The sky is ominous with clouds today. Usually they are soft and
dreamlike, but today they are dull and suffocating. They cover
everything, draining it, and there is only gray.
The sky is stuck, but the field is teeming with motion. Players stream
by, sprinting, sweating, struggling. I am one of them, yet I am not at
ease as they are. I can't seem to find my footing. The ground is grooved
and rigid and my foot never seems to fit it right. My nerves are tighter
than the dirt that I stumble along.
I can't screw up.
Can't screw up.
I have to do good now. It's my only chance.
The ball is in my possession. I've got to do something with it, something
spectacular. I've got to score. I've got to show them that I'm good
enough. The ball is at my feet and I have control. I take it down
towards the goal, but a defender confronts me. I try to make a fake, but
I fool no one. She tears the ball from me, and I stumble. I fall into
the dirt and I don't want to get up again. I want the dirt to engulf me,
to cover and erase me. I wish to wallow in my defeat for an eternity, but
I only stay down for a fraction of a second. A few minutes later a
whistle is blown. Players are being called off the field to be replaced
by others. I hold my breath and wince as I hear my name being called to
leave. Dejectedly I take my seat on the bench.
"You've just got to gain a few pounds," Coach says. "What are you, like 90
pounds now?"
"108 pounds," I say staunchly.
"Well all you need is to gain some weight. Just gain 20 pounds.
That's all you need. Just gain some weight and you'll be great," he says.
There's no way I can beef up that much, and I don't. I sit on the
bench.
I sit on the bench and wait for a chance.
And I wait.
And I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I'm going insane sitting on this bench. I feel like quitting. Why should
I put up with this kind of abuse? I'm tired of sitting on this goddamn
bench; if I wanted to be a spectator, I would be at home watching
television. All I want is some recognition. I didn't put in all this
time and dedication and practice to sit on my ass. I want to storm off
the field. I feel like throwing down my jersey and hurling my cleats into
their faces as I storm off in a cloud of fury. See how they like that.
"You've just got to keep trying," Dad says.
"But I am. And it's not working," I reply.
"Just be patient. Things will work out in time. Don't worry," he
responds.
So I try. I try not to care about the unfairness of the world. I just
play. I appreciate the time given to me and try to do the most I can with
it. My nerves start to calm and the game becomes more natural to me.
It's a new game, a new day. Today the clouds are dark, but no longer
suffocating. It starts to rain.
Drip Drip Drip Drop. Drip Drop.
The rain bounces off me and it pours harder. The rain is cool and
refreshing, a soft hand that comforts me. The rain drops on me and I feel
clean and refreshed. I feel right again. The dust turns to mud. It is
smooth and squishy. My feet slide into it comfortably and it is good. A
whistle blows, signaling substitutes once again. I hardly notice; it's
outcome matters not to me. I look up and feel the rain trick down my face
and behind the clouds I can see the sun starting to peek out.
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