Chapter Text
He put a hand over his eyes, wincing at the harsh glare of the summer sun. Even wearing a vest and shorts didn’t do much to shield himself from the heatwave, nor the quick reprieve of shade once the sun hid behind tufts of white clouds. His sandals echoed across the stone pavement as he walked around the neighbourhood, listening to the faint blaring of TV from open windows, and the squeals of children splashing each other, droplets of water staining the pavement. He can smell the freshly cooked food wafting in from a house with a basketball hoop attached to the garage door, almost taste the seasonings and spices that gave it a rich colour.
This entire neighbourhood was teeming with sentiment, it almost made him sick with envy. He hated it so much, it made him want to vomit the bitterness out.
His heart ached as he watched a father spin his daughter around the sprinklers, unable to look away from the bright smiles and clothes damp with water. His fingers instinctively reached out and brushed the necklace that sat cold against his collarbone. Its smooth surface grounded him, reminded him of who he had to live for, who he needed to look for when he was old enough to.
Where did you run off to, Mama?
Kei continued walking, his heart becoming heavier with every step. Even after several years, the bitter taste of resentment was still sharp on his tongue. His steps became louder as he practically stomped around, the feeling of the necklace weighing down his neck, the words of the matron ringing in his head like a cacophony.
His feet took him to the gnarly roots of a willow, green leaves glistening like emeralds under the sun, low hanging branches that brushed the surface of the pond. He sat down between two roots, and drew his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees. It was a scenery out of a fairy tale: tucked away into a corner of a local park that most people were unaware of. The rays of sun filtered through the trees like beams of transparent gold, and he realised why he would find this view so breath taking.
It was ethereal. Like a small pocket of heaven tucked into this little corner of the Earth.
Kei watched the ducks swim around, dipping their bills into the water. He liked ducks; he wanted a duck so bad. But the matron would never allow it.
Nadia. His mother’s name. The mother who thought he was too much to handle and dumped him at the first orphanage in their small neighbourhood in Paris.
The matron had said Kei was a spitting image of her: bronze skin, curly hair, a dimple on his cheek that deepened when he smiled widely, showing missing teeth but pure joy. The only difference was his eyes.
The matron had told him his mother had eyes that looked like gleaming chestnuts in the spring, while his were the green of forests once having conquered the harshness of winter, and soothed with the balms of spring.
It was safe to come to the conclusion that he had his father’s eyes. His good for nothing father that abandoned his mother, who in turn, had abandoned him.
He sighed. He was becoming gloomy again, and he slumped, calves hitting the soft grass with a thump. Kei closed his eyes, enjoying the buzzing of bees by the marigolds, the chirping of birds that flew overhead, and simply enjoyed the solace of his haven, far away from the annoyances that were the other orphanage children.
He watched clouds float by overhead, the branches swaying in the breeze as leaves rustled together in song.
It was beginning to get dark now. Kei should probably head back.
“And the whistle blows, giving Bastard München a solid victory!...” Kei heard the faint blaring of a TV, and turned to see a family facing the television, their backs to him.
The window was open, and Kei watched a player with the number ‘12’ on his back score a goal mid-air, the ball slamming into the top corner of the net. He watched as the player jumped onto his teammate’s back, pumping his fist into the air and a yell ripping from his throat. The raucous celebrations of the family fell on deaf ears, eyes a shade of evergreen brightening as if he had been enlightened.
It felt like that very goal caused a gust of wind to hit Kei’s face like an epiphany, his hair ruffling and becoming dishevelled.
What was the sport again… football ? At first, it only seemed like a mediocre sport that involved kicking a ball around and watching grown adults fight each other for it. Kei wouldn’t have been allowed to play, so he didn’t care for it. The orphanage kids were only allowed to immerse themselves in their school studies, not allowed to take part in extracurricular sessions unless the matron gave express permission.
Kei had only seen the boys in his school play football for the elementary school team, but they made it seem so nauseatingly mundane. But this …
… This was something else entirely. Like a gorgeous muse of art.
He watched the goal replay again and again, ignoring the family’s cheers, as he forced himself to leave their front porch before they shooed him off. That goal had reached every single nerve in his entire body, shooting off sparks of awe.
Maybe football was art. Kei liked art: even if he couldn’t draw for his life, he always admired the sketches that adorned the walls of his art classroom at school, vivid shades of watercolour, or bold lines of graphite. He wished he could draw: if he could, he would paint the very feeling he was experiencing right now, like his heart was being tugged by strings, connecting himself to that very pitch where that team stood.
Football might just be another piece of art: the ball, the muse, and the shot that scores a goal being the bristles of a paintbrush that bring the masterpiece together.
When he arrived at the orphanage, he noticed that some of the staff were watching a football game on the old television, all leaning forward and unwilling to tear their eyes off the screen.
“You're home late,” The matron had closed the door behind him, and Kei stiffened. The matron was a stout woman, grey hair pulled back in a severe bun, highlighting her sharp eyebrows and sagging cheeks, lips puckered in a putrid shade of red.
He hated the old woman.
