And that's the end of Volume One! This was so much fun to write. Hope you enjoyed the ride.
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The afternoon sun, perched at its 2 PM peak, was a merciless tyrant. It baked the dusty road and glared directly into their eyes. Ryan trudged behind Samir and Bilal, squinting and using his hand as a useless visor.
"Are we going to play football or are we on a pilgrimage to the pyramids?" he groaned, his voice thick with fake exhaustion. "I think I see a sphinx. Are we in Giza? Someone tell my mom I died a historical death."
"It's not that far, man," Samir called over his shoulder, not breaking his stride.
"Not that far?" Ryan gestured dramatically at the shimmering heat haze on the road ahead. "We've passed three different species of cactus. I think we're migrating."
Bilal chuckled. "Next time, we'll tell them there's an elderly man who can't move with us. They'll have to come to our street."
Ryan pointed at Bilal. "See? Solutions. This is why you're the brains of this disappointing operation."
"Stop whining," Samir said, pointing to a distant, shivering shape on the horizon. "See that tree? The pitch is right behind it."
Ryan squinted. "What tree? The ghost of a tree that died of heatstroke? I think I see water, too. It's a whole haunted oasis."
They finally reached the "pitch"—a wide expanse of packed earth and dust, marked by two piles of rocks for goals. Ryan stopped at the edge, put his hands on his hips, and squinted. He started making a low, whistling tune through his teeth—the classic theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.
He turned to the others with mock panic. "Sorry, guys. Big problem. I forgot my revolver at home. How are we supposed to have a proper shootout now?"
Bilal just sighed to the players already waiting. "Just ignore him. If we don't respond, he'll shut up eventually."
Someone from the other team chuckled. "Why don't we just tape his mouth? We just need his legs for the match."
"Those brats," Ryan muttered. Then, louder, he declared, "Sorry, guys. I'm not a scorpion. I'm not built for this heat. My internal organs are starting to boil. I think I'm making tea."
Samir shook his head, a wide grin on his face as he started stretching. "Man, we're African. It's the heat that can't handle us."
"For your information," Ryan shot back, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow, "being African doesn't mean we have to hold our daily meetings at the sun's headquarters to prove it." He gestured around the barren pitch. "You want to prove how tough you are? Try getting a visa with this passport. That's the only proof anyone needs."
"If we don't play now, we can't play at all," Bilal interjected, finally ending the debate. "After four, this pitch is reserved for the older guys. It's this or nothing."
Ryan sighed in defeat and walked onto the dusty patch. He stopped in the center and stomped his foot lightly on the hard, cracked earth. A phantom sensation flashed through him—the memory of perfect, springy turf under his cleats, the roar of a crowd, the cold fear. This isn't a pitch, he thought, the word landing with a dull finality in his mind. This is exile.
The rest of the guys shuffled on, immediately falling into the usual pre-match argument about positions.
"Ryan, you're on the wing," Bilal directed.
"Yeah, sure," Ryan agreed absently. He took two steps, then paused. "Just so we're clear, I'm not tracking back."
A few players stopped and looked at him, confused.
"Huh? Tracking back?"
Ryan waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing. Just so we're on the same page."
The match started in a burst of chaotic energy. Ryan didn't join the rush. He stayed wide, walking more than jogging.
The first time the ball came to his feet, he didn't trap it and run. He killed its momentum with one touch, his head already up, eyes scanning the dusty pitch. He saw Bilal making a lung-busting run. He saw Samir screaming for a through ball.
He ignored them both and played a simple, five-yard sideways pass to his fullback. Safe. Easy. Done.
After the third time he passed backwards instead of taking on his man, a teammate yelled, "Hey Ryan! What's wrong with you? Play your usual way!"
Another voice chimed in, "Yeah, are you sick or something?"
Ryan didn't even look at them. "Nah. It's nothing."
They shrugged and let it go. But a couple of minutes later, after another aimless sideways pass killed a promising attack, the patience ran out.
"Ryan, seriously," the same teammate said, his voice sharp. "If you continue like this, we're replacing you. We're playing with ten men here."
Ryan finally looked at him, a slow, serene smile spreading across his face. "Me? Replaced? Huh."
"You aren't your usual self, man! We used to win with you!"
Ryan's smile widened into genuine relief. "Yeah. Sure. I'd like a replacement. That sounds perfect."
A stunned silence fell over his team. They all just stared, mouths agape.
Before anyone could name a substitute, Ryan was already walking off. He punched the air with a quiet, triumphant fist. "Shit, I'm replaced? Fuck yeah. Finally."
He spotted a larger patch of shade against a nearby wall and beelined for it, not glancing back. He slid down to sit, leaning his head against the warm concrete. The distant shouts and the repetitive thud... thud... of the ball were just noise now. He closed his eyes.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed when the sounds of the game stopped and were replaced by shuffling feet. Ryan opened his eyes. His entire team was standing over him, faces grim and slick with sweat.
He blinked up. "Huh. Did the match finish?"
