And the rhythm section played on...

A young man, not unlike my friends in younger days and former students, who loved attending Secondary Schools’ football, was murdered after attending the Big 5 playoff between my alma mater and another school. He cannot merely be more “collateral damage.” These blows from children’s empty hands on mordant drum strikes (too) close to home. I strike these keys in this cold foreign place, where memories of fading suns litter sidewalks, a reminder of the savagery, brutality and senselessness of this and so many others’ fatal blows. I strike these keys hoping that they are not as puerile or futile as fetal forms or police protection. I strike these keys, making and unmaking worlds, hoping not for a sword with which to strike, to wound or sever thought from action, but for a pin to prick the conscience of (former) friends and family.

I ask my former teacher, now the Principal, and other friends involved with team management to open a discussion, a real honest-to-God educational conversation around considering withdrawing from the final and what this might mean. Time is short, shorter than young men’s dreams and busy men’s nostalgic ambitions. I ask what will be gained by playing the final now? Take time to mourn. Will what we might win in anyway compare to what we have already lost? We may win a title but a young man, not marked with the crest of (y)our tribe will still be dead. Consider that! What does it matter then to you, majestic on its verdant hill, overlooking the overflowing necropolis? What do I/you/we really rePRESent? Consider withdrawing. Take a pause. Ask the other team to consider doing the same. Someone has to take in front, set an example, take the lead, make a stand…for something. There is no shame in calling it a draw for now. Today there are as yet two winners. Do play the match later. But do not play it for the stakes set out by others for their vain glories. Play it for something else, when it might mean something else. Stand on the field, in the October rain, and weep. No one will see you. Weep, if you can, as many tears as bullets and blows that have rained, now reign and will rein in our fragile futures unless we do something… something different…now. Weep for all of 90 minutes. Weep and know what it is like to be a man. We have all already lost too much but we have not yet lost it all. Please let it not be said that on that day, this day, the rhythm section played on…

Yours,

Steven Khan