Destiny Chosen By Life E-Book

John Simons

• Herausgeber: Clube de Autores
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 305

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Destiny Chosen by Life tells the story of a young man embarking on a journey of self-discovery and overcoming personal struggles. The story follows his fight to understand and accept his identity while grappling with an incredible secret that ultimately transforms his life upside-down. Along the way, he develops an incredibly strong character, even as he faces the grief of losing someone dear. Amidst the sorrow, he finds surprising and unexpected support from someone who has been close to him for a long time. This story delves into themes such as bullying, inferiority, identity, love, sexuality, faith, and the ups and downs of life, carrying a powerful message of hope and perseverance in the face of adversity.

Leseprobe

DESTINY CHOSEN BY LIFE

CHAPTER 1

The village of Maple Hollow, tucked away in the rolling hills of Vermont, was a tiny settlement with just a few dozen residents. A modest family lived there: Margaret and George Andrews, along with their daughter Helen. It was during a summer barn dance, organized by the local church in nearby Woodbridge, that Helen met the man who would become her husband — Michael Barnes.

A narrow, winding dirt road was the only connection to the outside world. People lived off the land and their livestock, following the rhythm of the seasons. In winter, the path turned into a muddy, frozen mess, often impassable for days. Few ever went to Montpelier, the nearest town with stores and a hospital, and even fewer ventured beyond. Life in Maple Hollow moved slowly, almost untouched by the bustle of the outside world.

After three years of marriage, Helen became pregnant. She and Michael had already agreed: if it was a boy, he’d be named John, and if it was a girl, Johanna.

Helen hadn’t seen a doctor during the early months of the pregnancy. Being so far from any clinic or OB-GYN, she only realized she was expecting around the third month.

The one who eventually started monitoring her condition was Dr. Everett Thompson, an elderly general practitioner who lived in the slightly larger village of Brookfield. He wasn’t a specialist, but had seen many pregnancies over the years and did what he could — measuring her belly, checking her blood pressure, asking about symptoms, and offering practical advice.

“Helen, you really should be seen by an obstetrician. At the very least, go to the maternal clinic in Montpelier.”

“Doctor, it’s just too far. I can’t be gone for a full day, especially now. The corn harvest’s about to begin. If I miss even a single day, we risk losing it all.”

I can’t stop now, not even if I’m pregnant — she thought.

“Working like this, Helen… you might go into labor early.”

“I know, doctor. But we’re farm folks. If we don’t work, we don’t eat. My folks are getting on in years — they can’t do it all alone.”

“Just be careful, Helen.”

“I’ll do my best, Doctor. I promise.”

She knew he was right, but there was no public transport. Only a morning bus that came through at 6:30 a.m., and one back at 5 p.m. — and even that didn’t run every day. Taking a trip into Montpelier meant a full day lost.

How could I leave everything behind just to sit waiting hours for an appointment?

As she’d said to Dr. Thompson, harvest season didn’t wait for babies.

By her eighth month, Helen was too heavy to work the fields. She stayed home, doing lighter chores while her parents took over outside. She focused on the house, keeping busy but resting when she could.

When her water broke, panic set in. But her mother — who had delivered three children of her own and had helped with many births in the community (they used to call her “Midwife Margaret”) — stayed calm.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. This is just the beginning of labor.”

But when she gently pressed Helen’s belly, something felt wrong. The baby wasn’t positioned properly.

“We need to call a cab and head to the hospital. I don’t like the feel of this.”

“Mom, I’m scared…”

What if something goes wrong? What if I can't take it?

“You’ll be fine, Helen. Just hold on.”

And so, they drove through the snowy back roads of Vermont, finally arriving at Central Vermont Medical Center, where Helen was seen by an obstetrician at last. An ultrasound showed nothing alarming — though the baby’s sex remained a mystery. There was no time for further tests.

The labor was long and grueling. Helen was unprepared — physically and emotionally. She had gained a lot of weight during the pregnancy. Her mother had told her she was “eating for two,” and Helen followed the advice faithfully. She was always hungry.

