I see a young boy, his right palm on his hip and the other over his eyes. There is a march going on in front of him but he is not a part of it. Even though he looks fully dressed for the occasion. That must be why his stance looks somber.
I feel that he is disappointed, that the green grass and the white goalpost seem to blend into one colourless disposition.
Peter, the boy, is holding back tears that threaten to blind him. After all his practice on the field and in his backyard, he still wasn’t cut out for it. Or so the coach said. He was angry, embarrassed and, sad. He should have known.
Yesterday, one of the team players had stopped by his house. His mother was just about to serve lunch, and so he was stuck with the disreputable no. 17. For petty reasons, they never addressed each other by their names.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t come to the game tomorrow.” No. 17 said, leaning back on the dining hair.
Peter looked around him. His dad had his newspaper up to his face and his mom was clearing up the dishes in the kitchen. He glared at his uninvited guest, imagining his round face like the ball he’d kick tomorrow.
“Except you’re not me. Are you done leeching? Do you have food home or what?”
Bristling, he bit back. “You know I live right next to coach…”
“So what?”
“I don’t know 7! But you will be Rolling Ronaldo by the time we’re done.”
He should have listened. He should have stayed back. That morning, he did not receive the same message coach sent to the others. It was vague, dismissive. He asked his dad and the old man said something about the sky and limits. He forced his way to the backroom and right there, in the middle of everyone, Coach Hansen let him off. That same minute, someone coughed out a ‘rolling ronaldo’, a name he had been escaping for years.
He couldn’t stand the jesting and the shame of losing, of not being good enough. He went out to the field, looked right past everyone and, just watched. He held back his tears and joined the game the only way he could.