Ghost In The Mirror And The Gypsy On The Grounds

“The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own,” Sportas acknowledged, staring into the cracked glass, accepting the locker room’s needed advice.

“I am not that person,” the well-known local athlete mentioned to himself preparing for battle inside the abandoned facility that the council board last night debated to tear down. During Sporta’s young boy age, he used to kick a ball around utilizing 20th century state-of-the-art playing fields the township provided and after being handed a contract on a silver platter the youthful talent traveled the world participating in a game.

“Sportas,” a voice came from the wall spectrum overlooking the sinks where children cleaned their hands not knowing a reason for the cleansing activity, "I am Karys and I too competed on the field outside, we didn’t kick things around like you, instead we defeated our enemy by killing them and defending the land that was ours.”

Feeling an electrical brain wave urge, Sportas continued his thoughtful gaze, “and my descendants buried you after they finished contributing civilized messages to society, using who, what, why newspaper communication skills. Then when the time arrived, a symbolic place was built to remind us, the proper way to combat our neighbors.”

“Then you left Sportas, you left our village seeking fame and fortune,”

“I followed my dreams Karys, wanted high level success,” Sportas defended his maturing decisions, “I travelled, yes, but I also shouted to the world how our athletic events could build effective meaningful conversation leaving warfare in the dust, archaic and disposable.”

“Reason, why I died and did not age, Sportas, my life cut short due to an angry army that nearly took over our community, and if my sacrifice were not made,” Karys paused.

“And my family may not of loaded a shotgun they only made sure the typewriter had ink.”

“Your right Sportas, the pen is still a powerful weapon,”

“It is the instrument to positive dialogue,” the writer’s offspring stood his ground, “a healthy problem-solving agent.”

“Go my young friend, find out how to score goals,” Karys image faded into the shattered reality returning to the underworld where he quietly spends eternity.

Grabbing the round inflated object off the wooden indoor bench, Sportas metal cleats scraped the floor as he walked towards the setting sun. Sitting on the steps he tried to tie his shoes, but his five fingers would not perform the task.

“Having trouble tying your shoes, I see,” a female hollered, “too much aggressive exercise behavior.”

“Nekaltas Baltas, Is that you?”

“You know my name, I am impressed,” Nekaltas replied, “I am just a gypsy living at the border.”

“What are you doing here?” Sportas requested.

“Came into town with my imaginary friend, the white knight on his horse,” Nekaltas answered.

“You both are legends,” Sportas referenced.

“So are you Sportas, and legends win battles,” Nekaltas told him bending down, taking control, tying the nylon laces, “you know the Vatican returned the marbles back to Greece today.”

“Did it include the one with the boy’s head?” Sportas sounded curious.

“Yes, it did,” Nekaltas confirmed securing the lace’s tightness, “now go out there and find some goals.”

Standing up, breaking into a jog, Sportas started to dribble the black and white ball with his feet, relishing the lonely private surroundings, allowing an opportunity for a targeted discussion with the net.

“What do you think? Nekaltas, should they demolish this eyesore and put up a suitable statue for our allies visiting for the alliance summit?” A mysterious question came from behind her,

“No, but if Sportas finds a goal those skeletons below will continue to understand, why we planned this recreational social area above them.”

“And realistically,” the white knight fantasy continued, “are they going to beat Greece?”

“No,” Nekaltas revealed her opinion.