It’s just the three of us. We were the only children in this tiny village of ours in Congo. We knew the Republic was one to take children to employ as soldiers. We didn’t know that they’d find us. Our parents told us to stay hidden. Not a sound, not a peek. The sound of the wheels stopping and braking directly outside our household and the households of all the other families in our village. The commanders demanding the same thing over and over; “Your children”. They had a gun to our father’s head. We’d already lost our mother, and I didn’t want our only parent left to leave us. So I went. I was the oldest of the three; 5 years, in fact. They couldn’t possibly have taken our other two. Too young to wield a gun. So I made a request; take me, but not my brothers. I told the middle child in our family to hold our youngest back, should he chase after me. He understood, but he still cried. It was the most I’ve seen them cry. It wasn’t rain that shed from their eyes; it was a river. We drove off. It’s likely the last time I will see them.



    Maroon and white. Every school in our district instantly recognized our school’s colors. Not because we had star players or that our mascot was dope; it was because we were the worst team in the district. Like, 0-12 for the past three seasons. It was ridiculous. But somehow, something changed. We weren’t the top team, but we made playoffs. Then we climbed, and climbed, and all of a sudden; we’re against the top team. First seed. We had one plan that night; to play our hearts out. We broke the curse of losing, so why not gain our first championship? And that’s exactly what we did. We threw our arms in the air, shouting “Colorado!” The trophy in our hands, shining ever so bright in the face of all the hardship we’d already been through. All these players; it was a pleasure to coach them.