Page 9 of Futbolista

“When I could come to terms with all of that and still love the game anyway is, to me, step one to being open to being great. After hundreds of balls have flown past me, after landing hard on the ground and forcing myself to get back up thousands of times, after broken bones, I still love this sport. I’ve had to learn how to not be afraid of a ball speeding toward me or a cleat getting close to my face because I love it more than I’m scared of any of that.

I’ve thought plenty of times that I’m not good enough, I’m not fast enough, I’m not tall enough, but my love for the game has been stronger than the doubts are loud. ”

“So, somewhere, at some point, a younger you was forced to consider solution versus discovery. You realize this, yes? He took notice of all the ways soccer should only be able to be a hobby to you, but, even more, he discovered a reason to recognize why those aren’t universal, where facts were only actually ever suggestions, and, certainly, not applicable to him. Because of what?”

“Because … love. Because I love playing the game.”

“Exactly. Close it out for us. What did you discover about yourself stepping onto the field?”

“That my love for football isn’t determined by how good I am? I … I’m as good as I am because of the love I’ve got for it. Because I’ve found so much of myself on the pitch. I realized that to give up would be to give up part of myself, and my dreams.”

“That’s deep,” I hear someone behind me say, and I nearly start laughing because, honestly, I don’t even know where that whole explanation came from.

“And it’s exactly what I want from all of you in this class,” Professor Coolidge says, a smile on his face as he finally looks around the room and acknowledges everyone else here.

“I will present one philosopher next week, and the week after you’ll meet another with a completely oppositional perspective.

Neither is, in this room, universal fact, right or wrong.

It’s about what you discover from interacting with both. You getting it now, Gabriel?”

I shrug as I give him an “I guess.”

“Unenthusiastic, but I’ll take it. And my final question before I stop harassing you. Do you know everything about who you are and all those parts of yourself? Right now, sitting in that chair?”

“Uh, sure. Yes. I know who I am.”

“So you’re saying that all the discovering that younger versions of you did accomplished everything there is to find?”

“I … yeah. Sure? I don’t think I’ve got anything else to figure out.”

Professor Coolidge turns around, grabs a marker, and, underneath his question of the day, in even bigger letters, writes DISCOVERY .

“Between now and next class, I want you to put some thought into that question. Everyone here, actually, and where they stand. Because this class is about thinking and discovery, and that might also include some inward discovery. Recognizing that you, Gabriel, as an … eighteen-year-old?”

“Yeah. Turned eighteen in May.”

“As an eighteen-year-old person, living with maybe the largest amount of independence you’ve ever had in your entire life so far, could still discover something new about yourself.

And I want you to make room for that. Be present and include your heart as you consider this.

I can tell that Gabriel here has plenty of that.

I hope my next victim has something of a comparable amount of heart.

Logic’s great, and it’s what I do for a living, but heart is rare.

So listen to it. In those times when your worldview gets vague, heart first. Even if it makes all those certainties you know of yourself feel less solid.

And especially if it makes you realize maybe the answer to ‘Do you know everything about who you are right now?’ isn’t necessarily yes. ”

One thing I do know? I’m done discovering today.

This class should be called Introduction to Hypotheticals That Don’t Matter.

I know who I am. I know that I’ve had the same dream of playing football professionally since I was four.

That the quickest way to my heart is chicken fajita nachos.

That I could watch An Extremely Goofy Movie every day and never get tired of it.

That I have a weakness for girls who know how to dance and have a sassy side.

That I can’t go a day without playing the New York Times sudoku on the hard level.

My life has always sort of felt like simple math equations.

And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.

The amount of time we have to spend figuring ourselves out doesn’t make us any more or less human.

And, as sweat drips down my skin, the South Texas sun beating down on me, the muscles of my legs and arms sore and worn, I do know that, as Professor Coolidge said, I was made to play soc— football .

If his class has immediately become my least favorite part about my Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, this is the opposite of that.

My first week of classes finished, and, as I expected, I did not come out of it not hating Philosophy.

But I will give Coolidge one thing: he was right about this.

Over everything else, while on a pitch, it’s hard to deny that I’m not made to play football.

Two hours since the start of practice and my kit might be covered in sweat, my body in need of an ice bath, but I’m still putting on a face that says I’m as ready as when I stepped onto the pitch.

Taking a quick few minutes on the sideline, I squeeze a bottle close to my open mouth, letting water pour in.

Ahmed pats my back, telling me, “Doing good, keeper,” and P é rez on my other side says, “Keep it up, papi.”

I hand off the bottle and give them both fist bumps before heading back out to the pitch.

