Fear is a powerful force. It drives the weakest of men into the warmth and safety of comfort, deters hope and the possibility of victory, and crushes those already suffering from defeat. To be afraid is human, however; as natural a force as fear itself. That expectation, though, is not one athletes can afford. To be the best, to overcome fear, humans require more than their body and mind is willing to provide.
Vin fixed his gaze to the ball as it shot through the air. There was nothing special about it, not any particular skill or motion that had guided its path; it had simply been power - the kind of strength required to win. Not the simple act of striking the ball but something else entirely; a kind of force bound itself only to victors.
"Dude," a voice called out. Vin glanced over his shoulder - it was Damien. Sweat covered his brow, trickling down his face as he padded across the field. "What was that?" Vin flexed his shoulders as the ball struck the back of the neck. He smirked at Damien as the whistle blew. "Just a gamble. Something crossed my mind." "Something…crossed your mind? Why would shoot from here?"
Following Damien's gaze, Vin studied the center of the pitch with relative intrigue: it was a fair question. Why had he shot? Arrogance? Was he so confident that he could shoot from anywhere? No, and yet he had. Pure luck, then? Potentially…Vin had scored fortunate goals before, though to strike with such precision and power?
The game continued around Vin as the sound of the whistle blew again, but he didn't move. He studied the pitch and the players, watched as their feet guided the ball and navigated their opposition. There was a beauty to the sport, a kind of kinship between man and the inanimate: pride, he realized. Humans were prideful creatures, and to the best at anything brought bridling exhilaration. It was not something that could be earned through hard work or skill…it had to be taken.
"Vin!" Damien screamed his name as he kicked the ball. It slid across the damp grass and hit Vin's boots with a padded sound. It had been such a simple process, yet he saw only the infinite complications and infinitesimal victories that filled the world.
Only one person could be the best and win it all…anyone else was simply stuck trying.
Turning, Vin nudged the ball to the side and drove power through it. His foot connected, and the ball immediately shot across the sky as unfettered strength shook the air. Vin watched the air crack and distort around his strike, and then he took in the satisfying sound of the net shuffling as his strike shot past the keeper.
There was a motion to victory, a kind of aspect that only he seemed to comprehend. Vin glanced around, just as dismayed as both his teammates and opposition as they stared with narrowed brows and agape jaws. What was it they saw? Him, or the possible victory that loomed on the horizon? It was not their victory…it never would be…what of him? Would Vin see the end of that road…that lone spot at the top of the world.
"Hey." Charles spoke with indifference as he jogged passed Damien. "You shouldn't kick from that spot."
"You're right," Vin mused. He took another glance around the pitch as players jogged back to their positions. "But I can. Can you see it too?"
Charles shot Vin a perturbed expression, his gaze flickering between him and Damien as he moved to the rim of the main-circle. "See what?"
Vin opened his mouth to respond was cut across by the whistle as the referee blew through the plastic. An array of pink and green clashed as both sides focused solely on the ball at the center of the pitch. There were no words, though; no retorts or claims or statements to be made, just an eventual victory to grasp. Did they not see that?
Slowly, Vin entered the game, passing occasionally when the ball found him and striking it whenever the seemingly infinite series of victories revealed themselves to him. He took the ball with terrible efficiency as players tried navigating around him and shot towards victory - not the goal, but wherever becoming the best lay on the pitch. Passing to Charles or Damien seemed an efficient choice at one point, but then cutting through a number of defenders and crossing across the box to Galen seemed a wiser decision.
An aspect of greatness had revealed itself to Vin, and it seemed to shine its brightest as he took the final shot of the game. Minutes could have passed, hours or even days, but nothing could have stopped his shot from finding the back of the net. It seemed a trivial effort scoring one last goal, but then why wouldn't he? There was a strength in crushing the opposition, bitter though it were.
"Strange," Vin said. He glanced around the pitch again as players began to retreat to their school's quarters, eyes tracing the routes his teammates and opposition had taken throughout the game. Motion revealed itself to him, displaying faint, almost unnoticeable outlines of each person as they moved about one another. Vin shook his head and blinked rapidly, though the sensation didn't wane. "Hmm."
He gathered with his team and cheered both in relief and joy at the victory. Strange as it were, it seemed an odd thing to celebrate; they had entered the pitch expecting defeat, yet now stood cheering and laughing as though it were a surprise. What had changed?
"Vin," Galen's familiar voice shouted. It was etched with the same high-pitched tone as Charles, echoing in and out of Vin's ears like the buzzing of an insect. "That's new! You should play like that more often!"
He followed the boy's gaze to the large scoreboard Whiteheart's pitch had installed off to the side. The score displayed 11 - 2 in favor of Ashrun Academy - his academy. The revelation quickly dawned upon Vin as he staggered backwards onto his haunches, a smirk plastered across his face. He laughed as Galen pulled him back to his feet. "I…I don't know. Luck, I think."
"Scoring six goals is hardly luck! If you play anything like that for the tournament, we might just have a chance at making the the provincial cup!"
Vin frowned, eying Galen and the rest of his team as they all moved beside him. They seemed ready to throw him up into the air, but his expression seemed contagious…they all shot him questioning gazes. Vin shook his head and glanced down at the match ball. "Making it isn't enough. We should aim to win it all."
"What…do you mean?" Damien seemed confused. "That's a pretty steep hurdle, dude."
Charles nodded in agreement alongside the rest of the team; even the coach joined in.
Vin shook his head. "We just battered Whiteheart." Muffled confirmations and silent nods were a stark contrast to the large eleven on the scoreboard to their side. Vin pointed at it and turned to the coach. "Sir…what was the score the last time you played them?"
"Four-nil to Whiteheart, but that was last year. You lot are much better this time around." Coach Gath nodded enthusiastically, seemingly having followed Vin's meaning, and gestured towards the changing rooms. "Get a move on. The bus should be about ready. Make sure you all train and attend your club games on the weekend. There's another scheduled academy match next week against Darcrest."
Another match…another victory. Was all it was to him now? Vin saw no future or possibility where he could lose…no variation of the game today seemed to end in a loss. Even now as he studied the strange figures replaying the game on the pitch, he could not see any outcome that ended poorly: whether it was only seven goals or a closer gap between both teams, no game was ever a loss - no future was ever a failure.
Somewhere amidst the plethora of variables and alterations, Vin saw the final goal he'd ever score, the final trophy that would separate him from the rest of the world. It was there and need only be taken.