Grilled Cheese Rehan Rupawalla

Tap-tap-tap. My fingers tactfully hover over my controller as a white ball darts between players on the screen. For me, the afternoon FIFA is a ritual that precedes even my mom’s famous grilled cheeses.

Soccer has long been a keystone in my life. My parents say that as a kid the ball was like another limb; several of my intricate clay creations and carefully arranged seashells fell victim to the black and white projectile. When I was eight, I muscled myself into the Chelsea Academy. At ten, I became a deadly marksman for the International School of Paris. During the last game of that season, my team faced off against the British school, a well-oiled machine of eleven Goliaths. We were down 0-5 when Coach Dave motioned me to the sideline. He crouched down, held my shoulder, and gave me advice that would echo in my head from that point on: “Son, you are faster than them. Boot the ball past them and run; don’t look back.”

I carried that individualistic mentality for five years, and it worked… until it didn’t. After a week of grueling varsity tryouts at Tompkins High School, seventy sweaty and mud-drenched teenage boys sat on wooden benches, waiting. One by one, the coach, a short, red-cheeked man with a thundering voice, beckoned....