He runs, with strong shoulders like your tight fists.
Quick, like your nimble fingers defeating your opponent. Fly to the sky and hit that ball as hard as you can, that ball which you have felt a thousand times on the tips of your bare fingers.
The smile of a man who grits his teeth and fights for a dream. The smile of a child, who returns home with victory on his face.
It is never an old man.
The green carpet, the rising voice, the sweat and the race, the heart, bursting.
Ready to scream. Only that moment.
Without looking back, without growing, or moving forward.
The race is a dream, to stand out and get up after a fall, the grimace of a blow that doesn't stop you.
Because when you face your opponent, the last one standing, you're not just a man. You are a captain.
