Hatrick Hero

     “Nimarit, get up, quickly,” my mom said as she shook me until I woke up.  It was 5:00 a.m. and I was getting ready to play a brutal soccer match against the U13 Santa Rosa team.  I was nervous, but at the same time excited.  They were very physical and had an extremely large line up.  Whoever won would advance to the semifinals in the Nor Cal State Cup.  I leaped out of bed and scurried off to the bathroom.  After I took a steaming shower, I ate two raisin bagels and started to load up on water.  The more water I drank, the less tired I would be during the 70- minute match.

          We ended up leaving our house at about 6:15 a.m.  We were headed to the Amador Valley High School in Pleasanton, which takes about an hour to get to.  When we finally got there at 7:10, my whole team was waiting for me.  My team, Ballistic United, was the #2 team in northern California.  This was my first year playing for the Pleasanton traveling team, and I had started to get along with everybody.  I am one of the two forwards on my team, and my only job is to put the ball in the back of net.  And this was a great chance to prove myself to my team, my coach, and my opponents.

          The game started with the ball at our feet.  We moved the ball around the field, making the other team chase us and get tired.  We exchanged several shots on goal, but none of them went in.  Then, my teammate blasted the ball downfield and waited for me to start my engine.  I took off for the ball and zipped by the defenders of the other team.  As I approached the last defender, I felt like I was in the spotlight.  I stopped the ball and rifled a shot into the top left of the goal.  Right when it was about to go in, it curved away and hit the post.  I couldn’t believe that I had missed.  I felt horrible thinking about the glory I could have had if I made that beautiful shot. 

     The first half continued scoreless.  They almost had a chance in front of goal, but the player whiffed the ball and we got on a counter attack.  One of our midfielders, Alex, went by two players and chipped the ball up the field.  I once again started my engine, but this time I kept going and going and going.  I was just like the Energizer bunny.  When I reached the goalie, I faked a shot to the left and I darted to the right.  He dove in the wrong direction and I passed the ball into the net for a goal.  I leaped in to the air out of joy and I heard everyone screaming my name.  We were up 1-0.

          The second half started with constant attacks by Santa Rosa.  They kept us on our toes, but never managed to finish.  We took advantage of this and kept countering.  I eventually scored another goal the same exact way.  In the last 20 minutes or so, we had the game under control.  We were up 2-0 and we were controlling the midfield, offense, and defense.  We almost had the game put away but we couldn’t let down yet.  If they scored a goal, they’d be right back in the game. 

     A tall defender on the other team screamed out to me. He said, “You suck, you think you’re good but all you are is a piece of dirty Indian sh*t.”  I immediately rushed towards him, offended by his words, and asked him to repeat what he said.  But before he could say anything, the blue, black, and white soccer ball that had been punted up by the goalie landed on his head.  He fell down to the floor, leaving the ball right in front of me.  After I had finished laughing my head off, I started towards the goal and I saw three defenders, waiting for me to come at them.  I charged at them and passed the ball to Alex, who was at the midfield line.  He ran to the sideline with the ball and kicked it over the defenders.  It landed about 10 yards in front of me and was calling my name.  “Nimarit, Nimarit.  Come and get me,” it said.  I immediately sprinted towards the ball and shot it with tremendous force.  But right after I shot the ball, one of the defenders on the opposite team knocked me down with tremendous force.  I fell to the ground with a thud as I saw a white blur soar past the goalie and into the net.  The next thing I knew, all of the parents and my team were congratulating me.  We had won 3-0 and had advanced to the semi- finals.  I felt proud of myself as I walked back to my parents, who congratulated me on my goals.  “You did it son,” my dad said proudly.  My eyes started to water from my happiness, and I knew in my heart that I had proved myself well.

Learning the Truth

     As I awoke from my sleep on a cold shivering morning, I heard no sounds at all.  I took off my blanket and sprinted at full speed to my parent’s room, only to discover that there was no one there.  I darted over to my sister’s rooms and found that there was no one there either.  My 4-year-old head filled with terrible thoughts about how my family had been kidnapped or how they ran away from me.  I felt like I was on a deserted island, isolated from everything I love.  I started crying because I was afraid I was going to die without my family. As I pondered about where in the world my family could be, I heard a small voice. Suddenly I felt a hand grab my shoulder and spin me around.

     I gave out a terrifying screech as I leaped backwards from the figure.  But instead of seeing a blood- thirsty killer like I had imagined, I saw a familiar face underneath a heap of blankets.  It was my older sister, Jasmine.  She hurried over to me and whispered something in my ear.  I once again leaped up into the air like Michael Jordan and fell on my behind.  But this time it wasn’t out of fear, but out of shock.  I approached my sister, who was patiently waiting for my response, and asked her if she was serious.  She stared at me with an expressionless face and said, “Yes”. 

     I turned toward the stairs and rushed down, hopping over two steps at a time.  Once I arrived downstairs, a crowd of sobbing people surrounded me.  I went to my mom with a questioning look and she informed me of the sorrowful event that had just taken place in New Delhi, India.  My uncle, who had recently married my aunt (my dad’s sister), had passed away. 

     I started recalling all of the good times we spent together.  I remembered the hundreds of times he carried me on his back and bought me chocolates.  I also remembered the times when he would play games with me and always let me win, making me overjoyed by the fact that I won.  But the most important memory I have of him is when he sat in his special throne on his wedding reception with my aunt next to him, carrying me in his lap like an extremely expensive piece of jewelry.  He would showcase me to the cameras that were constantly flashing and wouldn’t let me go.  It was the last time I had seen him, other than when he dropped us off to the airport.  We stayed in touch on the phone though, but it just wasn’t the same.  He was the only elderly person that played with me and didn’t treat me like a baby.  We would have long, detailed conversations over the phone, and he would always listen patiently.  He was extremely special to me and irreplaceable.  Everyone missed him, and the hundreds of tears shed that day proved it. 

The Brave Bear

     Every night before I went to bed, I would always take out my stuffed bear.  But this bear was not just any stuffed animal.  He was a nice, cheerful bear, who could sing and tell stories.  Whenever I gave him a hug (or squeezed his soft, furry stomach), he would start telling the story of “The Little Tin Soldier” in a gentle, soothing voice.  He came with a small storybook, and whenever I got the chance I would give him a hug and read along with him.  I played with him so much that I knew the story by heart.  My family had become good friends with the big brown bear, and they started calling him “Mr. Bear.”  As a matter of fact, my family had memorized the bear’s story as well. 

     My constant over playing of Mr. Bear annoyed my oldest sister, who was only 10 years old at the time.  She decided to hide him from me one day, and she “accidentally” hurled him into the dryer.  The next few days, I had been wondering where Mr. Bear was, and I couldn’t sleep without him.  I thought maybe he had been kidnapped.

     My mom had to carry out her normal routine of washing and drying the clothes.  After removing all of the clothes from the dryer, she noticed some white fur pieces dangling from one of the shirts.  She peered cautiously into the dryer and discovered a small stuffed animal lying on its side.  Its body was torn everywhere, revealing the ghostly white fur on the inside.  She called me down and I saw what had happened to Mr. Bear.  Seeing him in this condition was too much for my little eyes.  I was heart- broken when I hugged him and his head fell off, but I was even more disappointed when he didn’t sing.  From that day on, I hated kidnappers because of how they tortured my innocent bear. 

     I ended up finding out that my sister was the evil culprit.  I started to dislike her too, until she bought me a stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh.  Although it didn’t sing, it clapped its hands and gave me comfort throughout my lonely nights as a 4-year-old.