The match was fierce and physical. "There is no way in hell this is just a friendly match." I just witnessed a human being disablement after that terrible sliding tackle.
It was Sunday morning, and the field was still wet from the heavy rain last night. On weekends, and sometimes during weekdays, the young adults in my neighborhood usually play soccer from 8 am till 11 am, with 8 players versus 8 players, including a reserve team. New games start after 3-0; the losing team must leave the pitch, and the reserve team gets to play next. Sometimes, some boys have to work during the week, and they play 11 v 11, with anyone wanting to join able to ask to substitute. My name is Jacky. I just turned 14 two weeks ago, and I'm not allowed to play with the big boys. My mother forbids it. She's terrified of me getting hurt. She claims my growth spurt hasn't kicked in yet, and my physical standards haven't met the requirements to join those games. To be honest, she's right. Every game on this field feels like a World Cup final. The level of intensity those guys play with can only be described as very competitive. What's taking so long? It's 8:35 am, and their game hasn't started yet. Are they missing players? Is the ball lost again? Two weeks ago, this new guy, who played for the first time, kicked the ball so hard it flew into the neighbor's garden and was never found. That's not all; I just saw the ball going around in long passes. Then what the hell is going on? "Sorry for being late, guys. I'm here," shouted some random guy I've never seen before. Who the hell is this clown? To describe him, he's about 5"8", roughly 130 lbs, with a brown-tipped mohawk. That makes it ten, right? Yell that strong-built guy who usually plays as the left center back. We call him the butcher. He earned his nickname. He's the type of player who takes joy in letting strikers hope they have a chance to win a 1-v-1 sprint after a dribble, only to be caught out of nowhere by one of the most vicious, clean sliding tackles you'll ever see, ending your day. Alright, I think they're ready to start now. The two teams are identifiable as dark vs. white shirts. Whichever team scores first, the losing team has to play the rest of the match shirtless. It seems like the clown, aka Mohawk Clown, plays for the white team. He was assigned the LW (left wing) position. The butcher is playing for the dark team as the LCB (left center back). Another victim for the butcher—you know he likes his fresh meat. Get it? Fresh meat for the butcher. Dammit, maybe one day I'll be able to play with those guys and show off my skills and passing accuracy. Yeah, I've never played with anyone before; I don't know about that. My only opponent has been my little sister Mika, who's mostly a goalkeeper because she always wants to grab the ball with her hands mid-game. Dammit, I really hope I could play with those guys, have fun, and test myself. The game started thirty minutes ago. The white team has the ball in the middle of the field. They are managing a couple of easy one-touch passes from the midfield to the back line. The black team is playing a high line, with the butcher covering the defense as the sole defender. The LB (left-back) from the white team makes an excellent left-footed curved pass to the clown, who controls the ball flawlessly with his left foot and bursts down the left side on a counterattack. The black team's defense gets caught in a surprise counter, the high line pressuring risky but falling for it. "Dammit," Mohawk man is actually agile and fast—I never thought he had it in him. As he runs past the LB of the black team, I come face-to-face, 1v1, Elmano v. Elmano against the butcher, who was quick enough to anticipate the run and cover the left side as the only defender. Mohawk man looks the butcher in the eyes, rolls the ball on his right, pretends to make a run on the edge of the box, then controls the ball back on his left, successfully feinting the butcher, who falls for the feint and opens up the ball on his right foot to blast a beautiful curved shot to the far post, opening the score 1-0 for the black team. It was nothing more than a classy finish. There's no way he just won a 1-v-1 against the butcher to score this beautiful goal. Who is this guy? Where did he come from? After the goal, Mohawk man didn't celebrate; he was focused and ready to press forward as the white team reset the match. A long pass from the white team's RB (right back) to the LB creates an opening for a shot-pass to the middle of the field. The shirtless striker drops into the middle to enforce the pass, receives a short pass, and then passes to the RW (right wing) who tries a through ball back to the striker. Unfortunately, the pass is intercepted by the pressure from the black team's defense, which easily reads the pass, steals the ball, and passes to the black team's GK (goalkeeper). The goalkeeper decides to pass back to his right to his RB, who then passes to his CDM (central defensive midfielder). He makes a long ball pass to his LW (left wing), who is none other than Mohawk man. He calmly puts the ball down and reads the field like a hawk, looking for prey, trying to decide what to do next. He keeps it short and passes it back to the upcoming LB on his side, who tries to make an overlapping run behind him. What is happening? This guy is legit. It's like he knows what everyone is thinking. He's calm, confident, and fast. I wonder how old he is. Where did he come from? Is he a pro player in disguise? Or maybe he's just that talented. The match continues. As I turn around, I hear a voice screaming in my direction, "Jacky, what did I say about coming here by yourself?" Nothing, Mom. I'm just watching. I mean, it's not like you'll let me play; all I can do is watch. Maybe if Dad was around, he would let me play. My mother looks at me with a sad, caring expression and says, "It's not like I don't want you to play, Jack. I'm just scared of you getting hurt." Every mother on earth wants what's best for her kids. It's not easy, you know. Yeah, Ma, I know, but at some point, I have to try. If it's not safe, I'll stop. OK, Jack," she says. "Maybe next time I'll allow you the opportunity to play for ten minutes." Only ten minutes? I ask. She looks at me dead in the eye and says, "What's it to you?" Don't make me drop it to five. OK, Mom, OK, ten minutes is enough," I scream. The game ends with the black team winning 2-0. As everyone wishes each other a good game with handshakes, I hear the butcher, in his deep voice, ask the Mohawk man, "What's your name, man?" He looks at him with a serious face and answers, "Johnny. You can call me Johnny."