Now overweight, labor was more difficult, and the baby was large. A vaginal incision had to be performed. Her screams echoed through the small-town hospital.

“I can’t take this anymore — please, make it stop!” she kept crying.

At last, the baby was born — a healthy boy. All the fear and pain melted away. Helen and Michael were overjoyed. To them, he looked like a little porcelain doll: John.

Life changed overnight. Though they had long considered moving to Boston in search of a better life, the arrival of John made the decision urgent. After much discussion, they made the painful choice of leaving their baby in the care of Helen’s mother for a while.

“It hurts more than I imagined… but we don’t have a choice” she said to Michael.

He just nodded. His heart broke too, and words failed him.

They moved to the city.

In Boston, they rented a small room in a weathered brownstone, managed by Mrs. Edwina Leary, a childhood friend of Helen’s mother. She welcomed them like family and offered a discounted rent until they got back on their feet.

Michael, a farm mechanic by trade, knew everything about tractors and heavy machinery. He had some experience with cars but never worked in a formal garage. Still, he applied to several workshops and was eventually hired at one that desperately needed help. The owner was grateful to finally find someone reliable.

Helen had no degree and limited work experience beyond housework and farming. After weeks of searching, she found a job cleaning for two elderly sisters in the suburbs. They appreciated her strength, honesty, and dedication.

For the next three years, they worked constantly. John stayed with his grandmother in Maple Hollow, and Helen's heart ached every day. But daycare in the city was out of reach — and they didn’t want to risk his health or safety.

I’m missing my son’s whole childhood… — she thought often, in silence.

At least once a month, she traveled back to Vermont alone, to save on fares. Sometimes Michael took his turn. They both felt the weight of guilt — as if they had abandoned their child.

Finally, after three long years, they were able to rent a small apartment in Somerville, on the edge of Boston. It had three rooms and one bathroom — old but decent. Far from downtown, but with a train station nearby.

They took the risk, trusting their financial stability. Michael had earned a raise, and even did overtime. Helen was now working regular hours for three homes and insisted on making room in her schedule for John.

At last, their son — now three years old — was brought to live with them.

The family was together again.

CHAPTER 2

John, like most only children, was always a rather isolated boy, with little interaction with peers his age. He spent a lot of time at home, playing alone — most often with toys he made up himself, crafted from all sorts of objects and his boundless imagination.

In the early years of his life, living with his grandparents in the village, there were no children to play with — the population was made up almost entirely of elderly people. When he moved in with his parents, things weren’t much different; he still spent most of his time at home, with little contact with other children.

He lived with his parents in a very small three-room apartment, with a tiny kitchen and a single bathroom. But he had his own room — his little corner, his world.

Since his parents were out working for long hours, he was almost always looked after by a neighbour, Mrs.Evelyn — a retired widow who cared for him lovingly, called him "my boy," and received a modest payment from Helen for her kindness.

When John started primary school, he walked there every day with his mother, as his father had to leave for work much earlier.

At school, John barely spoke. His classmates found him odd, and many often mocked him. He wasn’t ready for the challenge of dealing with other children — something he had never experienced before. It made him feel inferior, left out, and pushed him to retreat from social interaction.

Among the children at the primary school, there was an innocent sort of cruelty — fuelled by restless, wild, untamed energy.

And in those early days, John struggled deeply. Because he was somewhat peculiar and alone, he became a frequent target for teasing and ridicule.

Older kids from higher years would push the younger ones, beat them, and steal things — school supplies, balls, whatever they fancied.

The younger students did their best to avoid them and ran to the teachers, who sometimes scolded the troublemakers harshly. But this only stirred more fury and revenge from the "big ones," making it clear that the best strategy was to endure in silence and not make waves.

John was no exception. He suffered those cruelties too, hiding his sadness behind silence. He told his parents he had lost his school materials, just so he wouldn’t have to reveal the truth. Unaware of what was really happening, they scolded him for being careless and distracted.

