Gael tapped the scuffed soccer ball against the painted center line. He looked up at the chain-link fence, where his own drawing peeked through — a boy in a giant champion's medal, tongue out, eyes wide with pride. He set his jaw, planted his left foot, and swung.
The ball bounced backward, away from the cone he'd set up as a goal, and rolled straight into the thick weeds. Gael watched it disappear. Then he walked over, picked it up, and set it back down on the grass.
He chased the ball to the far corner, where it had bounced past the crack in the penalty box line. He retrieved it and tried again — his foot connected this time, but the ball shot sideways and bonked a rusted hubcap lying near the fence. The hubcap rattled away with a tinny clatter.
He waited for someone to laugh. No one came. The field was empty. Gael kicked the hubcap gently back toward the goal, and it rolled until it stopped just short of the crack where the penalty line faded into the dirt.
Gael lined the ball up on the crack. He planted his foot and swung. This time the wind caught him like a gentle push, lifting the ball into a wobbly arc that dipped down and landed with a soft pop right against the side of the plastic cone.
He dropped to his knees and stared at the cone. Then he looked back at the fence, at the drawing of the medal, and something in his chest seemed to shift. He stood up and wiped the grass off his shorts.
The fourth attempt started the same — he planted his foot, swung, and the ball lifted into the air. But the wind swirled again, curving the ball in a wide looping path. It dipped just over the crack and thudded into the exact corner of the net he always aimed for.
Gael froze, then scooped the ball up and pressed his forehead against the dusty leather. He stayed like that for a long moment, breathing in the smell of sun-warmed grass and old dirt, until the ball stopped rolling beneath his hands.
He pulled back and looked at the ball, really looked at it — the scuffs, the dirt, the way the panels had gone soft from so many kicks. He nodded to himself, like the ball had told him something he already knew.
He set the ball down on the center spot and tried once more. His foot connected, but the ball skimmed low and rolled straight into the weeds again. Gael exhaled through his nose, picked up the ball, and walked back to the center line without waiting.
He walked back to the center spot, set the ball down, and tapped it twice against the ground. The medal drawing caught the last golden light behind him. Gael planted his foot and swung — hard.
Sunlight slipped gold between the fence links as Gael placed the ball back on the center spot and drew a fresh line in the dirt with his cleat. He tapped the ball twice and lined up for another kick, the medal drawing catching the light behind him.