Kareem Between: Fourth Quarter–Overtime

I hear Jameelah’s muffled voice
from under
my Bears bedspread.

Stop moping.

The last plate
clinks into
the dishwasher,
and over the clatter,
I hear
the doorbell ring.

Austin is
scrawling on
a notebook
when I get into class
Tuesday morning.

We approach
the gym,
each step
adding to my
apprehension.

Coach beckons me
inside,
where Spring Squad
gathers at this time
for practice.

I hesitate,
then
amble forward,
take the
football,
get behind the center,
signal the start of the play.

He looks up at me,
eyes wary,
but he takes it
from my hand.

He
cradles my chin,
his eyes sincere
as he stares
directly into mine.

Because
in a game
(and in life),
when you’re pushed back
down the field
and the punt flies
toward you,
you always have the chance
to catch the ball,
return,
advancing
quickly until you get
back in front
of your
GOAL.

I hear snippets
that sound like refugees
and Syria
and ban,
politicians on TV debating lives
of those they don’t even know.

My eyes glaze over,
and as I look at the
date on the TV,
I realize
something.

Of him joining the peaceful protests
in the cities
against the oppression of the
dictatorship,
a government
that doesn’t believe in voting,
a government
that punished
children
with jail and torture,
and their parents
protested to get
them back.

He tells us of
people taken to prison,
dragged there by Shabeeha,
people
like his dad,
old people,
sick people, innocents,
taken
for
no
reason
except injustice.

Of his family fleeing,
leaving behind everything.
Of their trips across dry desert lands,
then over water
on rickety boats
until they got to
new countries
and walked some more.

When I go back to my room,
I pin my Bears poster
back up,
smooth it
against the wall,
and the sight of
my Super Bowl champs
back up
where they belong
makes me
smile.

Jerry and Fadi
wait for me,
flipping through comic books,
their companionship
comforting.

We walk inside,
and
I peer around
the corner
to the front.

The newsroom
is inside a doorway
on the fourth floor,
where you step inside
a dark space,
cameras facing the center,
umbrellas and signs set up,
and in the middle
tables and chairs
for anchors to sit on
and talk news
in front of a green screen.

And this Bears fan
is clinging to
hope.

It’s Manal,
he says,
and Jameelah
utters a loud
SHHHHH.

Even the appeals
court refused
to reinstate it!

He criticizes the words of the ban.

I see
Austin sulking,
back slumped,
arms crossed,
head drooped,
staring at the
grass
beneath the bench.

It’s funny that
something called a
fight song
is actually
a mark
of
unity.