In the last two years of primary school, once among the "seniors," John never passed on the bullying he had suffered. He refused to take part in the abuse of younger kids — something he had never agreed with.

Despite these troubles and insecurities, he finished primary school with good grades — to his parents’ great pride.

But when he moved on to secondary school, things worsened. It was a real shock, plunging him into episodes of deep anguish and suffering. The older students imposed humiliating initiation rituals on the newcomers, and John, because of his shyness, once again became one of the favourite targets for bullying.

But John harboured a well-kept secret… and that was part of why he withdrew even further.

One grey afternoon, after coming home from school, John entered the house wrapped in a heavy silence. His mother hadn’t returned yet, and it was Mrs.Evelyn — who kept a spare key — who opened the door for him. Without saying a word, he went straight to his room. He sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing his backpack, and pulled out a crumpled notebook — his improvised diary, made of loose sheets bound with a worn-out elastic band.

If I disappeared, would anyone even notice? — he scribbled, his handwriting shaky. He stared at the sentence for a while. A tear rolled down his cheek. He couldn’t hold it in. He lay his head on the pillow and let himself cry in silence, sobbing softly so as not to wake Mrs.Evelyn, who had dozed off on the living room sofa. He was tired of pretending everything was fine. Tired of the teasing. Tired of feeling wrong.

I can’t tell anyone… ever. They’ll laugh at me. Or worse… — he thought.

In that moment, he felt the weight of the world pressing down on his small shoulders. It wasn’t just sadness — it was a deep, ancient feeling of not belonging anywhere.

And there he lay, silently, on the bed, while the sunlight filtered through the blinds. The notebook lay closed by his side. His heart, wide open within.

CHAPTER 3

After John was born, his mother noticed that his “little thing” seemed far too small. Somewhat unsettled, she asked the nurse whether that was normal. The answer came in a confident and reassuring tone:

“It’s small because the baby is small. When he grows, it’ll grow with him.”

Mrs. Helen, uneducated and being this her first child, accepted the explanation with a kind of innocent trust, relying on the authority behind the words.

As the years passed, Helen couldn’t help but notice that John’s little willy didn’t seem to grow as one might expect. Every so often, when she saw other babies or young boys, the doubt resurfaced: her son didn’t look like the others. Even his “little balls” seemed smaller and somewhat different.

Eventually, she shared her concern with her husband, who, although he saw nothing unusual, responded pragmatically:

“Looks normal to me… but if it’s stuck in your head, just take him to the doctor so he can have a look” he replied, unbothered.

Helen scheduled an appointment and took her son to the family doctor. The doctor examined the child quickly, assessed his development, asked a few questions, and made some notes. At the end, he gave her a calm smile:

“Mrs. Helen, your son is in excellent health. I see nothing abnormal.”

But she hesitated, shifting in her chair, and asked, in a nearly embarrassed tone:

“But... Doctor, don’t you think his little thing is too small?”

The doctor gave another glance, with the same casual air of someone who sees these things daily. Though he noticed the organ was, indeed, smaller than average for the age, he chose not to alarm her.

“Look, Mrs. Helen, there are children — and adults, too — with larger penises and others with smaller ones. That doesn't affect function. Your son does have an organ slightly below average size, but there’s no sign of any problem. When he reaches adolescence, with hormonal changes, it’s likely to grow. What matters is that there are no major deformities or clinical signs of concern — and there aren’t.”

She nodded, letting out a quiet sigh, visibly relieved:

“Thank you, Doctor. That puts my mind at ease.”

She returned home feeling calmer. Later, she told Manel what had happened.

“See, woman? It’s nothing serious. You can stop worrying.”

And so the years passed, until the end of basic school, with the cruelty and teasing of other kids still ongoing.

Because of his unusually small penis, John became an easy target for mockery. The other boys teased him mercilessly, saying he had a “little worm” instead of a “dick.”

