"Saeed, Ahmed.... Nofil.........", our school's football coach announced the names of kids who were going to play for our High School's team in National Football competition. I was waiting anxiously, for my name to be called out. With every name he spoke, my heartbeat raced.
"And Majawer, you're in team boys."
"For rest of you, you'll be towel boys.", the coach ended and walked to me. He put his hands around my shoulder.
"Better luck next time, son."
I didn't know what to do. For three months, I was practicing endlessly to get that place. It was inevitable that I was going to get place in the team, that's what everyone thought, even the kids who hated me. I knew the coach hated me but I never knew he could go so far.
I sobbed as I walked back to home. My mum was always really quick, yet accurate to judge my mood.
"You still got two years in High School. You can do it next year, honey.", she consoled me.
At night, while trying to sleep, I wondered if I should tell the Principal that the coach didn't do selection on merit. But it was mean because this could lead to the disqualification of our team. That was certainly not what I intended to do.
Next day, I had to sit next to sweaty towels in the gym. I would have to sort those sweaty towels and take them to laundry. The other kids practiced, while I watched disappointedly. I could feel the heat in myself. Heat, lit from hatred, for my coach and the boys who would slam those dirty towels on my face. But I didn't say anything. Mum used to tell me how much patient Dad always used to be. Whenever Mum had a row with Dad, he would back out, letting Mum win. Dad's no more, so to be like him was the motto of my life.
I was not part of the team, but it didn't mean that I should stop practicing. I used to go to a park after school, everyday. Few other kids from neighbor used to join me. I would practise for several hours until Mum used come herself at the pitch to take me back to home. So I spend my afternoon in awful smell of sweat, in school gym and evenings in the park, where I could smell my sweat. I was patient all the time. By the time I used to go to my bed at night, my whole body would be terribly exhausted, my every inch aching.
After an awful month came the day when the tournament was commenced. Our team used to win every match. But as they moved on the competition got harder and harder. I would sit at the bleachers, shouting for my team. Somewhere in my heart I would ponder upon how I deserved to be at the pitch and not these bleachers. I continued my practice. Even if the match was in the evening, I would practice after the dawn or at night.
It was the last match of the tournament and our team has successfully made up to the final.
"Boys! You can do it!", the coach shouted. The boys would shout back. "Be quick while getting the towels. Okay!", he asserted, looking at me.
I nodded. The match began. It was really thrilling; I could feel myself into the game. By the end of the halftime, none of teams scored any goal. After fifteen minutes, the play was resumed. The two teams played tirelessly. But none of them could score a goal. When there were twenty minutes left for the play to end, everyone could guess, it was going to be a tie. The two teams were supposedly going to share the title. Players from each team were putting their every inch to make that ball reach the net, but all their attempts were in vain.
"Aaaaah!", Majawer shrieked as he slammed onto the ground. Play was stopped for five minutes. The stadium was engulfed in pin-drop silence. Conversation between coach and Majawer could be heard from where I was sitting. Other boys helped Majawer to get up and brought him to bleachers, where I was sitting. Coach followed them.
"Majawer can't play.", coach said, his voice quivered.
"Hassan, you're in."
I looked at him vaguely. Now, at the moment when only few minutes were left for the whole of tournament to end, I was back in team.
"Let's get back to field. Hurry up." I along with other kids headed towards the pitch. I was tensed and afraid. But then I remembered how I have to be patient, like Dad. I could hear my name being announced. I looked at my Mum, who was among spectators, she was smiling. I took a deep breath and jogged.
The game resumed and the ultimate battle started once again. I could hear my heart beating but I took on my nerves and chased the ball. I was really fast. Then there was the moment when I had the ball and right in front of me was the net, our net. I kicked convulsively. The ball hurled through the air, dodging through the arms of goalie.
"And it's a goal", the commentator cried. Followed it, was a long moment of celebration from the crowd. My teammates tapped my shoulder, some climbed over me. After five minutes of brief play, the referee blew the whistle and the game had officially ended. We had won. I also won. A place in team. I wished Dad was alive, so he could see I was patient than ever.
