SORRY MAMA

That night, Alonso lay on his thin mattress, the faint hum of the refrigerator echoing through their small apartment. The cold crept in through the cracks around the window, but he barely noticed.

His eyes were fixed on the dim glow of his old phone screen, the edges of the plastic case cracked and worn. He wished he had a better one. He launched the YouTube an app on his phone where he watches his football clips from.

He scrolled through football clips, his heart pounding faster each time he saw a player pull off an impossible move. He loves to watch video clips of Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo and others. And then he found it—Lionel Messi, with his jersey number 10. It was a match against Paris Saint-Germain [P.S.G] and Atlético Madrid. Messi received a through pass from Sergio Ramos. It was a counter.

Messi controlled the ball with ease and looks forward to see how many defenders were approaching him.. Messi saw three defenders which he slipped past them like water through fingers. That was not all, Alonso's mouth fell open because he hadn't seen it before. "What the hell?" he whispered, sitting up straighter.

He replayed the video clip and watched again—Messi's balance, the soft touch of his left foot, how he controlled the ball with ease, and the way he dropped his shoulder to fool the defender. 

Alonso tried to mimic the motion with his feet under the blanket, imagining himself on a pitch, the crowd roaring as he danced past his opponents. 

"I want to be great like Messi…" Alonso murmured, a fire lighting in his chest. "I'll be known as a great footballer".

Sleep came late that night, his mind spinning with visions of green fields and distant stadium lights. He couldn't stop thinking about what he saw. It was getting late so he went back to bed.

The next day at school dragged on forever. Lessons blurred together—math problems and history dates melting into a dull haze. His teachers' voices faded to background noise as his mind replayed Messi's goal over and over again. He was not good in class so it made him didn't like the class. He felt very uncomfortable when he is in class. Whenever he was asked a question in class, he could barely answer.

When the final bell rang, Alonso bolted from the classroom, his worn sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. The sneakers were his pride because it was all he had. He didn't care about what others put on because his parents couldn't afford them. He was always quiet when others were arguing over who has the best sneakers and stuffs.

Outside, a thin wind blew through the cracked asphalt of the playground where a handful of his friends were already gathering, a scuffed football bouncing between them.

"Hey, Alonso!" called Mateo, a lanky boy with a chipped front tooth. "You wanna play?"

Alonso nodded, his heart hammering with excitement. This was his chance. ''Of course and I'm going to show y'all all I've got''.

Alonso dropped his bag to start the game. Alonso called out his players and Mateo also did. They split into teams, the usual mix of half-serious competition and playful shouts. Alonso barely felt the cold as he waited—waited for the moment when the game will start. 

And when it did, he knew exactly what to do. Mateo's team passed the ball to start the game. Since they were young and didn't know much about positions and how to tackle, they all moved to where the ball would be. Each and everyone wants to have a touch of the ball. Alonso waited till the ball was on his side. He caught the ball on the inside of his right foot, and just like Messi, his teammates called but he didn't mind them. He dropped his shoulder and pushed the ball forward. Mateo lunged for it—but Alonso spun past him with ease.

One defender down.

A rush of adrenaline flooded his veins as another boy stepped in his path. Alonso shifted his weight, nudging the ball with his left foot and slipping through the gap.

Two down.

Just one more. He was very happy in his thoughts because he felt like he was Messi at the moment. But as he tried to pull the ball back and pivot, his foot caught against the rough asphalt.

His ankle twisted sharply beneath him, and he felt pain in his leg. He fell hard, scraping his palms against the ground.

"Alonso!" Mateo shouted, running over. "You okay?"

Biting back tears, Alonso tried to push himself up. A sharp ache flared in his ankle, and his stomach twisted with frustration.

"It's fine," he whispered, even as the pain throbbed with every heartbeat.

By the time he limped home, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across their apartment building.

He pushed open the door quietly, hoping to sneak to his room before his mother noticed.

But she was already there, standing by the kitchen sink with a worn dish towel in her hand.

Her eyes narrowed the moment she saw him.

"Alonso," she said sharply. "What happened?"

His stomach sank. "It's nothing, Mama," he muttered, shifting his weight onto his uninjured foot.

She crossed the small kitchen in two steps, kneeling and taking his leg in her hands.

Her fingers were gentle but firm as she pressed around his swollen ankle.

"Nothing?" Her voice was tight with anger—and something else.

Worry. "You call this nothing?"

Alonso started. "I was just… practicing," he admitted quietly. "I was trying something I saw Messi do. It was very nice Mama and i tried to do same but i got hurt''.

His mother exhaled sharply, rising to her feet. "Messi?" She shook her head. "Messi doesn't live in this apartment, Alonso.

Messi doesn't come home to unpaid bills and an empty refrigerator."

He swallowed the knot in his throat, but it wouldn't go away.

"But it was nice Mama," he said softly. "I just… wanted to try it."

Her expression softened, but the tired lines around her eyes didn't fade. "I know, mijo." Her voice cracked slightly as she brushed a hand through his hair.

"But wanting isn't enough. You have to be careful. We can't afford for you to get hurt."

Alonso lowered his head, shame burning his face. "I'm sorry."

She sighed, shaking her head as she turned back to the sink. "Go clean up. And put some ice on that ankle before your father sees it."

As Alonso limped to the bathroom, his heart felt heavier than ever. He still believed he could make it—still believed in the dream. But tonight, it felt further away than ever before.