GENRE: YA Contemporary
I can’t believe she brought him here.
I noticed him standing next to her right before kickoff. The smug asshole who stole my mother away from my father. During a free kick a few minutes ago, I pointed him out to Kevin. We’ve been dominating this game, but I’ve been terrible at finishing these chances we’re creating. I have one job on this team: score goals. I’ve already hit the post, the crossbar, and skied a sitter. It’s their damn fault.
The ball gets passed to my feet from Desmond and I feel their defensive midfielder lean into my back. I chip the ball out to Kevin and try to turn towards the goal. Kev passes it to Cody who keeps it moving quickly to Spencer who has made a run forward. We’re definitely dominating if he’s coming out of the defensive line to help break down their lines. I catch his gaze and point to where I want the ball. If I meet it there, I can play in Pete for a shot. Soccer is nothing is not an artistic game of angles and force.
Most people don’t consider athletes artists. But the only time I’m close to being an artist is with a soccer ball at my feet. When I’m not-quite-dancing, but weaving, sprinting, almost-flying beneath bright stadium lights like fingers across a fretboard. That’s art I understand. Sure, they appreciate the all-time greats: Jordan, Serena, Messi. They’ll always get recognized as master artists, pillars of perfection.