It Was All About You

Her - 3

My incredible mother decided that it was a great idea to sign me up for a twice-a-week football club without my consent, despite my obvious unease to fit into any social space. Not only was I an outcast in school due to my lack of social skills, but now I'd be forbidden from touching the ball during practice games. My legs were long. I was fast and I had good reaction times so I was most suitable to be a goalkeeper, but the club already existed for years and the designated keeper that they had was better than me by light years – even if he wasn't, he would have still been the gatekeeper of our net because it was his preferred place on the pitch and our coach always prioritized him due to their close relationship. They were family.

I was envious and desperately wanted to stand between the posts. I spent over half my life sitting behind a screen of pixels projecting hypnotizing light at my somehow-undamaged retinal components and had virtually zero ability to use anything below my torso. The several gold medals and trophies I earned solely with my hands while playing for a Latvian youth team would be enough to convince him to at least put me as a substitute for the main goalie, right? That would have been the best outcome for me considering I didn't even want to be a part of that stupid club to begin with, mum. But no. They had a small collection of players – let me remind you that the club existed for years – and they "urgently needed me to protect our net with all I've got".

Great. Not only was I going to linger in the club every week right after a six-hour-long Friday pretending to learn things I was never interested in, but I also won't be able to spend time with any of my some-old and soon-new friends for half the weekend. I mean sure, I could have stayed outside and invited them somewhere to hang out after my practice but my energy was minúte and who else would want to overdraft their power and do anything requiring effort. For an average human two hours of casual sport may not be a lot, but for me, it was a hardship.

I put with it for however long I had to. Eventually, I was awarded my own kit with a number of my choice, the blessed number ten, and I played games across the city. Sometimes even out of the city. And to an extent, I was eventually proud of being a part of it when I executed a goal-line save in exchange for studs puncturing my face (don't ask me how, but it was legen-waitforit-dary). And when I scored a long-ranged goal as a defender, dominating the opposition with eighteen goals to null. And when some of my neighborhood friends joined after begging them for weeks, participating in wins and losses and draws was worth it including the times when we played in subzero degree weather on an outdoor snow-covered cage against a team of seven foot, bulky mammoths.

Hatred was the only thing directed at my mum every time she forced me to pack my uniform and leaking, reused water bottles and I was in the wrong for that. Admitting I was wrong was my biggest weakness and it made me a fragile child. I thought I hated these tendencies to enjoy something new as much as I thought I hated my mum, so this fact that I refused to accept was kept secret from her.

At that point, the girl and I began making small talk because her little companion always jumped in the shit talk that I and the Mexican discussed. He asked our names, he asked how our day was - even though it was half past six in the morning - and he tried to swiftly exclaim something demeaning about her while she chased him, trying to wrap her tiny arm around his not-so-smart head from behind and plant her palm over his mouth to shut him up. She thought it was humiliating but I and the Mexican just laughed at him, spectating the beat down he caught by a girl less his size. We cheered her on, and she slowly began to treat it as a comedy show. She cackled while pretending to suffocate him by taking off her blazer and using it as a rope around his neck. I thought it was adorable – not the abuse; the effort to make us laugh. The tiny smurf being hurt didn't feel hot or cold. He tried to tell us her secrets and he deserved every ounce of pain and humiliation he got, and more rightfully, from her.