Victor Stone had resigned himself to the fact that he was completely alone in the world. He had comrades, but they were completely organic. He had people he'd consider calling 'friend', but they were organic as well. They had secret identities. They...
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Some people thought that football was a matter of life and death. Victor had never liked that attitude. He would always assure them that it was much more serious than that. It was all that kept the world from crumbling beneath them. In a world of pain and disappointment, sport was the only relief; the only thing that remained constant.
Similarly, there was no feeling more haunting than standing the middle of an empty field and listening. There was nothing less empty than an empty stadium. There was nothing less mute than stands bereft of spectators. Over the years, Victor had discovered that each stadium held their own phantoms. Ghosts of games long past.
At Wembley, shouts from the 1966 World Cup, which England won, still resounded, and if he listened very closely he could hear groans from 1953 when England fell to the Hungarians. Montevideo's Centenario Stadium sighed with nostalgia for the glory days of Uruguayan soccer. Maracanã was still crying over Brazil's 1950 World Cup defeat. At Bombonera in Buenos Aires, drums boomed from half a century ago. From the depths of Azteca Stadium, he could hear the ceremonial chants of the ancient Mexican ball game. The concrete terraces of Camp Nou in Barcelona spoke Catalan, and the stands of San Mamés in Bilbao talked in Basque. But none of these could compare to the spectre's swirling around his old high school football field.
The process of preparing for the football season began during the off-season program, when players spent countless hours together and became heavily invested in the sport before the games even started. It continued during these weekly meetings, when players stood and delivered heartfelt testimonials. Victor was of the firm belief that unless you're willing to stand in front of your teammates and bare your soul, then you shouldn't be part of the sport. No one could play unless they were willing to cry for each victory.
After years of playing football, and years of training, the crowd of cheering supporters was always a much needed boost to morale...but that jolt to the system was always snatched cruelly away whenever the young Victor Stone would search through the crowd and find that his father wasn't there. He was never there.
After a particularly important game with a crowd full of college sponsors, of which Victor's team had risen victorious, the eighteen year-old had driven to S.T.A.R Labs to confront his father. He knew that it would ultimately amount to nothing though - Silas Stone had never cared about his son's ambitions, only his own. Victor often felt like his father was disappointed that he hadn't pursued a career in science instead of sport, Silas always denied it, but he was a terrible liar.
"I got a ton of college offers after the game." Victor had called out to his father and mother, who were both in the middle of a scientific breakthrough. The room was fairly empty, primarily due to the danger their research presented. In the middle of the room was a box-shaped object illuminating a greenish glow. It looked unstable, but Silas continued prodding at it anyway. He didn't turn at the sound of his son's voice, he simply continued with his research. "Oh, and we won the game. Not that you care."
