Today is the day I show who I am. Today is the day I get to play. Today is the day I become a soccer icon. "Alright, now you are getting ahead of yourself," says mom. "If you get the opportunity to play, remember you only have ten minutes." "Oh right, I forgot. Well, that's better than just being a spectator." "Who's that guy with the Mohawk back there?" asked mom. "Well, I don't know, I just called him Mohawk Man." "Mohawk Man?" Oh, I see, that makes sense, I guess," she sighed. "Alright then, do you want me to ask for you, or do you got this?" "Come on, mom, I'll ask." Can you imagine your mom asking to let you play? They wouldn't take it lightly. They'd think I don't have what it takes to play. Mom looked at me and said, "What are you waiting for then? Go and ask." I walked toward the middle of the field. Everyone was trying to select their players based on the two chosen captains. After last time's performance, Mohawk Man was designated the Black Team captain, while the butcher was assigned the White Team captain. Only five people were left to be selected. The butcher looked at us, walked right past me, and chose his previous CDM who played for his team last time. Mohawk Man picked a guy who claimed he only played forward because he called himself the scoring machine. We were down to three players, then two—until I was the last one left. Well, I tried. As I was about to leave and go home, I heard a voice call out, "Yo, I'll only play for 15 minutes because I have some errands to run. Just wait a sec, you can play in my spot." "Wait a minute, wait a minute, guess it's not too late then. I guess I'll get to play." My mom looked at me and said, "Well, today is my day off. I don't mind waiting, just have patience, I guess." "Thanks, mom." I hugged her—I don't think she was expecting that hug; she almost fell. "Wait, are you getting bigger, or is it just my imagination?" Mom asked. "I don't know, I don't feel like I've grown at all." As usual, I was in spectator mode again—the game had started three minutes ago. Today, the White Team was playing a standard defensive line. I guess they learned their lesson from last time. Playing a high line is a risk—it's a high risk but maybe high rewards. Mohawk Man decided to play the right wing this time. It's not like the man wasn't using both legs like he was a pro, and there was no weakness to one of his legs. The scoring machine just shot the ball wide from the post; it wasn't even close. Yeah, that's the scoring machine for you. The White Team's goalkeeper passed the ball back to the butcher, who then passed it to his right-back, who tried to pass to his midfielder, but he lost the ball under pressure from an out-of-position Mohawk Man, who quickly passed it to his midfielder, calming the game so his team could catch a breath. The Black Team was very patient, making a couple of easy passes in the middle, then to the backline, and then to the midfield to try to break the White Team's formation. When a team is patient and passing the ball often—especially in the midfield—the other team has no choice but to press if they want to regain possession and score. As I said, pressing is great, but a high-line defense without depth and intensity to intercept the ball is doomed to get caught on a counterattack by the patient team. Mohawk Man received a pass, controlling it with some difficulty because the White Team's right-back was pressure him. Mohawk Man then passed the ball to his incoming midfielder and made a run on the right side, receiving a through ball and crossing it to the scoring machine, who literally missed a one-on-one with the White Team's keeper. Damn, what a fraud—this guy sucks. I believe I could have done a better job than this fraud of a forward. Before the keeper released the ball for a goal kick, the guy who offered me the opportunity to play earlier ran up to me and said, "Alright, man, it's your turn. I gotta go. Have fun." I guess I'm playing for the White Team today. Wait, which position do I play? I don't remember where he was playing. The butcher yelled, "You're playing RB." Oh, damn, I guess beggars can't be choosers. I ran to the right back of the defense and positioned myself facing our goalkeeper. The keeper kept the ball short; he made a quick pass back to the butcher, who then turned toward me and unexpectedly passed me the ball. I tried to control it, but it went right under my cleats and out of bounds for a Black Team throw-in. The butcher looked at me, rolled his eyes, and then fell back into defense. I mean, it's a first pass, my first mistake; it's not the end of the world—I just need to focus. I stayed close to Mohawk Man, who was opening himself up to receive the throw-in from his right back. The right back threw the ball to his midfielder, who controlled it and then passed it to the backline. I found myself right next to Mohawk Man. As he walked toward his right half of the field, he was composed, patiently watching the ball pass between his