Children and puppies. Old-school marketing trick. A child’s photo provides a storyteller with countless options and nobody will dispute them. You merely suggest a thought and the photo carries the day.

Some might label those types of suggestions as fiction. And admittedly, though I sometimes might invoke editorial license on this web page to help the reader relate to a story, I do not write fiction. Nor would I be so obtuse as to take advantage of an innocent child’s photo just to write an award-winning account of jungle life.

Then again, I do have editorial license.

I found this young fellow on the sidelines of an intense soccer match in the African village of Khronowodoke, Liberia. I can’t remember why I shot black and white. Most of my Liberia pics were on 400 Kodachrome color film. For some reason, on this day, I was in a black and white mood. I’m very glad that I was. Grainy photos are, after all…artistic.

Back in the day, probably still today, Liberian adults referred to children this age as “pekins.” It’s a Liberian English word.  Liberian English is a derivative of English, and pekin is a word that is part of that confusion. The pekin story I was told was that the bush children, who pretty much ran amuck all day, would seek out whatever village action was happening and would soon be “pekin” in the window, or open door, or whatever space they could occupy to check out the big mystery.

If there were a gaggle of 100 six-year-old pekins surrounding your house and you shouted, “Hey, pekin,” 100 panic-stricken faces would immediately turn to you horrified, not knowing whether to run or drop to the ground, all certain they had been caught doing some heinous crime.

This particular pekin is watching his mates play soccer. I remember it was a four-on-four match played on a dirt patch of clay adjacent to the main road. They used small rocks as goal posts and the ball was a small, raw-rubber glob resembling a round object. I wouldn’t call it a ball, but you could kick it. Good enough.

This is where you might accuse me of writing fiction. I’m not. I’m relating.

He is clearly focused on the action. Might be concerned. Maybe the score is tied. He wants to play.

Then again, maybe he is standing outside the kitchen and he’s hungry, staring down a pot of rice and chicken.

See what I mean about child photos?

He was younger than the other pekins. And just like younger kids everywhere, he was not playing in this match. Sidelined and watching. I remember that feeling. Picked last. It was that way with me until I finally matured last year. This young man was not there yet, but he cared.

I don’t know if he ever got his minutes. Probably not that day. But he was there, waiting for his turn, waiting for the phone to ring. Good job, young pekin. Hang tough. Your day will come.

One thing I love about this photo is that it is very much me. I strike the same pose when the Niners are on the one-yard line. Or they are called for holding. Or they run backwards.

Another thing I love about this photo is that it reminds me of the coolness of pekins. They live in their own little worlds. And you can visit them if you take time and pay attention. His world on that day was a little patch of clay in the middle of the Liberian bush that no one else cared about. Just him and his mates. And to him, it’s the World Cup. That is “pekin cool.”

He had a smile as big as Disneyland. His group of about a dozen or so pekins were not afraid of the crazy white-man and would stop by now and again to peek into my windows and front door to see what I was up to. I had a short-wave radio and would listen to BBC in the evenings. I would turn up the volume and the pekins would gather around. He was one of the regulars.

They were a thoughtful bunch. This pekin and his buddies would often bring me jungle items they thought I might purchase. An unripe banana. A rotten mango. One day, they hauled an eight-foot-long black cobra into the front yard. Another time, they presented me with a very large jungle rat they’d caught burrowing into a termite mound. I never bought anything, though I did give the snake a once-over.

They were also mischievous. One day, a lost soul pekin was caught stealing money from the house. His punishment was a stern lecture and a pepper enema. Bizarre, that’s true, but effective.

They were also hard workers. I had one golf club, a seven-iron, and one golf ball, which I’d procured from another golf-desperate volunteer. On rainless afternoons, the pekins would gather and follow me up the dirt road leading into town. They knew the drill. They would spread out about 170 yards down the road from me and serve as my ball catchers (perhaps “targets” is a more accurate term). I would swing away and whoever ended up with the ball would run it back to me and I would pay the lucky winner a nickel. Then they’d spread out and do it again.

Often, I would fade the ball deep into the bush. At times, that was on purpose, as it’s pure hilarity to watch a dozen or so naked pekins race and disappear into the thick forest, screaming with pure joy, elbows and knees flailing about for the chance to secure that little, white Peace Corps ball with big, shiny new nickels sparkling in their covetous little eyes.

I bet I practiced this game a hundred times during my stint. Extremely entertaining. Never did they lose the ball.

And that, my friends, is now a golf story.

Which, like fishing, is never fiction.