After three games of relentless, back-and-forth trash-talking, I finally worked this kid over. Shoulder shrug. Fake. Back down. A slightly clumsy mini-stepover. Post-action, I was looking at Messi status—or, honestly, maybe more like Messy status.
Still, I felt incredible afterward, riding a massive high.
"Man, I know I could play in the UAAP," I told myself.
Never mind the fact that I was playing against a mixed bag of weekend warriors who play once a week, and high school kids who probably play more FIFA than actual football. It was a Sunday morning, and all the old heads on the sidelines were egging me on.
"You still got it, fool!" "What are you even doing here?" "UAAP ka nga!"
But deep down, I knew I was just playing around. I couldn't handle the grueling practice schedules anymore. My style of play was always more "work until I pulp" rather than the grand, ballerina-like movements of a natural talent. If I didn't give it absolutely everything—to the point of literal exhaustion—my raw talent alone wasn't enough to warrant a call-up.
I had already told myself it was over. Just forget you ever played, and don't bring it up. If anybody tries to remind you how much you love the game, just brush it off as something you used to be good at a long time ago. Give yourself amnesia. Tell yourself you hate playing, because it makes it so much easier to move on.
My grandmother always used to tell me to have something to fall back on. "You're not going to be able to play forever," she’d say. "You're a good football player, but you're good at other things, too. You could get hurt out there, playing like your life depends on it."
She was right. I’m really not that good. And honestly? I’m perfectly happy plying my trade in these casual afternoon get-togethers.
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