Tata's Whiteboard

Lyrics

Hey there, laminate ghost.
Just you and me in the cool concrete.
4:15 p.m. under the halo board.
Before the noise.

I remember his hand, Gerardo's hand.
The black Sharpie uncapped.
A single, sharp line from the half-space.
That was Miguel Almirón, right there.
An arrow arcing behind the last defender.
That was Josef Martínez, already gone.
He never said "total football."
He just drew the shape of it,
in a tunnel in Atlanta, Georgia.

And every line he drew became a run.
Every circle became a body in space.
The squeak of the marker became the roar
of seventy-two thousand screaming your name.
The diagram became the goal.
The whiteboard lines became the Five Stripes song.

For the final, they locked the cart.
So he borrowed one from a high school.
Didn't matter.
The magic wasn't in the plastic frame.
It was in the certainty of the ink.
December 8, 2018.
He drew a cup on a cheap, borrowed board,
and they went out and made it real.

And every line he drew became a run.
Every circle became a body in space.
The squeak of the marker became the roar
of seventy-two thousand screaming your name.
The diagram became the goal.
The whiteboard lines became the Five Stripes song.

Then the parade down Peachtree Street.
Bus exhaust and brass bands.
A perfect moment.
Then January 7, 2019.
He packed his markers.
The jewel-box closed.
And we were left with the echo of the drawing.

They wiped you clean.
Of course they did.
But I can still see the lines.
I can still see the ghost of the ink.
The shape of the win.