Shame settled in early, and with it came a deep-rooted complex. John began to avoid using the school toilets at all costs — especially if there were other boys around.

He would always hide his genitals, choosing to urinate only at home whenever possible. That constant self-restraint sometimes backfired: on occasion, he couldn’t hold it and ended up wetting himself. When that happened, the humiliation was brutal. Once again, he became the butt of cruel jokes, with classmates calling him “pee baby” and laughing without pity.

The situation gradually became unbearable. It deeply affected him, eating away at his self-confidence and pushing him further into isolation. John grew more and more withdrawn, locked inside his own world.

One day, during bath time, John looked at his mother with a serious, innocent expression and asked:

“Mommy… why is my willy so small?”

Mrs. Helen smiled gently, trying to hide her concern:

“Oh darling, that’s normal. You’re still little… it’ll grow later.”

“But, Mommy… the other boys are the same age as me and theirs are much bigger.”

“Son, people are different. Some have long noses, others short. Some have brown eyes, others green. Some have brown hair, others blond or red... isn’t that true?”

“Yes...” he answered, looking down “...but why did I have to get a small willy instead of a long nose? That would’ve been so much better...”

“Well, my love... but we don’t get to choose. That’s up to God.”

“And why did God decide I should have this?”

“Darling, only the Lord knows. I believe one day you’ll understand...”

“Mommy… why me?” he murmured, eyes filling with tears.

Why am I like this? No one will ever like me… not ever. — the question throbbed inside him, unanswered.

His mother fell silent for a moment. That question tore at her heart. She felt helpless, on the verge of crying too.

“Don’t cry, Johnny… all this will pass, you’ll see. I’m sure of it!”

My God… how do I protect him from this? — she thought.

She hugged him tightly. Still sad, he let himself be comforted in her warm, quiet embrace — where, for a moment, the world felt a little lighter.

From the age of nine onwards, he began to bathe on his own. He no longer wanted his mother’s help.

“Mommy, I can shower by myself” — he said one day.

His mother was surprised:

“Are you sure? Will you get properly washed? Behind the ears and your bottom too?”

“Of course! “ he answered, trying to sound confident.

From that day forward, he took control of everything. No one saw him — not his mother, not his father — and he began to feel better, less ashamed.

At school, as soon as he could, he stopped using the urinals and opted for the cubicles with doors. That way, no one could see or make comments about his “organ.”

At night, alone in his room, John sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at his hands, in silence.

If no one sees me... maybe they won’t mock me. Maybe they won’t hate me — he reflected.

CHAPTER 4

Time moved on, and John grew in silence. He was now eleven years old and remained a quiet, distracted boy, always with a distant look in his eyes. Few noticed what stirred within him, but inside, everything was building up — the doubts, the fears, the insecurities, and the longing to be accepted, without knowing how.

At school, he continued to shield himself, avoiding locker rooms, physical activities that involved undressing, or even simple games where the body might be exposed. He was afraid of laughter, of comments, of stares.

Over time, he learned to avoid certain routes in the corridors, to recognise who might make fun of him, to anticipate the movements of the louder boys. He always walked close to the walls, as if that would make him less visible. His heart would race whenever he heard laughter — even if it wasn’t directed at him. He never really knew.

Break times, which for many were moments of joy, were for him a minefield. That’s why retreating to the library had become a habit. There, he would dive into books as if diving into another life. He read slowly, savouring every word, and often imagined himself as someone else — one of the heroes in the stories, someone brave, handsome, with a clear destiny.

That year, the teacher assigned an individual project: to write a free text with the title “Who am I?” John took the challenge seriously. He spent days thinking about what to write, tore up pages, started over, hesitated.

In the end, he wrote a short piece, simple but heartfelt:

"I am an eleven-year-old boy. I like listening to music and being alone. Sometimes I wish I were invisible. Sometimes I wish I were someone else. I like nature and watching the sky at dusk. I don’t really know who I am, but I know I’m different."

