Half-Time

Five years.

It's been five years since I started to dream, of a place far away. Of life not my own.

Self-awareness. Such a curious thing, I distinctly remember a time when my thoughts were so muddy, I surmised that I might have been constantly high on mushrooms for the first two years of my life. And then suddenly, I realized, that I exist.

I didn't feel real. You know like one of those moments when you are suddenly hit with a feeling of the world being an illusion. Like sitting in a car and listening to the raindrop on the windows. When you feel detached from reality.

I've had that feeling constantly now since I've become self-aware. Reincarnation, or is it because I have no feelings attached to my past life?

It is a blessing to be honest, to at least be able to accept your existence. I am Bojan. No more, no less.

God has been merciful to me, to have the fortune of having been born into a loving family twice in a row. I remember, not being particularly religious in my past life, but now I think I am. I don't know whose God is it that exists, Hindu, Christian, or Muslim; perhaps it's all of them or none of them.

But by this miracle, I have to accept that something of a higher power exists. Well, I suppose, I can ponder philosophical and theological questions in my free time because I have a football match to dominate.

On the topic of football, it never came as surprise to me how talented I've turned out to be. In my memories, the best way to explain the sheer madness of Bojan's talent is that he was Messi in his prime, in his beginning.

So, I did what was obvious, training like a machine. I started with running, gymnastics, and strengthening. I knew I won't be particularly tall, so I developed every bit of muscle if didn't want to be injured every step of my career by defenders taller and stronger than me.

Sometimes I wondered, what butterflies my existence would cause. Maybe Messi and Ronaldo would both die due to their early medical conditions. Who knows?

With these thoughts in mind, I was determined to take as much advantage as I could take further my wealth.

I removed my shoes, lowered my sock, and started massaging my legs, "You didn't pull your leg in that tackle did you?"

"No papá, just relaxing them.", raising my head, I looked at my father. The worry in his eyes was no longer as pronounced as before.

I never had parents in my previous life, they passed away in a plane crash. But this man more than make up for their absence. Bojan Sr., is a family man to the core. Loving, supportive, kind, and surprisingly the only person in my life who doesn't overtly praise me as a genius.

He understands that no matter how talented I am, I was still a child of 7. He must have been a constant safety net for OG Bojan, it was only after he left Barcelona that his mental stability deteriorated.

But I'm not a child, well mentally speaking. The only reason I play with such fervor is that I genuinely enjoy football. It's so much fun. I reckon that's how Ronaldinho feels, no matter the circumstances. Just get a ball at our feet and our smiles never leave.

"Listen, son. Slow down you are playing with boys older than you, you won't last the entire match if you play with such aggression. You'll injure yourself if you keep this up.", he squatted in front of me and started massaging my legs, leaving my hands free to grab a bottle and take a sip of water.

"Papá, I have barely sped up and you are asking me to slow down. Nah, Nah, not today.", with a smirk on my face I gulped down the cool water and looked at my dad.

"Oh and why is today so special?", he inquired raising his eyebrows, while handing me a towel to wipe the sweat off my forehead.

"Didn't you take a look among the spectators?", I asked between quenching my thirst.

"I was uniquely distracted by my son knocking down a player and scoring a goal.", he said smiling, pride shining in his eyes. The noisy background became muted to me as emotions pulsed through me, seeing my father proud of me. 'Maybe there is another reason I play this sport', I thought to myself, controlling my burst of emotions.

"Fair enough.", not yet... I must be like General. No celebration till victory is achieved, no emotions till the battle is won. Stoic.

"So who is this special spectator you seem intent on impressing?"

"Louis Van Gaal.", his hands came to an abrupt stop, and his eyes met mine. Asking for clarification.

"I told you, they'll come looking for me. And now, they're here. They certainly won't be the last.", the voice of my teammates, the spectators, every bit of distraction was drowned out as both son and father processed the logical inference to this information.

Out of nowhere, he hugged me, "I knew. I knew from the moment you first wore that Barcelona kit, I knew my son for destined for greatness. I've always held back from praising you, because I've seen many who shone the brightest went out the fastest...", cupping my face in his hands, with tears slowly forming in his eyes, "... that was what I feared the most, you have been different from the day you were born. And even if things do not turn out in our favor, know this, both your papá and mamá will love you forever."

"I know. And whatever happens from here on out, I'll be something of myself that both of you will be proud of.", I replied with grim determination.

"You already do my boy, you make us proud...", he said with a light smile on his face and we heard the whistle blow signaling the end of half-time, "... go and do what you do best. Let the angel of Linyola rise to heights unthinkable."

He helped me wear my shoes and tied my laces, "Papá, I love you."

"I know.", he whispered as I sauntered toward the field.