defenders. The White Team's midfielder threw a long pass to his left winger, who tried to make a run down his side for a counterattack—only to get cleaned up by the butcher with a perfect sliding tackle. Damn, that was a nice tackle, made it look so easy. As the Black Team tried to build patiently again, the ball was intercepted. With a quick one-two, the White Team striker found himself at the top of the box and shot a low, driven shot that hit a Black Team defender's leg and was wayward toward the goal; the ball went out for a corner kick. The butcher looked at me and said, "Wait, I'll go up; you stay back on defense." I nodded and moved to the middle of the field as I watched the corner kick unfold. The keeper caught and kicked the ball out wide to Mohawk Man. As usual, he controlled the ball with ease on his right foot and broke for a counterattack. As the last man back, I quickly readjusted to run back on defense. Damn, he's fast. As I ran back, I saw the scoring machine making an overlapping run on my left. Great, now what? Do I pressure Mohawk Man or try to stay between both of them? Oh, I forgot—no referees, which means no offsides. I'm on my own. I tried to stall by pressuring Mohawk Man. I faced him directly; he slowed down, looking for an option to pass, but his options seemed limited. After that missed opportunity from the scoring machine earlier, he definitely lost confidence, so he was trying to go in on his own. It's a one-on-one: me and him. As he tried to make an inside run on my right toward the middle, I shifted my body to block his run. He rolled the ball back to his left and tried to feint a pass to his left for his overlapping right-back, but I was right there in front of him, blocking him. He had no choice but to pass back to his midfielder. I looked back at my defense—an exhausted butcher looked back at me, both hands on his knees, breathing hard, giving me a thumbs-up. The game kept going for another ten minutes. I made eye contact with my mom, who looked at me and pointed to the back of her left hand, signaling that time was up. I threw my left hand in the air toward her, signaling for five more minutes, and she agreed. The game continued. Our midfield passed the ball toward me. I took my time controlling it and then quickly passed it back to the backline, where the butcher kicked the ball forward toward our striker. The striker shielded the ball, made a short pass to his left winger, then sprinted into the back line to receive a return pass and score a nice finish with his left foot. The game went on as usual, and the losing team had to be shirtless as a sign of their defeat. I looked at my mother; she was passing her hands left and right impatiently, which meant I had overstayed my minutes. The shirtless team received a goal kick. I walked over to the butcher and said, "I have to go." He asked, "Right now?" I replied, "Yes." He said, "Alright, it was nice playing with you, man. Good defense back there." I answered, "You're welcome—it's my honor." He said, "I'm Andrew, by the way." I responded, "I'm Jacky, but you can call me Jack for short. Nice meeting you." Then I walked toward my mother, who was standing with her arms crossed, looking furiously at me. Andrew yelled, "Wait a second, guys, we are missing one. Anyone want to take a break to make it fair?" Mohawk Man raised his hand and said, "Maybe I'll bounce as well." "Alright then, until next time," said Andrew. "Until next time," answered Mohawk Man. My mother and I were walking off the field when we heard someone yell, "Yo, hold up a second." I stopped, turned around, and saw Mohawk Man walking toward me. He greeted my mother casually and said, "Nice play back there. I'm Johnny. What's your name?" I answered, "I'm Jacky, but you can call me Jack for short." "I see. Have you been playing here before?" asked Johnny. "No, this is my first time playing," I replied. He laughed and said, "This is my second time playing here. I came to visit my aunt while passing by. I saw those guys playing, so I decided to ask for the opportunity to play with them the next day. Since they had full squads, Andrew told me to come back the next day if I wanted to play, so I did. It was fun, not gonna lie." I answered, "Yeah, it was!" "You saw?" he asked. "Yeah, I was watching," I said. He thought for a second and asked, "Do you play for any academy?" I looked at him and said, "No, I don't think we can afford that." He dropped his head and answered, "Oh, I see. Sorry to hear that." "If you ever want to play for any academy, I'd love to have you at mine. It's not that expensive, I think, and the coaches there have helped me improve a lot." "What's the name of the academy?" I asked. He held his chin up and answered, "The Black Eagles Academy." Then he said, "I'm heading this way. It was nice talking to you, Jack. Until next time." He waved goodbye to my mother. As he walked away, my mother looked forward and asked, "Do you want to attend a tryout for the academy?"
