On a game of Football!

(Written in imitation of the style Mr. Oliver Goldsmith employs in On Dress.)
It was a gloriously beautiful evening. The twilight of dusk had rendered the firmament kaleidoscopic-it was azure in the centre and saffron hued at the horizon. A balmy breeze blew, flocks of chirping birds flew over my head and at some distance away from the tree-lined avenue on which I ambled, on a lush field a group of young men were playing football.
It is a marvelous game undoubtedly though I cannot recall from my living memory, a single instance when I have kicked a ball. But the sight of men, single-mindedly running after the wonder that is this circular piece of inflated rubber which goes by the name of football, is ubiquitous enough. Being the kind of person who would, on reaching a picturesque Alpine village, be not as much bewitched by its beauty as much prone to reminiscing about Sherlock Holmes’ spine-chilling encounter with Moriarti in the outskirts of one such hamlet, I was naturally reminded by the vista of a game in progress, of the paragraph in English August, which described how young men playing football who most enthusiastically hollered for the ball, were usually the ones who secretly dreaded the occasion when the ball was actually kicked in their direction. Presently, however, I brushed aside my thoughts on the novel the protagonist of which I had misguidedly hero-worshipped as an adolescent.
I halted in my walk and watched the players, who were scattered all across the manicured ground but had their eyes set on the ball. Being no connoisseur of the sport, I could not infer if these men were playing well, these men in jerseys, but the keenness in their lineaments and the jauntiness in their strides, seemed to bespeak of their supreme, unalloyed devotion for the game. And suddenly, as quickly as the flash of lightning, it occurred to me how absolutely different did the sport render its players from me. While I was perplexed and aimless in my ramblings, these men literally had a goal to hit! They sweated for a purpose while I had none. I suddenly yearned to strike the football but it was too. The cerulean was now dark and a sepulcher for the day, another day, that had just died. Besides the men were utter strangers even though the silhouette of one them seemed in the waning light of vesper, a little winsome. But their game was coming to an end and I hurriedly resumed my promenade. I moved away from there but actually, did I? In the field that was desolate after the players dispersed, my desire must have still lingered-my desire to hit the goal!