“I was… playing.”
“Playing?” The old woman crooned, running a withered finger through his curls. “With what friends dear?” He ignored the pang in his chest as she spoke in such a gentle, but poisonous voice.
“Some kids wanted to play football–”
“If you're going to come up with an excuse,” She grabbed his ear and yanked it hard, earning a yelp from Kei. Some of the staff had turned to the two, but immediately looked away, feigning indifference. “At least make it believable. I'll let this slide once, but don't let me catch you coming back late again. Is that understood?”
He blinked the sting of tears away. “Yes matron.” She let go of his ear, taking a step back to return to her office.
Kei was dismissed, and he hurried to his room and dove under the covers, feeling the warmth of his pinched ear on the cold pillow. Some of the children were still awake, talking to each other from their bunks in hurried whispers, so as to not alert the staff.
The eight year old wiped his tears on his pyjama sleeve, having changed hurriedly to get away from the matron’s ironclad grip again. There was rustling beneath him as his bunk mate turned around in their sleep, and Kei’s eyes began to become heavy from fatigue.
He could almost hear the faint cheers of the staff as somebody scored another goal, and Kei could begin to see an image form in his mind’s eye: a football stadium cheering him on as he swerved past defenders and kicked the ball into the net. He revelled in the cheers, smiling from ear to ear as the stadium let out ear-splitting chants, his name roaring from their mouths.
There was a stupidly giddy smile on his face as he fell into a deep sleep.
Kei knew what to buy with his pocket money. He had been saving up for the perfect moment, and now he knew what to finally spend it on.
Turns out his months worth of pocket money was useless. According to the owner, he didn’t have enough money to purchase a football, and he may (or may not) have called the shopkeeper a few unkind words, making it clear what he thought of the overpriced item.
To conclude: he was kicked out rather unceremoniously.
Kei huffed in defeat, walking out of the shop dejectedly, hands in his pockets and head hung low. Kicking a lonely stone across the pavement, his lips formed a pout. The heat wasn’t as harsh as the previous day, yet it was still unforgiving. He ignored the lady sitting outside a bistro, fanning herself with the menu, or the man on the steps of an off-license convenience store lighting a cigarette as the fan beside him was revving on full power.
He came to a stop once he reached a football field. It was abandoned, weeds overgrowing on the edges of the barren pitch, and he imagined a tumbleweed rolling across the field for comedic effect.
The field wasn’t really abandoned: most used it for shady business during the night time, which was why the matron usually made sure that the older orphanage children steered clear of the area if they didn’t want to be roped into street gangs.
As cruel as she was, the matron had some morals. Kei leaned against the goal post, tapping a finger to his cheek in thought. Considering he didn’t have a football, it would be difficult for him to find a way to play the sport.
He could steal the ball, but last time he tried to steal, it hadn’t turned out well…
… But Kei wasn’t going to delve into that topic. He wanted- no, needed - a football to play with. As if the football gods were guiding him, his eyes trailed all over the pitch, taking in the earwig crawling between the weeds and the faded lines of the pitch, the flies buzzing about for food, the tattered football on the other side of the pitch, the patches of dead grass–
Wait. His eyes snapped back to the goalpost on the opposite side of the field, eyes landing on a worn down football, its leather skin almost falling off at the seams. Kei stood up, cracked lips stretching into a smile so wide, the cracks opened and drew blood.
Score.
Once making his way down the field, he picked up the torn ball like it was a trophy. What once was a gleaming white ball, was now grimy with dirt. But that didn’t matter to Kei; he turned the ball in his hands. The dirt almost came off like a second skin, caking his hands in dirt.
He patted it on his shirt, choosing to not think of what the old hag would say about the dirt on his garments.
The ball may have been ripping at the seams, but there were no holes in it, and it wasn’t deflated either. Kei put it on the floor, nudging it with his foot. It rolled a few paces, before coming to a still. His smile was victorious: it was still in good condition.
Now, to practise. Kei couldn’t wait to become a superstar player like Noel Noa, Lionel Messi, or even Hiro Miyazaki of La Real.
He looked at the empty goal, and placed the ball in front of it. Taking a few steps back, he ran, and swung his leg as far as he could, his eyes wide open as he watched the ball soar into the middle of the net.
Kei’s very first goal, in the height of summer, with the scalding sun above him raining down light on his head like a halo. He watched the net ripple like the broken surface of a pond, and he could feel his blood thrumming in his veins, his head pounding as his senses worked on overdrive.
He could hear the cars driving in the distance, taste the moisture in the air, feel the heat on his back, the sweat sticking to his skin, and see the ants crawl into their colony by the weeds. It was like he was looking over at the field from a bird’s eye view, and damn did it feel good.
It was a mediocre goal, trash compared to the goals professional footballers scored. But for eight year old Kei, it might have been the goal of the century. He was overwhelmed with a desire to become better, and better, until he was at the top.
If this kind of euphoria only came from scoring a goal…
He picked up the ball, a resolute smile on his lips and a determined glint in his eyes.
… he needed to keep scoring more goals.