When the teacher read the text, she said nothing at first, though it moved her deeply. But at the end of the class, she asked him to stay behind for a moment.

“John, I really liked what you wrote. You know, sometimes being different is a kind of strength?”

He shrugged.

Strength? If only she knew...

“You have real talent for writing. Have you ever thought about keeping a diary?”

John shook his head shyly, but the idea stayed with him. At home, he pulled out the old elastic-bound notebook where he had scribbled before. He opened to a blank page and wrote:

Today someone told me that being different can be a good thing. But I don’t believe it. Maybe one day.

He closed the notebook and hid it under the mattress. No one could read it. It was his secret place.

That night, he went to bed without a word. The lamp’s light cast shadows on the walls, and he imagined those shadows as characters — silent companions with whom he could speak without fear of being judged. He had a gift for inventing stories, even if he never told them aloud.

Outside, it had begun to rain. And John, standing by the window, wondered what he might write the next day.

CHAPTER 5

When John moved on to secondary school at the age of twelve, he still felt small, insignificant, under pressure — constantly belittled.

There were groups of teens for every taste — united by interests, ideologies, race, or even wild anti-system behaviour. Many were cruel. Others formed true gangs that dominated the school, confronting the rest of the students and spreading fear.

Some of the repeaters, already on a collision course with the law, ruled the school through terror. But no one dared report them — the fear of retaliation was stronger than courage.

One such gang was led by a boy nicknamed Stickman — so called because he had a habit of beating up younger pupils, and sometimes even his own peers, often with a stick or anything resembling one. His crew included Peter Greene Black — “PB” to his mates — the ever-redheaded Red, Kickin’ Tony, whose tackles left bruises both on and off the pitch, and Chewie, who never stopped chewing gum, not even in class.

Another gang, made up of real tough kids, included older repeaters. It was led by “Big Pete”, aged around fourteen or fifteen, notorious for starting conflicts that often ended in physical fights with rival groups.

There were also gangs made up of Black teens, many with African-American or West African backgrounds, and they were equally feared. Two of these groups — one led by Deon, whose family had roots in Detroit but traced ancestry to Nigeria, and the other by Eloy, whose parents had emigrated from Ghana to the Bronx before moving north — were constantly at odds with each other.

They despised each other and cast a shadow of fear over the rest of the student body. Their clashes — especially off-campus — sometimes escalated into knife fights and ended with someone in the ER.

The older, heavier students — practically adults — bullied the younger ones, forcing them to “keep their heads down” and delivering merciless slaps to the back of the neck.

Even among the girls, social lines were sharply drawn — from the well-groomed, popular types to the loud and aggressive — and none of them hesitated to humiliate the new kids, boys and girls alike.

John was thrown headfirst into this hostile environment. He never managed to fit in with any group and quickly became a target for bullying and mockery. Shy and skinny, he was an easy mark.

Over time, the bullying became routine. They hit him, shoved him, mocked him, and made him do humiliating things. The school — which he had once hoped would be a fresh start — turned into a daily nightmare.

One day, they went further than usual:

“Hey, runt! Get over here! Head down!”Thwack! A sharp slap landed on the back of his neck.

“On your knees! Kiss my sneakers!”

Humiliated, John obeyed silently. An older girl with a cruel smirk stepped forward:

“Come here, you little fairy!” she said, then shoved him hard to the ground.

He whimpered. Another boy laughed and joined in:

“Go cry to your Mommy, baby!” — then smacked him across the back.

Seeing a brief chance, John bolted, running as fast as he could — but he’d left his backpack behind.

The others hurled it over the school fence, scattering its contents across the sidewalk. He turned to leave the grounds and retrieve it.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked the security guard.

“Sorry… they threw my backpack outside. I need to get it.”

“Stay here. I’ll get it,” the man said, closing the gate behind him. Moments later, he returned with the bag and handed it over.

