If the death of James Wilks had been turned into a short film

The film would have started with a blank screen
and the sound of a boy hollering: Pile On!
The film would probably be called Pile On!
Then it would have been a mish-mash
of quick-cut close-ups
where you can't tell one person from another
or whose arms is whose,
a nest of squirming polycotton
and thick-soled Kickers,
flush faces straining,
huffing for breath
and, after a bit,
the rhino stomp
from across the field, a herd of sixth formers
who've spotted the human trampoline:
jack knifing, slo-mo, above the throng
before coming down elbow tapping,
the collective loss of breath
like a stomped on gym matt.
With each new slam
the crepe of a boy
with his face to the grass
has never felt so miniature.
The film's director would add lots of echo
to signify the boy's increasing lack of connection
with his lungs and ribs
then more sixth-formers would gleefully dive,
a rotation system of chest first body plants
and then, if this was a film,
the boy would try and say stop
and you'd be able to hear it on the film soundtrack
but nobody in the film would hear it
and the camera would be looking down from above,
panning out, and the music would be the sort of music
that makes you realise
that even though everyone seems to be having fun
there is actually something really awful
happening and, although the film would have only been
two or three minutes long,
I think it would have had some power.