When you look back at the son from high school, you associate him to a football player. He understands what it means to play. He was the striker who did back flips after a sweet objective. The player who keeps his shoes untied throughout an entire game and is still somehow the top performer.
Soccer, known as football in many other countries, is a sport in which two teams strive to kick a ball, about the size of a human head, into a objective which is essentially metal poles in the shape of a rectangle with a net attached to the back. Everyone knows this. But there are aspects to the game that only the players know.
The average midfielder in a professional football game operates 7 miles, dropping the bodys entire weight with each step, only to touch the ball a few dozen times per game.
Your coach-and-four tells the team that its impossible to dribble through 3 people, pass the ball. Weighting the ball means gauging how much distance is between you and the person or persons you intend to pass to and how much force-out is needed to execute the pass successfully.
There are tricks around the structure of video games. You can let the ball run across your body, creating a subtle turn, or use the side-line as a defender, or convince the defender you are about to make a massive kick and then simply tap the ball. All of these things work as loopholes and escapes from the overall architecture of the game.
The end result of a game is just a cold, hard number. You either won or you didnt. You either scored or you didnt. None of your special moves, passing, teamwork is woven into the final outcome. The amount you sweat, ran and hurt doesnt matter in the end.
The boy you met when you were fifteen didnt need coaching in sidestepping defense, slipping through yours with ease. He knew how to break you down and construct himself up, all the while playing his game. All he had to say was, What would you do if I kissed you right now? and proceed to score. He weighted his passes stimulating sure to reach you spot on. You recollect him say to you that he expected your boob to be bigger and sensing his frustration when you tell him it was because you had lost weight( you left out that he was the reason) and he told you it is hardly possible for you to have lost that much weight. He also knew his fakes, like when you sat on his lap in the cramped auto, parked in the gas-station to wait out a thunderstorm and he wrap his arms around your waist like a seatbelt and kissed you on the back of the neck. And now the game is over and you are left goalless while his rating outperforms the conceivable.
We Love You, Billy
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