ChisholmM1213

I look up at the scoreboard. Only eight minutes to go in the game. Steven throws the ball in, and I begin making my way up the field. I hear Mark calling for the ball, send it out wide, and sprint towards the 18 yard box. I look up, four minutes left. Mark sends the ball in, but a defender clears it for a throw-in. I start setting up in front of goal. Mark hurls the ball into the box, and I break off from my defender. The throw is perfect, coming right towards the center of the box. I throw myself at it, making solid contact with the ball, but the keeper knocks it over the goal for a corner kick. Rather than setting up around the six yard box, I make my way out until I'm about 25 yards away. The ball is sent in, and a defender gets a head on it. Just what I was hoping for. The ball floats right where I want it, and I begin winding up. Just before the ball hits the turf, I swing my leg, slamming it goalward with the laces of my boot. It soars straight into the right upper corner for the game winning goal! We all celebrate ecstatically, racing toward our bench. The fans on the bleachers nearly lose their minds when they see what I've done. The clock strikes 90 and it sinks in: we just made the playoffs. Taylor R. Finley High School just made the playoffs for the first time in 30 years. The fans rush the field, and I find myself being carried off the field by two of my teammates. "Have a great day, Will," I hear from the other room. "Thanks, Mom, you too," I yell back. I run to the car, really feeling excited for school for the first time in months. I play my favorite playlist on my iPhone 416, and hit the road. The normally awful chore of school is surprisingly nonexistent, as the day is filled with celebration and congratulations. Once we get into the locker room after the bell rings, coach calls us together for a pep talk. “Today, the season starts. Forget everything that happened up until this point. All that matters is what we do from now until June 28th. If you’re not willing to put in the work every day during practice, it’s time to hand in your uniform and get your ass off my team. It’s not gonna be easy, I’m gonna be picking up the intensity each and every day. You’re gonna work harder than you ever have, hurt worse than you ever have, and you’re gonna hate it. You might even hate me. But it’s days like these that make the difference between holding up that state championship trophy, and sitting on the couch at home watching someone else win it. All right, let’s have a good practice. Hot Shot, I need to talk to you.” My heart skips a beat when I hear that. Does he know about the party last night? Who would tell coach about that? I didn’t drink //that// much, we were just having fun! I walk over tentatively, hoping for the best but expecting the worst. “I got these in the mail for you, kid,” he says, handing me three letters. “Keep up the great work.” “Thanks Coach," I reply as my heart nearly stops. "I just want to help the team win." The next two weeks become the most stressful of my life. Between practices becoming more and more intense each day, final exams coming up, signing day just around the corner, oh, and did I mention that my parents want me to quit soccer? That’s kinda important. You see, my mom is a follower of what’s known as Chislam, which is probably the most ridiculous thing on the face of the Earth. The beliefs are the same as many Protestant branches of Christianity, but with some major, and honestly outrageous rules. Here are some of the things that are considered “sinful” in the Chislamic Church: team sports, speaking in German, the letters of Paul to the Corinthians, and spandex, just to name a few. My mom has to be the biggest follower of this religion in the world, because she’s been against soccer in my life since day one. And my dad? He’s hardly ever sober enough to form a coherent sentence, so he just agrees with Mom. Finally, I decide that I need to talk to Coach. “Coach, I just don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. My parents are constantly breathing down my neck about quitting soccer, I can’t keep my grades up, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks.” “Why don’t you just go home, don’t come to practice for a few days, catch up on schoolwork, and try to work something out with your parents?” “Are you sure? I want to be as prepared as possible once the playoffs start.” “Exactly, and it doesn’t matter how physically prepared you are if you aren’t mentally ready.” ‘Great,’ I think to myself on the way home. ‘No practice? This is just great’ However, as the next few days go by, I find myself on top of the world! I get caught up in school with ease, I do really well on all of my finals, and I feel like I can do anything. The playoffs start today, and I’m more prepared, both physically and mentally, than I could ever imagine. I start my car, about to leave for the most important game of my life, when suddenly Mom and Dad appear in the rear view mirror? “Will, you’re not going to the game. You’ve had your fun, but you know what I think of team sports,” says Mom. “Son… just uh, do what she do what she says! Your mother knows… umm… knows best!” “Go inside Dad, you’re drunk.” Hoping I can get around them, I start backing out, but no such luck. I can’t believe it! They’re actually not gonna let me go! ‘No worries, I can wait them out.’ Time passes, what feels like an eternity. Eventually, I give in, text coach saying I had to go to a funeral, and go inside. I spend the rest of the night sulking in my room, regularly checking my phone for updates about the game. ‘If we lose this game, I swear to God I will never forgive them,’ are my only thoughts before falling asleep. I wake up in the morning at my usual time, but my alarm seems… different. I listen closely and realize that the host is interviewing coach! “Now coach,” the radio host asks, “we’re all wondering, where was De Backer last night? I know I speak for everyone when I say I was sorely disappointed not to see him play!” “Unfortunately, Hot Shot had a funeral to attend, and could not make it to the game. If anything, his absence was a good thing for the team; it sent a message to the other teams in this tournament that we’re dangerous even without him.” “Now I’d like to ask about that nickname. How long has he gone by Hot Shot?” Coach gives a chuckle and says, “One thing some people don’t know is that Will’s been on this team since freshman year. You’re probably thinking to yourself, ‘Wow! He must have been amazing to make varsity as a freshman!’ Well I’ll tell you this: Will felt the exact same way! He thought he was hot stuff, and thus the nickname Hot Shot.” The host roared with laughter at this, and I could feel my face getting red. I’ve always hated that nickname, and now I’m probably gonna hear it more than ever now that Coach basically told the whole city about it. I’m about to turn the radio off, but then I hear it. “Well Coach, that’s all the time we have for you, congrats on the win, and go pirates!”
 * Pirates Punch Ticket**. This is the headline I've been waiting all season for. It still feels a little surreal, like it was all a dream. But it wasn't a dream. It really happened.