Two Boys from Diego

 The Grounds air hung thick with frangipani and the electric hum of Intercol semi-final anticipation. On one side of the sprawling Queen's Park Oval, Marcus of Fatima College adjusted his pristine socks, his eyes instinctively scanning the rival dugout. There, he knew, was Kieron, his cousin, anchoring the defense for CIC in their blue and white.

They were both from West Trinidad, grew up kicking a worn-out tennis ball on the dusty greens of Diego Martin. Now, their rivalry was the stuff of newspaper previews. "Cousins Clash for Final Berth," the headlines read.

For Marcus, the game had started weeks ago, tracking Kieron's clean sheets, noting his assists, measuring his own goal tally against them. As the whistle blew, he wasn't just playing Fatima's game; he was playing against Kieron. When Kieron executed a flawless sliding tackle, Marcus felt it as a personal deficit. His energy splintered. He’d make a run, but part of his mind was watching Kieron's positioning. He took a shot from an arrogant angle, hoping to outdo a highlight he imagined Kieron might make, and sent it sailing over the bar.

Kieron, too, felt the weight. He’d shout to his CIC midfield, but his gaze kept flicking to Marcus’s darting movements. He played not just to defend his goal, but to prove a point—to be the immovable object to Marcus’s irresistible force. It made him a half-step slower, his legendary clarity clouded by a private contest.

At halftime, score 0-0, both were drained, not from the game, but from the silent, exhausting calculus of comparison.

In the quiet of the Fatima locker room, Marcus heard his coach’s voice cut through the tactical talk. "Play our game. Our system. Our rhythm. Nothing else exists." The words landed like a command. Our pace. Our priorities.

Across the way, Kieron received a similar message. "You are our rock. Not their shadow. Own your space."

The second half began, and a shift, quiet but monumental, occurred. Marcus stopped looking for Kieron. He started looking for space, for the run of his winger, for the geometry of Fatima’s attack. His mind, freed from its sideways glance, sharpened. He played with a fluid purpose that had been absent.

Kieron, too, settled into his own domain. He cleared crosses not for show, but with necessity. He organized his line with a deep, booming voice that was his alone, his focus a fortress.

The breakthrough came in the 75th minute. Marcus, now fully within his own game, made a piercing run not to outshine, but because it was the run. He received a threaded pass, his first touch pure instinct. Kieron, anchored in his duty, closed him down. It was no longer cousin against cousin, but striker against defender in its purest form. Marcus feigned left, went right, and unleashed a low, driven shot. Kieron stretched, every millimetre of his being committed to the save.

The ball kissed the inside of the post and nestled in the net.

The Oval erupted. Marcus turned, his celebration one of pure, unleashed release, not a glance toward his cousin. Kieron picked himself up from the turf, a flicker of frustration quickly replaced by a grim nod of respect, not for the cousin, but for the striker who had finally played his own game.

Fatima won 1-0. After the final whistle, the cousins met on the field, sweat and Savannah dust mingling on their kits. They embraced, a real one this time.

“Hell of a shot,” Kieron said, his voice rough.

“Hell of a try to stop it,” Marcus replied.

In that moment, the comparison that had drained them for weeks evaporated. They were just two boys from Diego who had, for the final forty-five minutes, been wise enough to commit to their own priorities, their own pace. And in doing so, they had finally played football worthy of the Grounds.