It was one of those days – days on which he hated football. Okay that did not come out right. He did not hate the game, he hated his inability to be good at it.
It didn’t make sense. When he didn’t care about the opinion of others, he was good at it. Like really good. The type of good where you can go through the entire week just cherishing those memories you made during one football game. That alone would fuel him to the next weekend. It was never one feeling, it was a bunch of a them
- That perfect 1-2
- That perfect low ground cross
- That perfect dribble
- That perfect long range shot right in the corner of the goal
- That perfect chip
But when it didn’t, it didn’t. On the sucky days – usually everything goes wrong. On those days he subconsciously placed himself on parts of the pitch where he would be least likely to receive the ball, why? Because he didn’t want to make any mistakes. Not to mention the jeering from the substitutes. If only he could block out who to hear and who not to. The problem was – no matter where you would go, you are bound to receive the ball after each minute. That is the beauty of 5 a side futsal.
Maybe he was arrogant. Like not him, this other self, the one that came out before every match. Judging people based on their pre-match routines & telling him, its a-okay. You got this. These guys having nothing on you. You will school them like no problem but only one failed shot or one wrong remark or even a failed pass, all that confidence and self-esteem would come tumbling down & the self who had placed it would disappear only to be replaced by his usual self. The one that self doubted each and every action of him.
Load Shedding Diaries 