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Sara the riot

The war-gliding, brutal heat steam-fields the arena for the battle star. Agonizing pain filters through the sheets of Orlando City, tormenting the crowd beneath 90 degrees of relentless sun. What we call animals gives me a shoulder check and a fist against my cheeks. Beer and blood—the engraving dizziness nourishes my sense of hope for an equalizer for the Prides: 0-1 Royals. Guilt clicks; time is still running. A pass from Marta, and another from Banda. Then a waving bleach washes over the stands.

Sara the riot. Lions of Judah. 

You sprint into the final script of the rectangles. Against the last 2 minutes of relentless pressure, you strike the ball as though it were your first chance. The crowd erupts; an equalizer carves its line into history. You dash toward my fist pump—a dab, then a high-five—until our foreheads meet in sweat and tears. Your blonde smile, and your heart four before overtime.

Don't let the furies and false beliefs break your heart in despair. 

Whatever brings you down 

Will eventually make you stronger.

Time to rise.


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