A Story by Fatima

I was 6 years old, and it was a late summer afternoon. The sun was starting to go down, but it was still warm.

The kids from our neighborhood would bring out an old, half-deflated football almost every day and they’d play right there in the street.

It wasn’t a real field, just a quiet road between houses with two stones as goalposts.

At first I was scared to touch the ball.

It looked big, and the other kids were older and faster. But one of them passed it to me and shouted “Dribbla! Dribbla!”

My heart was racing.

The moment my foot hit the ball, it felt weird — I was scared, but excited at the same time.

The street was full of noise: kids shouting, laughing, arguing about who fouled who.

Some neighbors were watching from their balconies and clapping when someone scored.

My hands were sweaty, my legs hurt after 10 minutes, but I didn’t want to stop.

When I finally scored my first goal, I didn’t even know how it happened.

The ball just bounced off my foot and went between the stones.

Everyone started cheering my name.

I felt proud in a way I’d never felt before. We played until it got too dark to see the ball.

That day I understood something: football made me forget about everything else.

All the stress, the fear, it just disappeared when I was running after the ball. Since then, I knew this game was going to be a big part of my life.