"Simba, you're up!"
Grudgingly, I dragged myself from the shadows of the onlookers into the spotlight. I walked towards the penalty spot as my boots rubbed against the familiar mix of turf and mud and the smell of freshly overturned grass. Then, the crowd, which was so full of their jeers and boos…
Went silent.
At that moment, five hundred pairs of eyes scrutinized me, and I stared blankly at the ball and then at the goal. All my peripheral vision faded into darkness so that it was me—only me—resting in my headspace.
"Composure." I heard my friend whisper.
I took a deep breath, ran slowly…slowly…towards the ball, and kicked.
In my school, the boys and I look forward to only two things when we return from summer break: the Christmas holiday and the start of the football competition.
For this tournament, the hundred boys in my year are split into four teams: the Yellow team, the Green team, the Orange team, and last, the Purple team of my team. This year, the boys and I were searching for revenge. Having placed third and fourth in previous tournaments, winning is a necessity.
Amidst the beat of the boombox and the crowd of eager onlookers, we hosted the Greens on the rough turf. Losing on the same turf to the same team last year, we devised a game plan. It was decided that I would hound their best player for the whole match. Thus, the time came, and the referee blew his whistle. I stuck to the plan, and as soon as their player had the ball, I was on him, quick as a flash…and again; then a tackle and the crowd roared in approval. Luckily, that created an opening and a goal. With forward momentum, we pushed for another; the supporters went wild as our star center-back struck a smooth, tantalizing curler into the net – we were in the finals for the first time.
Nevertheless, winning the first match was only the mound before the mountain, and the opposition team's dazzling orange colors were up the opposite end of this steep climb.
Whistle. Start!
Back and forth, the sturdy defense cut off the ebb and flow of attacking play between both teams. Until…it was the end, only a penalty shootout held the final judgment.
The air dripped with tension. The drum beat slowed. The quick shot of a Purple boy is 1:0, but then, 1:1. Back and forth, both teams struggling and striving, matching one another.
Soon, it was my turn, and the crowd hushed for me, the air thick with unspoken realities. I sized up the ball and struck it hard.
It rose – rising – and soared over the crossbar: no goal.
With my head hanging and my brow sweating, I retook my spot in the crowd, my face burning red. Comforting words were said, but I brushed them aside.
"I just hope the team wins," I whispered as Orange missed their next shot.
Then, from the dots of people that formed the semi-circle, a Purple boy stepped up for the kick. The air was silent again, but this time, with hope. Slowly, he encircled the ball, and the crowd's eyes surrounded him.
The whistle blew.
At that moment, it was just him, the ball, and the goal, a perfect arc of beautiful coexistence as the net ricocheted with the ultimate impact.
We won.
Simultaneously, the boys rushed to embrace him, and thus, we were all united in one large circle – one big family. Yelling and screaming are what coming back to school and, of course, winning means to me.