A Tribe Called Soccer
du Nord, July 3, 2011
Contributing Editor Graham FoxAs the wild cats roar in the dark, a tribe gathers in a stone room, the air full of dried herbs. The nights have been cold. The elders say the time for planting and growth is here (the stars foretell it), yet the frost still attacks the crops. The tribe needs the sun. Darkness and damp drips down like an oppressive sheet. Frost is hardening around the tender green shoots of life, the village’s salvation in the coming summer and winter. The plants are slowly freezing and their death threatens to kill all but the strongest. As one, the village stirs with life and walk through the shiver inducing cold to the edge of the canyon. The wise start the rhythm. Clapping and stomping their feet in the wet dust. Together, the tribe believes. The young, the old, the weak, the strong, and the workers sing, chant, and dance, throwing sound into the chasm of the canyon, imploring, demanding, and pleading. “Sun! Rise again, leave us in this cold and we will die.” In the distance a bird sings. A