From 300 feet up, the ball played Euclid. Dancing angles and intersections, connections, blackboard chalk on grass. Our minds remote played the game, cross-centre-turn-shoot-why-why-why. Pulses rising in unison, we were one beast in that tempest, one mass of white and red, faces and tongues and frustration steaming the rain. Below, the mothers' sons played their precision ballet, oblivious, brainwhirring their angles, making millisecond plans, 10-second futures at a time. We sang an anthem we didn't believe, looking across at a city we once knew. This entertainment a distraction of expenses, from our locked houses and the silence we fear.