The Bigger Picture
Pressure either makes diamonds or dust.
That's what we believed. What we knew.
Pressure was a gift to us. The crowd, the cameras, the critics—they were fuel. The more eyes on us, the more locked in we became. We weren't afraid of the spotlight. We wanted it. And deep down, we didn't even want to just be diamonds.
Diamonds can be broken.
We were aiming to be something more.
Different Paths, Same Dream
That Monday morning had a certain buzz to it. Training at Metro always started early, and even though we were on different teams, we walked in together. Three Black boys, each with a bag slung over our shoulders, cleats clacking against the concrete as we stepped into the grind.
Once we hit the complex, we split.
KJ turned right toward the U19 field, fist-bumping us without slowing down. "Y'all better cook today."
Kyle smirked. "As long as you don't embarrass the 19s."
KJ just laughed and jogged off, that confident swagger in his step.
Kyle and I exchanged a look. No words were needed. We knew the deal.
Kyle peeled off toward the U16 side while I headed toward the U13 field. Three different age groups, three different challenges. But the same dream. The same drive. And that quiet rivalry that pushed us further every day.
Pushing Limits
KJ was no longer with the U17s. He'd earned his spot with the U19s, and even though he was one of the youngest there, he was holding his own. The speed, the physicality, the pressure—it wasn't easy. But KJ didn't just survive it. He thrived in it.
His off-the-ball runs were surgical. Coaches kept yelling, "Who let 17 find that space again?!"—only to realize it wasn't luck. It was just how KJ saw the game.
There was a moment during that week's scrimmage when the center back thought he had him pinned near the sideline.
Bad idea.
KJ hit a quick stepover, flicked the ball through the defender's legs, and accelerated like a track star. The assistant coach cursed under his breath, then whistled low. "Jesus Christ, this kid's a problem."
Meanwhile, Kyle was making the U16s look silly. His touch was so precise it was like the ball was drawn to his foot. Defenders knew his signature moves by now—but knowing and stopping it were two different things.
He hit one nutmeg so smooth, the whole field erupted.
"Close your legs, bruh!" someone shouted.
Kyle didn't even grin. Just tapped the ball in the net and jogged back like it was nothing.
And me? I was still working through the struggle of physicality. Some of these U13s were late bloomers who looked 16. But I didn't need to match them with muscle. I had my brain. And my feet.
One drill had us doing passing patterns, and instead of waiting for the winger to get open, I passed him open. The coach froze.
"Who taught you to see that?"
I just shrugged. "It was there."
He didn't say anything else, just wrote something down on his clipboard. I saw his eyes, though.
He noticed.
The Evening Upload
Later that night, we pieced together some footage from the week—KJ's skill moves, Kyle's meg, my no-look through ball. The comments were starting to stack up. More than before.
Some people were hating. Saying we were too cocky. Others said we were the future.
One comment stuck with me:
"They don't play like kids. They play like they know they're going to be stars."
And honestly?
We did.