“Here you go. Be smart, kid — don’t go looking for trouble.”

John said nothing.

But it wasn’t my fault... — he thought to himself.Eventually, he started dreading school.

“Mom, I don’t wanna go… Please don’t make me!”

“What’s going on, honey?”

“Nothing, Mom… I just don’t like it there.”

“Are they hurting you? Are kids picking on you?”

“Not exactly…” he hesitated. “But don’t tell Dad! That would just make it worse!”

“Worse? Why?”

“If I say anything, they’ll beat me up even more! They say if we tell, they’ll make our lives hell…”

“So they are beating you.” Her voice trembled, and her eyes were already filling with tears. “This has to stop. I’m talking to your father.”

“No, Mom, please don’t! It’ll only get worse…”

But it didn’t help. Despite his pleas, his parents went to the school and spoke with his homeroom teacher. Visibly alarmed, the teacher promised to take action right away.

“From now on, John will be escorted by staff and handed directly to his parents every afternoon,” the teacher assured them.

The decision brought some relief to his parents. But John stayed anxious.

“They’re gonna call me a Mommy’s boy… They’ll corner me in the bathroom!”

“Then don’t go in there,” his dad said bluntly. “Just wait until you’re home.”

“It’s not that simple…”

“At first, it’ll be hard,” his mom said gently, trying to reassure him. “But things will calm down.”

“I hope so…” John murmured, eyes on the floor.

CHAPTER 6

In those early days, just to feel safe, John stuck close to the school aides — Ms. Mabel, Ms. Gladys, and Ms. Mary — or lingered near the front office staff. His bullies gave him no peace. They called him every name in the book — especially “Mommy’s boy” and “sissy” — and swore they’d get back at him.

He spent the rest of the school year under constant threat. At home, he couldn’t concentrate or focus on homework. His grades began to reflect the toll on his mental state.

It was only during summer break that he finally felt able to breathe again — at least for a while.

The following school year, a new batch of freshmen arrived, and John’s former tormentors moved up the social ranks in the school’s unofficial hierarchy. His case was no longer the center of attention, and he slowly began to feel more at ease.

That second year, the once-isolated “newbies” started to band together for support and protection. That made bullying harder — though not impossible.

In class, John did everything he could to remain invisible. Still painfully shy, he avoided being called on, going up to the board, or speaking aloud. Unlike most of his classmates, whose voices were beginning to drop with puberty, his remained high-pitched — almost childlike, even girlish, as they mocked — so he spoke as little as possible.

After the nightmare of his first year, he began to study hard for tests. But despite his best efforts, his grades stayed average — far below what he knew he was capable of. His lack of self-confidence and fragile self-esteem held him back.

And then there was the constant fear that someone might find out about his “problem.” The anxiety gnawed at him day and night, making it nearly impossible to focus.

Things got worse again during P.E. class, when students were now required to shower afterward. That meant being naked in front of the others — and that terrified John.

After a few torturous days trying to hide his condition in the locker room, he finally went to his parents.

“Mom, Dad… I don’t want to shower at school. Please… find a way.”

“Why, son? What’s going on?” his father asked.

“Because I don’t want them to see that I have a tiny penis… They’ll make fun of me.”

“You still have that issue?” his father asked, surprised. “It’s still that small?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Let me see…” said Michael. And sure enough, he saw that his son’s penis was much smaller than average.

“Hmm… okay. I’ll talk to your homeroom teacher,” he said, visibly concerned.

“No, Dad! You can’t tell him — or anyone! If you do, it’ll spread around… and everyone will find out!”

“But how else can I stop them from making you shower? It’s part of good hygiene.”

“Oh, Dad… Just ask our doctor for a note. There’s a kid at school with asthma, and his mom gave the school a note saying he doesn’t have to shower.”

“But you don’t have asthma…”

“Still — please, Dad… Ask the doctor for something. Maybe he’ll understand…”

Michael went to speak with Dr. Phillip, explaining the situation.

