Miguel split the two defenders down the middle, and was off.
He heard his team shouting directions as more of the defence converged on him. He weaved past the first; Rudy was there for the second; Joe for the third. They gave their all for him. For them. They were the shield that was carrying him to the championship parade. To the real.
"Deep left! Deep left!" He was running for all his worth now. No more speeches from coach and no more suicide drills. His body seemed to concur as he flew down the field, the crowd cheering him on. granting him speed.
Another body dropped. "Deep left!" And another. "Deep Left!" Miguel was in the end zone with no one in sight! He was there, he made it, he -
Hit the ground, hard. As his tackler got off, Miguel couldn't feel anything except excruciating pain. He tried to get up... and failed.
So close. He felt his checks getting hot. So... close...
The field around him dissolved. The goal post, the crowd, the benches. Gone. His nemesis that stole his glory, number 33, was nothing more than a fading silhouette comprised of one's and zero's. Soon he too dissolved.
The pain however, remained.
"On your feet, boy. You're alright." Coach stood above him, hands on hips and eyes narrowed. "Stop squirming. Come on."
Miguel swayed to a standing position. He hated this stark white room more than anything. He hated its smell, he hated its existence. Why couldn't they play the game for real? Like they used to in the old days? He threw his helmet at a sim projector.
"I hate this!" He screamed in frustration.
"You hate this? You?" Coach got real close. Too close. "Let me tell you something, boy. You know what I hate? Talking to idiots like you all day, only for them to forget any semblance of sense once they enter a simulation.
"You wanna play in the real? Hmm? You think these simulations are below you? Is that it?" Miguel shook his head, his eyes plastered to his shoes. "Then get your head in the game. You had ample time to dodge that last defender. I even screamed their patterns! For what? Hmm? For who?"
"I'm sorry coach it won't -"
"You're right." Coach's artificial fingers seamed eager to strangle Miguel right then and there. "It won't. Not after this one." Coach turned to enter the control room. "Five!"
Miguel gulped down his anxiety. The pain still lingered, but he did not care for it anymore. Coach was right. He was always right... Miguel was too busy enjoying what he wanted to do, instead on focusing on what he had to do.
You wanna play in the real, son? His father had once said. Then believe in the grind. That should be the only real thing in your life until you reach your goal.
"Details, Miguel!" Coach's voice was in his head now, the simulation was starting up. "Stop playing in the clouds! Be, here. Here!"
The grind. Miguel got into position. My last simulation had my best score yet. I can do this! Just focus on the details. Just like coach said. The details. Yeah. The grind.
The air started smelling fresh as his feet starting sinking in the now appearing dirt. Miguel flexed his fingers as more white walls transformed into blue skies. Soon, the echo of the crowd was back. As were the defenders, as was number 33.
The real. Miguel got his feet set. The grind.
The whistle blew; the gun fired; the play was in Miguel's head. He faked going to the right only to weave past his initial defender. Soon however, two more white jerseys were upon him.
He split the two defenders down the middle, and was off.
Thanks for reading crew! 😤
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