The Spanish sun beats down on my sunburned neck and shoulders. The noise of holidaymakers is but a distant hum. To the left of me is a fair haired stocky brute with legs like hams, to the right a swarthy Baltic type. Somewhere above, a fourth man slumbers, too lethargic himself to face the rigours of the game. The three of us wear foolish brimmed hats, but this is an incidental detail. This stretch of faded green painted concrete between rendered breezeblock walls is our battlefield, and we are at war.
My lower back aches with the strain of maintaining my guarded position. We exchange shots without much aggression, gathering ourselves, pausing between. There is even soft laughter at a couple of minor fumbles, but that laughter is a thin veneer over grim determination. The fumbles are watched closely, and the fumbler’s eyes tighten in readiness
“The gates are closed”, I whisper under my breath, and a moment later the onslaught begins. In a rapid interchange lasting just two minutes the swarthy one and I relentlessly attack the heavyset one, pushing him to the brink of collapse. Sweat beads his brow but other than his expression is impassive, calm. His hands move quick and steady – we have not rattled him.
In the blink of an eye I change my strategy and drop a slow, bouncing shot towards my right. It is not meant to be a serious threat, merely a signal that the game has changed. I do not glance at the fair-haired one, but without a word being spoken, we know it is time to turn our attacks on the Baltic.
The swarthy one collects the ball easily with a snarl, a sneer on the lips. He does not shoot straight away, knowing that the lay of the land has changed. He has been betrayed, but it is of small consequence, for we have each sided with and betrayed one another dozens of times that morning already. He knows only that like the bounding impala, striving to jump higher than his brothers and sisters on the African veldt to prove himself too fit for the stalking Lion to catch, his first return shot and his next few defences must be strong.
I barely see his hand move, and his arm twists in a way that is uncomfortable to look at. The ball leaves in a direction that seems impossible to believe, towards the stocky Nordic, but on the first bounce it twists savagely towards me. Amazed, I fumble my catch, and the ball lands just behind my right heel. I have conceded a point.
I feel the exquisite agony of defeat as my opponent whoops in joy. I collapse for a minute. We rotate positions, and I gain a place in a patch of shade. The swarthy one is close to victory, and I am tired, but the game is not over yet. Any one of us can still emerge victorious. I grit my teeth take up the ball.
This is ponyball.
Ponyball is magnificent.