Bilal crossed his arms, his jaw tight. "No. Just a break. We're down 7-3."
Samir stepped forward, his voice pleading. "Come on, man! We are getting humiliated out there!"
Ryan leaned his head back against the wall. "Nah. 7-3? That's not humiliation, man."
*Try losing 8-0 against prime Barcelona,* he thought, a private smirk touching his lips. You can't even get mad. You just have to sit there, take it, and appreciate the art.
One of the guys kicked at the dirt. "Those fuckers won't let us hear the end of this for a week."
Another groaned. "Yeah, acting like they're Brazil or something."
Ryan closed his eyes again. "Doesn't matter. You win some, you lose some."
From across the pitch, a triumphant voice cut through the air. "Hey! You guys giving up? Should we just call it?"
It was one of the opponents, hands on his hips, a wide, mocking grin on his face. "We can start the victory parade early!"
Bilal nudged Ryan's leg with his foot. "What's the issue, man? For real."
Ryan sighed, not looking at him. "It's the heat. And I'm tired."
And whenever I see that ball, I get morning sickness, he thought, his stomach turning. The sight of it just makes me nauseous.
"Tired?" one of the others scoffed. "You haven't played in ages! How can you be tired?"
Ryan finally looked up, a weary, cynical smile on his face. "Yeah, well, just like 8 hours ago I was playing at the Camp Nou. The travel really takes it out of you."
He said it as a joke. They all laughed, shaking their heads at his absurdity.
If only they knew.
He pushed himself up and brushed the dust from his shorts. "Ok, ok. I wasn't gonna say anything, it's a private matter." He pointed a solemn finger at the football. "But me and the missus... we're fighting. We're in the middle of a cold war."
Actually, I'm in the phase where you start to hate your girlfriend, he thought, the analogy feeling uncomfortably accurate.
"Seriously, man," Samir said, stepping closer. "Just get on the pitch. We'll do all the running. We'll pass you the ball every time. You can do all your tricks, show off, whatever. After that loudmouth," he jerked his head toward the gloating opponent, "they won't be able to say a thing."
Ryan looked at them, a slow, calculating grin spreading across his face. "Ok... but you aren't gonna yell at me for showboating?"
"Never! We promise!"
Ryan held up a finger. "Ok. But beg me some more."
Samir burst out laughing and turned to the others. "Just do it! It's better him than them!"
Ryan jogged back onto the pitch. The moment his feet touched the dust, the dynamic shifted. The next time his team won the ball, three voices shouted, "RYAN! ON YOUR LEFT!" He received the pass, and a chorus of "Yeah, Ryan! Come on!" erupted around him.
Well, he thought, a genuine smile tugging at his lips as he dribbled forward. Even if the pitch is crap, this is a hell of a lot better than boos.
And then, he played.
The ball came to his feet. One touch to control, his head up. He shaped his body to play the safe, obvious square pass. Every defender bought it. Then, in the same fluid motion, he flicked his foot, sending a no-look pass slicing through the defense—a perfect through ball that put Bilal one-on-one with the keeper.
For a second, there was only silence. No one had seen it coming. Then the net rippled. A unified roar of pure disbelief exploded from his team.
They swarmed him, jumping on his back and ruffling his hair. "YEAH! LIKE THIS, MAN! THIS IS IT!"
Fueled by the energy, he became a whirlwind. The next time he got the ball, he threw in a step-over, sold the dummy, and glided past a defender like he wasn't there. He didn't shoot; he laid it off for a simple tap-in, grinning as his teammate slammed it home.
A minute later, he tried an audacious backheel flick that somehow found Samir in space. It wasn't always perfect—a cheeky lob went yards over the bar, and an attempted rabona cross spun hilariously out for a throw-in—but he just laughed at the failures, the sound strange and freeing in his own ears.
The floodgates had opened. Ryan's creativity was contagious. Suddenly, it was a free-for-all. The left-back tried to dribble past three players in his own half, tripped over his own feet, and collapsed in a heap of laughter. The central defender saw the goalkeeper off his line and launched a shot from his own penalty area that sailed wildly into someone's backyard.
The goalkeeper, tired of being a spectator, sprinted out of his box, took the ball on his chest, and dribbled past two stunned opponents before being unceremoniously tackled at the halfway line. The game dissolved into a glorious, rule-less riot, a symphony of shouts and laughter where the score was forgotten and the only goal was to try something magnificent.
Eventually, Ryan collapsed onto the dusty ground, his chest heaving. "What are we at now? 17-10? Feels like we've played four halves."
Samir grinned, plopping down beside him. "We don't stop until some parent comes calling."
The call finally came as the sun began to dip. As everyone started to leave, Ryan lingered. He toed the ball up onto his foot, then his knee, keeping it aloft. He did a slow, lazy 180 turn, the ball obediently following the arc of his movement. He let it drop and caught it under his foot, looking down.
Huh. Suddenly you don't look so ugly, he thought, a slow smile spreading across his face.
I remember now how it is when I'm not absolutely dog shit at this.
And It's not so bad after all.