“All right… Let’s take a look,” the doctor said gently, keeping a calm and professional tone.

He examined John carefully. It was true — his penis was noticeably small for his age. But not wanting to cause alarm, the doctor spoke in a warm, reassuring way:

“Well, yes, it’s small — but believe me, that’s going to change. Once puberty starts — and it won’t be long now — it’ll begin to grow. Do you know what puberty is?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Good. Then you know it takes time, but your body will change when the time is right.”

“When will that be, Doctor?”

“Usually, it starts growing gradually until around age eighteen — give or take.”

“So… it’s never going to grow,” John mumbled, downcast.

“It will, John. You have to trust your body.”

John nodded quietly, swallowing the doctor’s words — though sadness lingered in his eyes.

Understanding the emotional impact, Dr. Phillip wrote a note excusing John from showers for medical reasons. While the condition wasn’t strictly physical, the psychological toll was real — and valid.

CHAPTER 7

John suffered deeply from his condition and the constant anguish it caused him. He avoided getting involved with others, never teased anyone, and did everything he could to stay under the radar.

That secret weighed heavily on him. It played a huge role in his lack of confidence and low self-esteem. He felt small, diminished — and lived in a state of constant anxiety, afraid that someone might find out what was really going on. That ever-present tension distracted him, kept him from participating in class, and pushed him away from the other kids.

Often, when classmates mocked him — for refusing to shower, for his high-pitched voice, or his unusually soft skin — the hurt would cut deep.

At home, he’d retreat to his room, lie on his bed staring at the ceiling, alone and lost in thought:

What’s the point of my life? What’s going to happen to me? Why is this such a burden?

And then the tears would come. Nearly every day, he cried. But he hid it all from his parents, who never seemed to notice.

It was a dark time — full of sadness, discouragement, and silent despair. He had no energy to face school. No desire to exist.

Oddly enough, though terrified of the showers, John actually liked P.E. class. They played different ball games, ran laps, did some gymnastics... But what truly lit him up was soccer — the only thing that let him forget his troubles, even if just for a while.

Though he was small and not built for rough play, he had great footwork. He could dribble with agility and handled the ball with surprising skill, impressing some of the kids.

During recess, they also played bottle-cap soccer on the blacktop. It was fun, but often ended with scraped knees, torn pants, and wrecked sneakers. Still, those games helped him feel more included and slowly chipped away at the painful memories of his first year.

Sometimes, when he got hurt, he’d let out a whimper — and that alone would earn him the usual insult: “Sissy.” Eventually, he learned to hold it in, even when the blows hurt.

He often came home with bruises, ripped clothes, and cuts on his hands and knees — especially in summer, when he wore shorts. His legs became the main casualties of that quiet resistance.

His mother couldn't hide her frustration:

“John, we can’t keep buying new clothes. Pants are expensive — and money doesn’t grow on trees!”

He felt trapped — caught between the cruelty of school and the stress at home. Pressured from every side.

But soccer gave him courage. It was the one thing that truly excited him. And because he actually had talent, he was invited to join one of the class teams — the Yellows — who competed in the school’s indoor soccer tournaments.

The little guy took plenty of knocks, with his share of tumbles. But he also stood out on the court with clever moves. He didn’t score goals, but he made great assists. Some teammates started to warm up to him, even treating him like their lucky charm.

Frederick Perkins, Richard Thornfield, Louis Sanders, Peter Greene Olivert, and Andrew Carver were his teammates on the Yellows.

“Man, this kid’s a string bean, but he sure knows how to play!” Louis laughed.

John played as a winger — the one who brought the ball upfield and set up plays for the strikers. Because he was light on his feet, he could run a lot. He dribbled like few others, with a natural flair and instinct for the game.

Among the group, Richard stood out as more sensitive than the rest. He supported John more than anyone else — maybe just because he had a good heart, as people say.

John began to develop a special friendship with him — a quiet affection that, truthfully, ran deeper on John’s side than Richard’s, who remained more reserved.