When I get back to my post, I give myself a moment to stretch my legs, keeping my body prepared and cleats loose as my eyes laser-focus on Barrera in front of me.

He’s been the only one to get a goal on me today.

And he did it twice. This whole half hour of me blocking goal attempts, one after the other, is fully his and Coach’s way of seeing how far they can push me before I break.

Is all, “If you’re hoping to get that number one spot on anyone’s list, you’re going to have to do better than that, little bro. ”

I’m not hoping. I will be in that number one spot. So, sorry, my guy. I like you and all, but those two balls you got past me were two too many. “You aren’t getting past me three times in one day, Capit á n. Lo prometo.”

He gives me a smirk as he sets himself up for the kick. “We’ll see about that.”

“Don’t make this easy for me, jefe,” I add, giving him a confident smile back. “You’re starting to look tired. Maybe you should ask Coach for a break.” That just gets me a headshake and his middle finger before he starts running toward the ball.

In these seconds, time slows down. I take a deep breath in on one, out on two. His foot meets the ball on three, and in just the first few milliseconds that follow, my brain’s got to decide direction; dive or jump; keep my hands in or stretch out for a block?

And it’s different from being a machine.

From being programmed. It’s know-how. It’s something that comes from doing this wrong hundreds of times.

From hours of drills alone on a field, pushing myself before perfecting my movements to the point that it all becomes instinctual.

My feet are moving before my mind’s giving them permission to, my body following in this trust that every single part of me knows where I need to be.

I push myself up and to the right, jumping for it.

Barrera was going for that corner, trying to trick me with a curve at a steady incline, hoping I’d stay in the center of the post instead of realizing I needed to be up near the top.

Leap on four. Block on five.

The ball hits my gloved fingers, just like I knew it would, and is knocked far to the right.

But I’m not done yet. As soon as I hit the ground with a low oomph , ignoring the blunt pain in my side from the fall, I’m jumping back up, ready to keep guarding.

Because in an actual game, the other team would be ready to get that miss and make another attempt, and the longer I’m down, the more time they have.

Don’t slow down now.

Whatever you do, don’t slow down.

I give myself a moment to shake away the sweat gathered around my eyes, just long enough to get back in position and ready for more, letting the yells of my boys calling out, “There you go, Pi n a!” and “That’s a future El Tri goalkeeper right there!

” amp me up to keep going. I look toward Barrera, that smirk turned into a small smile as he gives me a nod of approval and a “Finally. About time.”

Ass.

Through it all, I smile too, big and with so much adrenaline-induced excitement, as tired as I would feel if I let myself think about it.

Through the perspiration and pain and hoping the sun won’t give me a fucked-up farmer’s tan, it’s happiness I feel here, in front of my goal.

I can recover later. I can go to the beach this weekend and even out the brown of my skin. Nothing’s stopping me now.

Except for spotting a familiar-looking girl walking past the pitch.

I see her out of the corner of my eye and my head turns fast, like I’m hoping the heat isn’t making me see things.

Nope. There Leana is, stopping on the sidewalk when she sees that I spotted her, and she gives me another one of those finger waves.

If I was smiling big before, I know it’s covering a whole half my face now, thinking about—

“Oof,” I groan as a ball comes out of nowhere and hits me straight in the gut. My face scrunches while I hold the ball to my stomach, my knees bending, trying my best to stay up.

Nope. Going down. I can just— I squat, bending my body around the ball, eyes closed, breathing in and out between gritted teeth.

“Flirt later, Pi n a,” Barrera says, and I can hear the evil grin in his voice, happy he got me off my game. Asshole move, but, got to give it to him, nice aim. He steps close to me and gives me a couple hard pats on the shoulder. “Need some water?”

I nod my head before letting out a “Pinche pendejo.”

“You’ve got a whole team trying to make a goal on you right now. Get your dick wet later, yeah?”

“I—yeah.” By the time I look back at where Leana was, she’s gone. I shake my head, sorting out thoughts of where my brain needs to be and shelving the ones involving her for after practice. Priorities, Gabo.

“You still got enough left to keep going?” he asks, looking into my eyes like he’s half actually concerned and half trying to get under my skin, telling me to tell him I’m done. “Don’t tire yourself out too much the day before a game.”

“I’ve got all day , big bro.” I stand back up, throwing the ball to him, and clap my hands, making loud thuds as my gloves meet. “I’m good. And I’ll take that water now.”

He laughs and starts walking toward the benches, motioning for the next guy to try me.

“Come on , ” I yell, feeling the words come up from my gut and roar out of me as I set myself back up at the post. “Bring it, boys!”

Yeah. I was made for this.