Vin watched with unfamiliar indifference as Damien's team scored another goal. He should have been happy for his friend, but their goals were weak, poor attempts at what could have been a plethora of different variations: quicker turns, cleaner passes, and harder strikes. They were all possible, but that effort had been cast aside for ease of access and comfort.
"Gooaal!"
The weekend league was supposed to be exhilarating. They were meant to enjoy their spare time away from the academy and divulge themselves with messy, unclean football; and they had, yet…Vin couldn't help but see more. No one liked to lose or perform poorly, but was it that few seemed to share his newfound desire to perform at the pinnacle of skill and strength?
Men were great because they made themselves great: Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, they were household names because they had forced their way into the world of football through strength and character. Anyone could score a goal, but could they do it ninety times in a single season? Could they perform as the greatest over the course of multiple years?
No. Vin repeated the same answer to himself over and over in his mind as he studied Damien's football. He was good, likely the academies best player, but he played incorrectly—everyone on the pitch did. Football isn't about being perfect. It's just about being better than whoever is stood in front of you. To do that so consistently, though…mistakes need to be cut away.
An epiphany, was that it? The awakening of the mind and body; a symbiotic relationship of power and logic. It seemed an impossibility, yet there were no students at the academy that had reached the same conclusion Vin had - he could tell just by watching them.
"What are you thinking about?"
Vin met Charles' gaze in the periphery of his vision, though he didn't turn away from Damien's game. "Something. I don't really get it, though. Maybe it's just football."
"Try me. I know I might not look it, but I'm pretty smart. I could figure it out."
"Figure it out," Vin murmured. He glanced away from the pitch, hand scratching the soft skin of his chin. "What do you think makes a player great?"
Charles shrugged. He was taller than most people their age, easily tall enough to have been a regular on the academies basketball team; and toned enough that his spot would have been warranted. Despite the long, unkempt mass of green-hair that fell in troves around his hawkish face, Charles was as athletic as they came: quick, skilled, and smart enough to play well. "Tricky question. Depends on their position and a number of other factors. Overall, though? A great player creates and destroys chances. They participate in goals - defending, assisting, scoring, doesn't matter. That's what football is, right?"
"Football…it is about scoring goals, but there's more. It can't be that simple, right? So much goes into a game that you can't account for…so isn't making assumptions whilst on the field wrong?"
"Could be," Charles said, "but I don't think most players our age think like that. Just look—" Vin followed his gesture to the pitch ahead of them. Damien, who wore the black and gold of his club, the Panthers, and the white and red of the Cherries, the opposing team - Galen played for them. "Most of them play with their bodies, but their head? Doing two things at once is difficult, but that's what separates a good player from a player."
"It's not as simple as thinking, though. You have to make the correct thoughts while making the correct decisions to be the best...and they can't just be correct: they have to be better than any other thought or decision on the field." Charles seemed to understand whatever Vin had implied, though he wasn't even sure himself. "No…it's not about being the best…not yet. I just have to be better than whoever is in front of me."
Charles nodded slowly, his own hand caressing the short hair along his chin. "Those goals you scored yesterday against Whiteheart…is that what this is about? Generally, shooting from the half-way line is unheard of...at least for our division. Doing it six times without fail is an anomaly among anomalies." Vin lurched backwards as Charles rushed forward, thick hands placed firm on his shoulders. "You figured something out, didn't you? Tell me!"
Vin pondered his friends words carefully as he shook him back and forth. Despite his insistence, Vin couldn't help but let his gaze pull away from the mess of green hair, towards Damien and Galen as they clashed on the pitch. He choked a laugh and pushed Charles aside as Damien struck the ball at the half-way line, exactly as he'd done the day before.
"Woaah!" the crowd shouted. There weren't many people in attendance, but the sudden chant was only as distinct as it had been as it waned away, as if following the distancing ball as it shot over the crossbar.
Vin let himself slump onto the balustrades separating the pitch with the stands, chin and the right-side of his face falling into the warmth of his jacket. "Anyone can be good with enough skill or practice. What do you think it takes to be more than that?"
Charles settled down beside him, legs propped up against the barrier. "Luck? You could argue those goals you scored yesterday were lucky. Six goals in a normal game is already strange, but scoring from the same spot on the halfway line that many times could just be simple happenstance."
"I agree," Vin muttered, "but I don't feel that way. Somehow, I can almost see every fault and issue in the game…and every positive outcome that should come from something. It's like…the world is guiding me towards it, you know? I probably sound crazy…those goals only seemed illogical because my mind couldn't process what had happened, but the more I think about it…the more it seems natural to me. It's just scoring a goal, right?"
"You sound like those nutjobs from London."
Vin narrowed his eyes. "Nutjobs?"
"They're just rumors…word is though that the seven players form London's Sunshot academy that won the under-nineteens champions league last year all joined provincial academies this year…like us."
Vin scoffed. "Under-nineteen? How could a team with seven sixteen-year olds win that?"
"It's just word of mouth. You know how those capital academies are. None of their games are ever recorded to preserve the history of their organization. Stupid I know, but they're pretty damn good at what they do. Just look at England's squad for the world two years ago…full of sunshot graduates."
"Well," Vin started, "I'm not a nutjob. Though…I guess we'll find out in the provincial games soon."