The Forward

 For Che, the dream was a brilliant, Technicolor movie that played on a loop in his head. He saw himself in the gleaming national team jersey, the roar of the crowd a physical force as he scored the winning goal. He had the poster on his wall, the highlights saved on his phone. He wanted the glory, the adoration, the finish line.

But the training? That was the boring, grey fine print he always skipped.

His friends would be heading to the arcade, and Che would sigh, lacing up his cleats for the two-hour practice his coach had mandated. "Steups, it's not fair, nah" he'd mutter, watching them go. He believed his raw talent was enough, that one day a scout would just magically see him juggling a ball in the park and anoint him.

The reality was different. While he dreamed of the national team he skipped weight training because it was hard. While he imagined perfect through-balls, he groaned at the drills for repetitive passing. He looked at the star players on TV and saw only their fancy footwork, not the years of predawn runs and strict diets they had endured. The climax of his self-deception came at the district trials. This was it, his chance to be seen. But when the whistle blew, the rough terrain of the pitch revealed everything.

A defender, bigger and fiercer than any he faced in his local league, shoved him off the ball with ease. Che stumbled, expecting a foul that wasn't called. He grew frustrated. He started watching the scouts on the sidelines instead of the game, trying to look impressive rather than being effective. When a pass went astray, he threw his hands up in blame, rather than fighting to win it back.

At halftime, gassed and irritable, he was pulled aside by a grizzled, old coach observing the trials.

"You, want to be on the national team?" the coach asked, his voice low.

"Yes sir, more than anything," Che panted, the old movie starting again in his mind.

The coach shook his head. "No, you don't. You want the jersey. The fame. You want the photo. But you don't want the burn in your lungs when you track back on defense. You don't want the sacrifice of a Friday night for extra practice. That boy who just shoved you? He loves that part. He knows that shove is what he's made of."

The words hit Che harder than the tackle. He stood there, stunned, as the coach walked away. The dream hadn't been shattered. It had been clarified. The goal wasn't the finish line; it was the guide, and it was showing him a brutal truth about himself. He had thought the goal was about talent, but it was about grit. He thought it was about winning, but it was about what you were willing to lose for it—comfort, free time, the easy path.

Che walked off the pitch that day, not chosen. But for the first time, he understood why. The national team wasn't just a destination for the talented; it was a reward for those who let the journey forge them into someone stronger, tougher, and utterly relentless. And Che, comfortable and unchallenged, had to decide if he truly wanted to step into that fire.