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You’re a simple kind of guy. Grew up scraping by, managed to get good grades, and even more valuably: managed to excel in a sport well enough that they’re talking about you. A lot. They’re whispering before you hit your teenage years. You’re just trying to keep your head down and keep working; enough guys never make it, so you’re just trying to get in for now. Be good enough. And you are, and you do, and you get drafted and live with stars in your eyes and at your work and in your home and when the lights are on you give them a showtime they’ll never forget. You make bank, and headlines, and you’re on TV. You even win the championship title; youngest captain ever. You’re on top of the world, unbeatable, and when you roar, the whole world bows down.
Then comes the first injury.
The days pass in a haze. You’re Icarus, scattered among the debris, still burnt from touching the sun. In the hazy din, you meet people, as you always do, new and younger kids that will succeed you one day; or so the talking heads say. They’re talking, still talking about you, talking about you again, but— it’s not good this time. It’s not good at all.
Then comes the second, and the third.
People have moved on from you. They’re used to it; heroes rise and fall, and you’re just another one down. They dug your grave already, they’re ready to lay you to rest. You almost believe them it’s time. They dress you in your funeral robes, and you step forward.
There’s a hand grabbing your arm.
It’s just some kid. You met him, you think. Promising guy, bright young thing, following in your footsteps. He’s probably gonna inherit your throne. But he’s looking at you, he’s looking right at you, and he says, voice stronger than the shovels they used to dig your grave, you’re not done yet. You recognise him. He’s got eyes like you used to have, before the money and the fame and the big leagues, before everything. He’s not you, he’s definitely not you— not from ten years ago, not you now, not you at all, but you see it in his eyes and shoulders and the hand that’s still grabbing your arm. This guy’s keeping his head down, just trying to get in for now. Be good enough. He’s nobody, nobody yet. Young, embarrassing in an endearing way, so damn genuine, and even if he’s looking a little starstruck here and there, when it comes down to it, he’s still looking right at you. No fame, no money, no bullshit, he’s looking at you. At the edge of your grave, where no one believes, this guy does.
You remember, suddenly, what the roar feels like rumbling through your chest.