The young soccer player stood at the fence, watching. A player dribbled past three defenders in one smooth move. The crowd roared.
He stepped onto the field with his scuffed soccer ball. He tried to dribble, but the ball bumped his knee and rolled away. "Again," he panted.
Next he tried kicking — the ball hit the goal post with a loud clang and bounced right off. "Not today," he whispered.
He practiced every day. Day one: the ball rolled sideways. Day two: he tripped. Day three — he kicked it straight into a bush. A sparrow popped its head out and flew away.
The big game arrived. He received the ball at the edge of the field, then sprinted — past one defender, past two — his eyes locked on the goal.
The ball squirted between his legs and rolled toward the sideline. He chased it, lungs burning, and kicked with all his strength.
The ball soared past the goalkeeper and into the net. The crowd erupted.
He jogged back to the center of the field, one hand on his hip, a wide grin on his face. The scuffed ball sat at his feet, waiting. He tapped it once, twice, and started dribbling again.