I am here
I am here.
Walking through to the kitchen he makes his morning coffee. Standing there in silence, coma-like yet well aware of all around him as he waits for it to brew, he takes in the noises around him one by one. The rasp of the water in the kettle as it heats up, getting louder to the bubble of the boil. From the outside of the window, a low-key whir and howl of an attempt by the wind to gust before dying away. The bark of a dog from the street, then of another one in reply. A car engine warming before leaving and drifting off in the distance.
It isn't until numerous seconds later he raises his gaze without moving a single part of himself to the window, to the outside to see the hard blue colour up high above us all. Taking his coffee he walks through the living room to the patio doors and slides them open to welcome the outside in. The blue beams brighter and he squints. He sits outside and watches the whisps of steam wave and dance upwards like ghostly snakes from an Indian piper's basket, letting it cool in the morning air before taking a sip.
It is Saturday, he is thankful, there is no rush, he can take his time over everything. He has only to prepare for this afternoon's non-league football match for his team. His Saturday evolves around that very weekly match like a raison d'etre. He is also thankful for that. That he has the capacity to run and move. Even through the injuries and the pain and the rehab of each one and the effort to stay fit as each year passes. Could he have made it as a professional? Did he hear the opportuntity knock? He doesn't know, all he knows is the love for the game, paid or not.
But first the coffee. He sips it slowly, feeling every sip through pursed lips and warming his mouth. he likes this moment even more than the filling breakfast he goes on to make thereafter. It makes him seize the day, it makes him realise:
I am here.
He spends some time pottering about the house doing things he could not do during the week before preparing his sports bag, making sure his football boots were clean. Everything is done with intent.
At intervals he picks up his acoustic guitar and sits for a moment to strum. This can happen at any given time on any given day. He isn't a nimble-fingered flamenco player, nothing prolific at all, but his strumming is like a groove meditation to him. He knows if he plays here and there and keeps on playing he will improve and may even be considered good one day. He just simply likes it, the moment it brings. He strums when he is waiting for dinner to cook, he strums when he is waiting for the taxi to pick him up for a night out. He sometimes strums on nights in with friends. His fingers need to move as much as the rest of him does on a football field or in the gym. Whether he completes all the chords to a whole song or whether he just jams and chops and changes, his perspective can evolve and so can his focus. He knows it's a good place where he is as he plays.
I am here.
He knows how that can change. Like in a river, slow flowing to a sforzando precipice, over a waterfall which plunges to flow quickly through crescendo rapids before its decrescendo in to the calm cruise towards the sea. Where there is then an eddy, a disturbance where the water doesn't flow and goes around in a circle, a fallen branch from a tree, yet we will eventually get to the sea. He knows water is water wherever you are. You can still drown no matter how shallow or calm it is. Water is life yet is merciless.
He drives to the stadium; the traffic is steady, he makes good time, he does not rush his foot on the gas pedal. The jokes and laughs are plenty in the changing room, as always, he is always a part of it, he loves the craic. It's a good bunch of guys. They don't get paid to kick a ball around, but it is one of the most important things to each and everyone of them. They are bonded as if that very ball passed between them at training during the week were bouncing blood cells making veins through the squad and bringing together a blood bond and band of brothers. He knows this is the only place he wants to be right now.
I am here, he tells himself as the team quietens down to listen to the coach's pre-match instructions.
They go out and play. He has never had one sole position, he could play everywhere, all over the pitch, he is here, he is there. Dribble, pass, shoot, tackle. He is present in every action, he plays with purpose. He cannot afford to drop his guard, to lose concentration, to let his mind wander. Because it would essentially take away that one thing he relies on. He would let down his team mates. In the context of the match, the essence of the team must not be lost; without it the match would mean nothing. He needs to stay in the zone, and to get there he can become a person maybe he is not. At least not in his eyes. He can be twenty-one other versions of himself to all the other players on the pitch with him. Whatever it takes to battle on through. Tear it up, tear it down, go out and do it while he can.
It is a hard fought match, they are hanging on to a one-nil lead, he is tired and is substituted 10 minutes from the end. He has given everything he has, he just hopes it is enough. He sits on the bench, he pulls up the hood on his team jacket he has donned to not let the cold in after the sweat, to hold that warmth and that fire still within and not let it escape. His team is winning but he was neither winning or losing, he knows he just has to concentrate his mind on the now.
I am here.
The final whistle blows. They have survived. High-fives, pats-on-the-back and cheers are all around. They are happy, he is content with three more points. The beers are cracked open in the changing room. They have won for another week. They are surviving in this league, but looking to thrive. He knows that, he is very much the same. He speaks inwardly to himself once more.
I am here. But they are not.
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