A Girl’s Dream

Dreams, like the colours of the waves, sometimes act like chameleons consistently making everywhere their home. Over time, they stop wandering about — mapping out what is and isn’t around them. They impress their strength on the environment, matching their uniqueness with wherever they are convinced is home. My dreams are the same too. They come in flips of past and present wars fought without a fist but a determination to be.

My childhood, a stone throw to a number of doubts, found a voice in sports. It’s like a jet thrust into an imagined world. But many birthdays rushed in with greater wishes reliving the sparks of greatness I had read in books and viewed on screens of varied sizes.

Some say, “the mind is a tool”. Others reply, “no, it is a bridge”. Sweet Jesus, I know the mind is everything there is to who a man is and isn’t. I better be a mind scientist — a psychologist — nothing outside space. Mentalism is a lonely world but being a sport psychologist is a bucket of fries and a rich blend of ice cream.

The core of human greatness and motivation is where I see myself digging. I want to coach great athletes and win the best and all there is in the game. “Football is a game of passion”, Winger once said. But I don’t want to only exhibit the passion, I want to write an amazonian narrative about the beauty of a little girl’s dream.

Oh yes, when the trophies and medals have my name on them, I’ll sit, again, my cousins down at a brunch reminding them of how sparkling a child’s dream can be. I haven’t visited the Queen or the White House for a walk down the aisles or keep a smile for the cameras still, I am confident that in my quackery realities as a mid-age teenager, I’ll find my voice and it will reach out to the world.

I am a dreamer, a seer and everything I can imagine. It’s a girl’s dream, my dream.