You ran around like a child. Well, you were a child. How old should you be now? Eighteen? That's an awful lot of summers to change you, aren't they?
I remember how hyperactive you were, never ceasing to amaze us with the amount of energy stored in you. I wondered if you put it to good use, and I was told that you did. You were a varsity football player, a defensive midfielder.
It wasn't a shock that you chose that sport. I've seen how it grew on you. Your interest first bloomed when we had a family picnic eight years ago, all nine of us along with Aunt Sophia and Father's friend from work, Nathan.
He was the one who fully introduced the game to you, and taught you the ropes. You said you were finally capable of rivaling me, and I laughed, claiming that you were dreaming.
Your shots were off-aim, penalty kicks way too high, but it was clear you were to be a natural in both dribbling and tackling.
Despite that, you never heard the end of the mockery you received from Eleanor, for she was the self-declared goalkeeper of the family. Unthreatened by your skills, she sneered whenever you failed, even if it were in the tiniest bit.
But you two were the most competitive, headstrong people I've ever known, so it was no wonder when you kept trying to score to no avail.
Since our team was losing because of you, I did what any teammate would do. I kept pestering you, demanding that you pass me the ball. Yet you were adamant on scoring.
Needless to say, we argued. It was a nasty dispute; sportsmanship a thing nonexistent. At some point, I must've said what could've truly brought down your great walls of determination. Yet I never truly realized the weight of my words.
You passed me the ball, and I scored.
I celebrated flamboyantly, and our teammates rushed to me, lauding me for terminating your fruitless streak of shots. I was cheered on and patted on the back, and you stood at the far side of the field, wishing it was you. That was your goal, and I snatched it from you.
And for that Aaron, I am terribly sorry.
