When the balloon disappears

Text: an original contemporary reportage-style practice extract.

At six in the morning, the sports field looked prepared for a match that had forgotten to bring its players. White lines divided the empty grass; the goals waited at either end. Only the centre circle had been claimed. There, beside a silver case and a coil of cord, a technician was filling a weather balloon. It spread across the ground like a pale, collapsed moon.

I had expected the launch to be the simple part: let go and look up. Instead, the technician kept the balloon close. He checked the fastening beneath it, watched a strip of ribbon rise and fall beside the case, then studied the changing figures on a small screen. The balloon pulled impatiently at his hands. Twice, he stepped forwards. Twice, he stopped. The field, which had seemed empty when I arrived, now appeared crowded with movements too slight for me to understand.

When he finally released it, the balloon did not sail gracefully. It lurched sideways, tugging the small instrument box after it, before climbing above the goalposts. Within a minute, it had shrunk from an object into a bright mark and from a mark into a doubt. I continued staring upwards. The technician had already turned away.

On his screen, rows of measurements were beginning to change. The balloon itself was soon erased by cloud, but its journey became more detailed as it became less visible: height, temperature and time replaced the white shape overhead. The launch had seemed to begin when the technician opened his hands. Only after there was nothing left to see did I understand that, for him, this was when the real work started.