I was pushing a football across the goal line with my shell while six children crouched beside me, arguing over whether I was allowed to score without being named in the squad. My name is Klaus, I am a tortoise, and one minute earlier my evening plans had consisted entirely of a lettuce leaf.

My owner, Marta, had carried me into the courtyard and placed me on the grass beside a bench while the neighborhood children played football between two pairs of plastic buckets. Marta put the lettuce beyond the far goal to give me a direction. Just then, the ball bounced off the goalkeeper’s foot, struck my shell, and stopped directly in front of me. I kept crawling toward the lettuce. The ball rolled with me, slowly but with the irritating confidence humans usually lack in front of an open goal.

The goalkeeper did not touch the ball because he decided I was controlling it. The defender did not touch it either because he was afraid of kicking me. Everyone else walked alongside us and offered advice. When the ball crossed the line, one team counted the goal and the other demanded a replay. They turned me around for it, but Marta moved the lettuce behind the opposite goal. Everyone waited to see which way I would crawl, as if I had studied the rules instead of merely spotting dinner.

I set off toward the lettuce again. This time the ball rolled sideways and hit a plastic bucket, which toppled over and ended the match. The children unanimously named me player of the game, Marta presented me with the leaf, and the ball was removed from my path. At last, football returned to a form I understood: humans made noise, and the tortoise ate dinner.