CHAPTER 8

For John, Christmas was a time of joy and hope. He looked forward to seeing what gift would be waiting “by his little shoe.”

That year, he was especially excited — the school term had just ended. His exams hadn’t gone particularly well, but he had passed. Things weren’t as easy as in elementary school anymore, but they were definitely better than his first year — the year of crisis.

John wasn’t what you’d call a nerd, but he studied hard.

On Christmas morning, he unwrapped a game console. He was over the moon. Most of his classmates already had one, and he’d always felt a little left out not having his own.

His parents, Michael and Helen, were modest people. He still worked as a mechanic, and she cleaned houses for a wealthy family. They didn’t make much, but as his mom liked to say, they had their “little blessings.”

Knowing how much John wanted the console, they’d made a sacrifice and bought a second-hand model — a gift meant to reward his effort and encourage him to keep working hard in school.

“I hope this thing doesn’t pull you away from your studies,” his dad warned. “If it does, it’s going straight back to the store.”

“No, Dad, I swear — I’ll work even harder to deserve it.”

“We’ll see about that,” his mom said with a grin.

Of course, the first few days of break were all about gaming. He only had one game, but he played it over and over without getting bored.

One day, while running an errand for his mom, John ran into Richard by chance and proudly told him about the Christmas present.

“Oh man, I’ve had that one forever,” Richard said. “I’m actually waiting for the new model… But I’ve got tons of games. If you want, I can bring them over and we can play at your place.”

“Awesome, man! Let’s do it!”

They spent the whole week gaming — racing games, platformers, strategy, shooters, fighting games… there was something for every mood. Not everything went smoothly — they bickered now and then over the controls or who was winning — but they always made up by the end of the day.

That week together, on top of being teammates in the indoor soccer league, made their bond stronger. They also shared a similar taste in music. Often, they’d sit side by side, playing while listening to playlists on Richard’s phone — exchanging glances, inside jokes, and bursts of laughter.

There was only one thing they seriously disagreed on: soccer teams. Richard was a die-hard New England Revolution fan. John rooted for New York City FC.

They usually watched matches together — most often at Richard’s place — and nearly every time ended up arguing about it. Sometimes the debates got so intense it looked like they might come to blows.

“Didn’t you see that guy foul the striker? He threw him to the ground, and the blind ref didn’t even blink! Then he gave him a yellow card!”“That wasn’t a foul! The guy flopped! The yellow was totally deserved!”“Look at the slow-mo replay! It’s right there — clear as day!”“It was barely a tap. The other guy was putting on a show!”

Later, New York City FC scored — but the goal was disallowed.

“Come on! He was level when he got the ball! That ref’s been bought!”“No, he wasn’t. He was offside.”“Check the replay, man!”“It’s close — but the ref was right there!”“You’re so biased! You never admit the truth! Replays don’t lie!”

Then New England Revolution scored.

“Goal! Boom! Take that!”“Are you kidding me? He was offside! That ref is so crooked!”

A few minutes later:

“That’s a foul by the NYCFC defender!”“No way! That was a clean tackle!”“Then why’s the guy holding his ankle?”“He’s faking it! Wasting time!”

Finally, NYCFC scored a legit goal.

“GOAL! That was a screamer! Boom — in your face!”“Ugh…” Richard groaned, unable to argue. The shot had been flawless.“They were asleep on defense… left him totally wide open.”“Doesn’t matter — it was clean.”

Richard didn’t respond. He knew John was right.

The match ended in a tie. They said goodbye a little bitterly.

“Later, then.”“Yeah… see ya.”

But by the next day, they’d already forgotten the argument. They stayed friends, as always.

The NYCFC–New England Revolution rivalry didn’t stop at TV matches. It extended all the way to foosball.

A group of friends from school would often gather at a local diner that had an old, slightly beat-up but still working foosball table. Matches were loud, fast, and fiercely competitive.