Franco kicked the orange ball as hard as he could against the brick wall. It bounced right back and bonked him on the nose. Ouch! He wiped his nose, saw the red mark in the grass, and kicked it again.
The ball hit him right on the nose. He blinked, rubbed it, and saw the red mark. A grin tugged at his lips. He did not cry. He kicked it again, harder this time.
He set two navy backpacks apart as goalposts on the empty field. Dribbling past them, he shot—swish! The ball nested perfectly between the zippers. He pumped his fist. Then a breeze swept the backpacks together, ruining everything.
Next he lined up water bottles in a zigzag. Tap-tap-tap went the ball through the gap. One bottle wobbled and fell, blocking his path. Franco groaned, picked it up, and set it straighter.
He set the bottle straight again. Tap-tap-tap. The ball weaved through cleanly. He nodded to himself. Practice was slow, but every touch made him better.
At the neighborhood game, a defender twice his size stepped forward. Franco remembered his drills. He feinted left, dropped his shoulder, and slid the ball between the defender's spread legs.
The net rippled. Goal! Franco's fist shot up into the air. A collective gasp rose from the sidelines. He did not hear it over the ringing in his ears. He had done it.
Franco walked home with mud crusted on his boots. The ball was tucked under his arm. He glanced up at the sky, now painted in streaks of orange and purple. Dusk had arrived.
He paused at the corner and looked at the fading light. One more drill. He rolled the ball up with his heel, caught it, and rolled it back down. Again. And again.
The sky deepened to violet. Franco's boots left muddy prints on the pavement. He practiced one last dribble with his heel, then picked up the ball and headed inside. Tomorrow, he would do it all again.