El Rompe Redes, or The Legend of the Brown Man of Barcelona

Because we are the visitors, the home crowd shows us hostility. Because I am different, the home team shows me hostility. I have three defenders guarding me at all times. "Monkey," they call me, for my pale brown skin is not olive-brown like an Italian, my dark eyes are not bright blue like an Aryan, and the bridge of my nose is not aquiline like a Roman. They could at least be more precise and call me "Half-Monkey", for my father is a Spaniard, who married a short brown native woman from the Philippine islands. But to them, my blood counts for nothing. Half a monkey is still a monkey. I am the only brown man on a field of twenty-two players. My teammates can see past the color of my skin. I am treated like a brother an equal (maybe even greater) because I score goals, because I win matches, and because they all know I am the best player among my white-skinned peers. That is why my defenders look at me with anger in their eyes and hate in their hearts. They will never allow a monkey to beat them in this beautiful game they created. I now have the ball, and the defenders tighten their guard, like zookeepers out to corral an escaped chimpanzee, and they hurl their tightly-woven nets of prejudice

as they try to hold the monkey down. But I am too fast for them. I leave all the defenders behind, nothing left for them to do but stare at the number on the back of my jersey: Number 1. Racing toward the goal, I cock my leg back, and strike the ball like the hammer of a gun, and send the bullet flying. I watch the goalkeeper's bright blue eyes, following the ball in disbelief as it passes through his hands and over his straw-colored head. And the goal's net cannot hold my shot, just as the zookeeper's net cannot hold the monkey. My bullet travels so fast that it breaks the net completely through, splicing the fibers that hold the twine of reality together. The entire home crowd is stunned into silence, and the joyous uproar of our visiting team praising my magnificent monkey kick becomes the salt of insult that sprinkles over the wounds of their egos. In the cheery blue eyes of my teammates, I am El Rompe Redes The Net Breaker. My name will live in legend, and the club will pass down my story from generation to generation. But in the teary blue eyes of my opponents, I will live in infamy. They will never see me as the player who scored the winning goal amidst the hostile conditions of an away crowd. My name will be spoken with loathing, for I will live forever in their memory as the monkey who destroyed their net. *For Bersong EuroPinoy 3