade of grass, checking the perimeter of the yard. Just the kind of thing that drives Marcia nuts. But I can be patient. I can be patient with his mini mission to protect and defend, because the longer I watch him the more I understand his logic.
He’s all tail and nose, tugging the leash this way and that, sending muted snorts into the night—a canine Morse code. Any minute now, the neighbor’s Beagle will probably hear us. Set the whole block singing. Cooper freezes for a moment, the leash tight between us, then before I know it he’s sending up more dirt than a landmine, and I just drop the leash and let him dig.
It’s a beautiful thing, going after what you want like that.
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