Lucas Merolla kicks the soccer ball against the chain-link fence, counting each bounce. One, two, three, four — he loves the rhythm of it. The neighborhood field stretches wide and green around him, all open sky and familiar smells.
A car window rolls down beside the fence. "You'll never be good enough!" a voice calls out. The ball hits a crack in the ground and rolls toward the street. Lucas jogs after it, picks it up with both hands, wipes his palms on his shorts, and walks back to the fence — smiling.
He lines up five empty soda cans in a row and calls it a goal. Kick after kick, the ball sails past the cans and thuds against the backstop. He doesn't stop. "Again," he tells himself.
The ball sails past the cans again. Thud. He frowns, kicks a pebble across the grass, and looks up. The banner snaps loudly in the wind above the goal. He squints against the sun, sets his jaw, and lines up his next shot.
The neighborhood tournament is here. Lucas steps onto the field in his dark blue uniform, and the coach points to the back line. "Defense," the coach says. Lucas nods and takes his place, eyes fixed on the other team.
The opposing striker breaks through — fast, low, and close. Lucas chases, but the striker feints left and shoots. He dives, but the ball slips past his outstretched hand and into the net. His shoulders drop.
The striker comes again. Lucas recovers, slides across the grass, and — whack! — blocks the shot with his knee. But a stray dog from the fence line leaps onto the field and tackles his legs. They both go down in a tangle of arms and paws.
Lucas laughs — a real loud laugh — and rolls onto his back. The dog pants beside him, tail wagging. For a second, nobody moves. Then Lucas kicks the ball toward midfield, and the crowd erupts.
The ball rolls toward midfield. A teammate controls it, and the crowd cheers — loud and wild. Lucas gets to his feet, dusting grass from his knees, and the stray dog trots back toward the fence with its tail still going.
After the game, the field goes quiet. Lucas stands alone near the goal, the red banner still snapping above him. He kicks the ball once — soft, gentle — and it rolls back to his foot. He does it again.
Kick. Roll. Kick. Roll. The rhythm feels exactly the same as this morning, only better. He knows something now that he didn't know when he was counting bounces alone. He is the best defender in the world.
He keeps smiling as he kicks the ball, over and over, feeling the grass beneath his boots and the sun on his face. The banner snaps above the goal. He doesn't need anyone to tell him who he is.