Diary of an eight year old

I tried to play today. Nobody understand among us what we did. Kicking a ball with legs, beating it is inhumane. Mom told me, I should not beat anybody like this, that I should not fight. But I did. I feel bad now. In that big cloud of dust, it was nearly impossible to breathe. Most of my friends fell and were hurt. The ball was hitting us like anything. While some brave ones were running after it, most of us were running away from it. Ed and Yelan, who never brought anything during games, were made to stand at two ends of the field. They too were playing. I did not understand, how? May be they were playing, but playing alone and less.

A big boy called me up when the ball went outside and made me stand into a corner. He offered me the ball. That was very nice of him since ages. Asking me to kick the ball, he placed it on the ground. With everybody shouting “here”, “here”, I supposedly kicked the ball in opposite direction. But I made a goal. I din’t knew whether to be happy or sad. It was my football. There must be a rule that allows me to play longer. Sometimes I wonder, why is it called “football” ? It should be simply called play. It is an immersion of pakda-pakdi, maram-pitti, jumping, fighting and kicking and pretty much everything. So it should be called play. Who named it?