Parque del Este (Caracas, Venezuela)

The match started. My brother had strangely recovered his mood, but still, seeing as our greatest weakness right now was at the goal, we decided to delay our lines to play on the counterattack with Javier. Still somewhat erratic and unable to focus completely, I tried to control the ball, but the torrential downpour seemed to obstruct not only my vision, but my futsal skills.

We were able to repel several attacks from Los Felinos against our goal during the first fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, with only five minutes left to finish the first half, Javier fouled one of the forward players and he was sent off. To make things worse, the torrential rain weakened into a light drizzle, which gave the goal scorer of this foul a better view of the field; moreover, the referee indicated free kick without a wall. In other words: they were going to kill my brother.

That first goal opened the door to three more during the first time. What a mess! We gathered at our side of the bench, completely demoralized. As if the day didn't suck enough, Javier's replacement was no one but

Ronald, whose dark circles denoted a long night without sleep. I was sure he had spent the night playing his online video games. Now we were definitely toast!

During the first half time interval my father told us some strategies aimed to try and make a draw. Some of the guys from the team congratulated my brother, except for Javier, who blamed him for the goals the other team scored.

"Congrats, Azael, you're doing great!" I said, trying to cheer him up.

"Of course, brother, I owe it to God and, of course to..." his eyes drifted again to the empty seat.

I tried to say something but the referee blew the whistle again, signaling it was time to go back to the field. With only three minutes remaining to finish the match, we made it: we tied 4-4, although Ronald committed a foul and now the other team had the possibility of scoring another goal. The guy who was going to kick was the best forward player of the league. He slowly put the ball on the ground. We were all terrified, except my brother, who was focused, a slight, confident smile on his face. The referee blew the whistle and my brother threw himself with all his strength right to the opposite side of the ball.

The sound of his head hitting against the iron post was more bloodcurdling than the image of the ball impacting against the net. The euphoria of the fans vanished as they noted that Azael was convulsing. The paramedics and everyone else around hurried to my brother, who lay unconscious with only the whites of his eyes showing. The collar of his shirt was quickly turning red, as the blood flowing from the wound on his head stained it. Tears started to fall down from my father's eyes. He helped the paramedics to immobilize the neck of my inert brother and they lifted him and took him to the ambulance. My father gripped my hand and we ran to the truck, to follow at full speed the ambulance headed to the hospital.