This is why I never played soccer. This is why I stopped playing soccer.
Yes, I too once had a soccer ball.
I was practicing at home. In the living room, once everyone else was dinning. Then I miskicked, the ball slipped into the big sharing dish. Everyone was watching the soup pot soccer ball. It was my first goal. No one else talked. My father just silently removed the ball away from the table. No one shouted my goal. There was no glory.
I was so embarrassed, but since no one is talking about it, nor mentioning as it just meant anything, I realised the value of playing soccer. They kept eating.
I sat. I lost my interest on football. I lost my interest on kicking. There was no attention. There was no meaning. There was no gaze. There was no drama. There was only death. That death was due to the maturity of noting yelling violence. Maybe death is the status of lack of violence. My father knew exactly how to stop me from proximate goal in.
The death of my potential of playing any balls had a starting story. No one tells how one is born but how died, and this is how my soccer died.