I thought it was going to be a typical beach day. We would lay under the sun, chat amongst friends, and dip into the cool waves. I was excited for such leisure activities, and I prepared for a relaxing day. But when we arrived to our destination, and I saw the round black and white ball sitting in the sand, my excitement grew to a whole new level. It was time for beach soccer. It was time to relive my proud highschool moments.

The players were soon assigned to different teams, and we huddled in intimate groups to discuss strategies for victory and smothering our opponents in defeat.

I was my prized position from many years ago. I was forward. Butterflies viciously fluttered through my stomach as I realized it had been years since I had played this wonderful sport. I was so excited. I was so happy. I was so free.

I allowed my body to carry me through the game as I softly passed the ball, swiveled my hips, and dodged my opponents. I faked to the left, and I sprinted to the right. I ran ahead, and I stopped the path of the ball. Soft touches, quick feet, observing eyes. I was hot, I was sweaty, I felt great. My rosy cheeks screamed victory, and my panting breath yelped win. The game was ours, our pride was magnetic.

I missed playing soccer so much, and simply kicking the ball on the sandy Barcelona beach was so amazing. I will never forget that thirst to win and that smell of accomplishment.

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