Introducing a new series of poems by Julian Matthews. Julian is a writer and Pushcart-nominated poet published in The American Journal of Poetry, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Borderless Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Dream Catcher, Live Encounters Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and The New Verse News, among others. He is a mixed-race minority from Malaysia and lived in Ipoh for seven years. Currently based in Petaling Jaya, he is a media trainer and consultant for senior management of multinationals on Effective Media Relations, Social Media and Crisis Communications. He was formerly a journalist with The Star and Nikkei Business Publications Inc
Link: https://linktr.ee/julianmatthews
By Julian Matthews
Once, in the heat of the East Coast, in a field where the grass had faded to a brown hue, I came upon a group of men, some wore their pants rolled up, while others had sarongs pulled up to their thighs, tied securely between their legs.
They were barefoot, their slippers having appeared hastily removed and flung in a pile, bicycles parked haphazardly nearby, as if the game had begun spontaneously. They were grown men, not children nor teenagers, arranged in a circle, kicking and keeping a ball in the air. I recognized this game as sepak takraw, typically played on a court with a net, featuring three players on each side. However, this was like a hacky sack circle, only much larger and wider than typical, and the takraw was an unusual size, appearing smaller and more challenging to kick with precision.
I recall the dust of dried mud kicking up in the midday sun, the sound of ankle bones cracking against takraw, the shouts of mirth and cajoling as loose balls were “rescued” before they hit the ground. Their acrobatic feats were truly a sight to behold.
I came close—when suddenly the ball soared towards me, I reached out and caught it. It was warm, as if it had a heartbeat, a sphere made of tightly woven rattan with openings large enough for little fingers, like hands reaching into a cookie jar.
I threw it up clumsily and high, but it was not close enough. One of the older men quickly rushed out to meet it, turning his back to the others, and with a swift leap, reminiscent of a World Cup player, he kicked it overhead into the circle, allowing the game to continue seamlessly, like a rehearsed dance accompanied by cheers of Yay!
Some raised their hands in gestures of acknowledgement for my small contribution.
And I, a city boy, a stranger, the Other, now standing with folded arms, was in awe, admiration, and, over the decades since, in bewilderment, of this ball-juggling, jumping, kaki ayam men.⠀
As if I could ever be a part of them, as if I should ever learn the rules of the game, as if I would ever soil my feet to keep their precious takraw in the air.
First published in Porch Literary Magazine.
