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The game of 87 and flying with childhood dreams
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Chapter three
Third person view
May 28, 1987
The famous Quidditch pitch was filled with thousands and thousands of crazy fans, shouting back and forth the names of their favorite players. They hung on the railing in time to see Emily Homam performing the Hawkshead attack formation in graceful and spectacular movements. A boy of around eight years old, wore the Lunar Lynxes women's team sweatshirt, with the name 'Homam' and the number five. His brown hair was tossed aside by the wind in the honor box as he lazily leaned on the railing to visualize the game more accurately. Stacy, her mother's assistant, chattered beside her to herself as she checked the schedule.
"At eight there's the photo shoot...then the interview...you need to go to Brazil...then there's the...ah, Isaac, I'll go get some snacks, do you want anything?"
"No thanks." The boy replied while resting his chin on the railing.
As Stacy left, Isaac's gaze returned to his mother. She caught the quaffle...Oh, it narrowly dodged a goal scorer from the rival team; he did another one of his spectacular spins - sometimes Isaac didn't know if it was Quidditch or ballet. He looked away for a few moments to observe the place around him; Growing up in Quidditch stadiums had its advantages and disadvantages.
He could visit the players' tent, get free snacks, he could have the best seats, access to more restrictive places, among others. The disadvantages were: moving from one place to another very quickly and the very annoying amount of eyes around you. Sometimes he couldn't even sit upright without someone pointing at him and wanting to talk. He didn't blame them, but it was...suffocating. Everyone used to say that he was mature for his age, but he knew very well why he was so mature at eight years old.
When his mother's team scored about twenty points, he lifted his head to celebrate as a sudden feeling of fear surrounded him, as if tying him with the tightest ropes in the world. His eyes widened and his hands gripped the iron railing tightly. What the hell was going on? He flinched as his throat closed, his fists began to open and close as his leg began to shake. He looked around as a huge urge to cry filled him. Nobody seemed to notice, they were too focused on the game for that.
His heartbeat sped up so much that Isaac swore anyone hated seeing his heart skip a beat from two hundred meters away. He felt nauseous, he put his hand over his mouth to avoid vomiting, but his fingers felt numb, as did his feet. He didn't know what it was, he just knew he was scared, very scared. He leaned against the railing and buried his face in his arms, beginning to sob. It was as if he was about to die, just like that.
He tried to feign calm when a sharp tug on his arm removed him from the railing, but his appearance gave him away. Stacy was kneeling in front of him, the cauldron cakes (which she knew he loved) were abandoned on one of the seats. An expression of concern filled the woman's face, her hands remained firm on the boy's shoulders.
