Tonight, while walking the streets aroun 10:30pm, I saw a park filled with soccer players and spectators.  There were about 12 players and 17 spectators, all guys.

They were all playing in the yellow of the street lights, which lit up the park.  They played well; their footwork like flashes, with precise outcomes, but not perfection.  The ball hits the inside rim of the goal, but bounces out.  The crowd, first pondering the situation in silence, deliberating, for only a moment, with only the ringing of the metal goal and the bounce of the ball to be heard. . . ing. . . bounce . .  bounce . bounce.

Yes, an uproar it is.  In, or out.  The ball is lazily tapped around as the players and spectators start to raise their voices, not in anger, but with concern, and finger pointing.

Unknown consensus rules as some of the voices give up, the spectators sit, and the ball moves a little faster.  The footwork steadily resumes.  The foot-ball moves with vigor, the lights glow yellow, and I start walking back towards the house.