The Summer of ‘98-A Short Story

I remember the summer of ‘98 like it was yesterday. The sun was a relentless tyrant, and the air was thick with the smell of cut grass and dusty sneakers. The neighborhood kids, a motley crew of preteens with scraped knees and boundless energy, spent every waking hour playing street soccer in front of old Mr. Atley’s house. He hated us, and we loved the thrill of annoying him. He was the grumpy Goliath, and we were the plucky Davids, a soccer ball our only sling.

The best player on the street was Kevin. He was a year older than the rest of us, with a mop of sandy hair and a cocky grin. He was faster, more agile, and had a way of dribbling the ball that made it seem like an extension of his own foot. He knew it, too, and his constant showboating drove me crazy. I was a decent player, but Kevin always found a way to make me look like a clumsy oaf, stealing the ball from me with a quick flick of his ankle or nutmegging me with a cheeky grin.

One day, our game intensified. It was just Kevin and I, with the rest of the kids watching from the curb, a silent, captivated audience. We were both desperate for a win, a victory that would cement our place as the king of the street. The score was tied, and the last few minutes of play were a frantic ballet of desperate lunges and close calls. Kevin had the ball, and he was making his trademark move, a series of quick, hypnotic feints that left his opponents dizzy. He was toying with me, his smug expression a red flag waving in my face.

I lunged, my foot outstretched, aiming to swipe the ball away. It was a move I had practiced a thousand times in my backyard, a perfect, clean tackle. But Kevin was too quick. He shifted his weight, and the ball slid past my foot, a blur of white and black. Frustration, hot and blinding, surged through me. All the taunts, the lost games, the humiliation—it all came to a head in that single, fleeting moment.

In a fit of pure, unadulterated rage, I did the unthinkable. I followed through with my leg, a wild, uncontrolled swing meant to connect with the ball that was no longer there. But the momentum carried my foot forward, and the ball was gone, leaving nothing but air.

Kevin’s cocky grin vanished, replaced by a look of shock. The onlookers gasped, a collective intake of breath.

I was just swinging my foot, but it missed the ball and met his face.