The last time he had seen the game, he was a mere spectator. It used to hail then, and the rules of the game were different. He recalled, the hail stones that had been collected in steel bowls and glasses (tumblers some called them). The hail stones though, had long gone; dissipated. Their time was past, they knew, like the green serpent which had hissed and mingled with the grass. The crabs which waded in the rain water with him, the ones he had smashed with stones, lived in absolute fear. They did not fear the stone or him. It was time they feared. None ever came out to welcome the torrents that lashed the solitary fields. It was a different era now.
When he came on the field, he knew that the turf was not the same. It was to his advantage now. He had looked at it from a distance; it was a mirage then. It never revealed its true nature, the turf. Comprehension dawns when one walks onto the turf. The insidious face is a farce. It fears defeat and subsequent subjugation. While the turf raved in rage, he knew the world was to be his pet stage. He respected the game, not the turf. The game was his aide; it would be the source of the macabre turfs' annihilation!
He played with brute force knowing that the vent of his wroth lied in victory. This truth, to all, was to be denied. No one would ever know the source of his anger, taste the joy of triumph but all now would understand the importance of being earnest.
