2024-09-18, 04:54 PM - Word count:
A boy with a ball and a dream.
That was all George Shaheen had ever been. All that had defined him. And all he had ever needed to be.
His parents used to lament that he spurned shifts at the family fruit store, instead spending countless hours kicking the ball through the streets, from the family home to the Saint Elias Church to the monastery of Our Lady of Nourieh to the village center and back home again.
At first they did not understand. But over time they came to understand. This game. This sport. That ball was what made George happy. And over even more time, they came to understand that that ball could also be George’s future.
And so those early lamentations eventually transformed into exaltation – an unadulterated joy at watching their son fall deeper in love each time he took the pitch.
George had always been uniquely gifted. He had always been bigger than the other kids in Hamat. He was faster. He was stronger. And he was more driven.
Soon the local pitch could no longer contain him. He was recruited to play for bigger and better clubs in the Batroun District. In the North Governorate. In the Lebanese Premier league.
He continued to work. His game continued to improve. And the dreams of this boy with a ball continued to grow larger and larger.
Today he stands in the front of his family’s fruit stand. In his left hand he clutches a passport. In his right, a plane ticket. In his pack? Some clothes. And a ball.
His destination: Parts unknown. To Meddilin, Colombia. To the Academy club. To a place as foreign to George’s mind as its language to his tongue.
George’s arms first embrace his father father. Then his mother.
He gives each a final squeeze. A kiss.
With tears, they say goodbye to their boy with a ball. But not to his dream. That they will share with him in this new beginning, even if it must be from half a world away.
That was all George Shaheen had ever been. All that had defined him. And all he had ever needed to be.
His parents used to lament that he spurned shifts at the family fruit store, instead spending countless hours kicking the ball through the streets, from the family home to the Saint Elias Church to the monastery of Our Lady of Nourieh to the village center and back home again.
At first they did not understand. But over time they came to understand. This game. This sport. That ball was what made George happy. And over even more time, they came to understand that that ball could also be George’s future.
And so those early lamentations eventually transformed into exaltation – an unadulterated joy at watching their son fall deeper in love each time he took the pitch.
George had always been uniquely gifted. He had always been bigger than the other kids in Hamat. He was faster. He was stronger. And he was more driven.
Soon the local pitch could no longer contain him. He was recruited to play for bigger and better clubs in the Batroun District. In the North Governorate. In the Lebanese Premier league.
He continued to work. His game continued to improve. And the dreams of this boy with a ball continued to grow larger and larger.
Today he stands in the front of his family’s fruit stand. In his left hand he clutches a passport. In his right, a plane ticket. In his pack? Some clothes. And a ball.
His destination: Parts unknown. To Meddilin, Colombia. To the Academy club. To a place as foreign to George’s mind as its language to his tongue.
George’s arms first embrace his father father. Then his mother.
He gives each a final squeeze. A kiss.
With tears, they say goodbye to their boy with a ball. But not to his dream. That they will share with him in this new beginning, even if it must be from half a world away.
