Futbol

It’s never just a game.

Eleven hearts.

One ball.

A billion hopes hanging in the air.

You hear the whistle,

and for 90 minutes,

nothing else matters.

Not rent.

Not heartbreak.

Not the headache waiting for you at work tomorrow.

Just the rhythm of the ball,

the roar of strangers who suddenly feel like family,

and the beautiful chaos of possibility.

Futbol is where boys become legends on dusty streets,

with no shin guards; just scars and dreams.

It’s where a goal can silence a stadium

or erupt it like thunder.

It teaches patience.

And pain.

And how to scream with joy through tears.

Some say it’s too emotional:

these people have never watched their country score in the 89th minute.

They’ve never seen a quiet kid

bend a free kick like he’s whispering secrets to the wind.

Futbol is soul.

War without weapons.

Art without brushes.

Religion with cleats.

And even if you don’t play,

if you’ve ever loved anything that didn’t love you back in the way you hoped,

you already understand the game.