I'm running. I have the ball. I hold it close to my

chest. It's mine. I think I know what it is. I think I

know where I'm running. I think I'm running

towards the touchline. Tall long-haired women

wearing make-up and dresses with padded

shoulders launch themselves into the air, trying

to tackle me. I put my head down and they

bounce off me. I push them in the face and they

fall backwards. They crumple into clouds of dirt

and grass. They sit up and call at my back. I

cannot hear what they say. I'm running. I'm

holding the ball to my chest. I think I know what

it is. I think I'm running towards the touchline.