Patience.

"Oh, there'll be time to get by;
I get dry after the swimming pool.
Oh, there'll be time to just cry;
I wonder why it didn't work out.
Oh, there'll be time to fish fry
for letters by yours truly.
Yours truly."

Futbol.

5 minutes left in the game. I had joined a team in this league called AYSO, well my dad had put me in it. The coach had doubts about me. Didn't put me in till the last few minutes. Put on my fresh shirt. Number 11. Green. I was a midfielder ready to play my first game. I'm scared. I see kids beating each other for this ball. We were playing kids that were two or three years older than me. Being a 8 year old midfielder with a dad that has his whole life dedicated to the game of futbol put a lot of pressure on me. I have a knot in my throat. The ball comes flying from our goalies post. The opponents midfield is deep within our territory. The ball lands on my feet. I remember it looks like the newer balls they have now. Soft. They curve a lot. Look like I had more of a kickball in my possession. I look over to the sidelines and see the bench players staring at me. Everyone is screaming including my dad. I can hear him. "Corre cerote" is all I can distinguish. Lucky for him, he had a beer and a giant umbrella covering him under the hot Los Angeles weather. I turn around to see 2 defenders running towards me. I jump into this game. I feel this immense heat hit me harder. I manage to put the ball through the defender's legs. I run faster. I see the second defender. He looks dead. The heat has brought him down. Sweat dripping down his face. He tries to push me away from the ball. I preform my first step over. It wasn't that good but after seeing hours of the Brazilian futbol club players doing it thanks to my father I had an idea how to preform it. I'm alone with the goalie. I kick the ball. I feel a bit of my toe dig into the dirt. The ball goes into the corner of the goal post. I smile and start jumping for joy. My first goal in my first futbol game. I see my dad with a huge grin. I run toward the middle of the field celebrating like Ronaldo and wag my index finger. The opponents team serves the ball but the ref blows his whistle and the game is over. I'm happy as hell and my dad hugs me. The only time I've ever felt him being proud of me. I grab my stuff, say bye to my team mates and head home. We lose the game 1-11.