You see them.
Or rather, you see it.

Freedom.

Pairs of legs, tearing across the field like a dog is chasing them.
Hair blowing in the breeze.
The need for a water break actively developing.

And then there’s you.

Playing goalie.

You sit cross-legged in the grass and start weaving a small dandelion crown.

In your free time — and there’s plenty of it — you wonder how this happened.

What made them look at you and say,
“Yeah, Johnny — he seems like the kind of guy who shouldn’t move around too much.
Let’s stick him in a box and hope he doesn’t hurt himself.”

Was it the asthma?
The gentle trot you call running?
Or the time you kicked a ball and it somehow hit your own head?

A bee drifts past your face.
You swat.
You miss.

And are reminded why you’re stuck in the box before returning to your crown.

Such is the life of a goalie.

When all of a sudden — BAM.
A soccer ball smashes into your face in the same way an unexpected bill hits your checking account:
Sudden.
Violent.
And without apology.

Tim, the team captain, jogs over.

His hair: sweaty.
His jersey: filthy.
His mouth: dry as toast.

“Hey man,” he says, between gasps. “Hell of a stop.”

His hands fall to his knees, panting.

“You… you wanna play forward?”

Your face is turning a shade of red you never knew existed, and the pain is throbbing through your skin.

But what hurts the most is your crown.

It’s shredded in half, a repercussion of the shot.

You frown.

“Nah.”

Tim throws his hands on his hips and looks like you just told him his handwriting was bad.

“You sure?”

You pick up the crown, toss it onto the pile with the other rejects, and start anew.

“Yeah man. You guys have fun. I’m playing goalie.”

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