A little over a year has passed since the events of what has come to be known as the “Town Hall Boom Boom” incident. Five guesses as to who coined the name. What’s that, you guessed, “Father Tucker”, on the first try? Was it that obvious?

Anyways, during that time, a few things have happened, I suppose. For one, I am now six years old, though as I’m saying this, it occurs to me the obviousness of the statement because, duh, that’s how numbers work. And speaking of numbers, I also grew a few inches, putting me just shy of four feet tall- that’s about 122 cm for you metric folk out there- and weighing in at around 45 pounds, again, about 20.6 kilo, if that’s your thing...

… What? I’ve spent a lot of time overseas on deployment, okay?

Anyways, another thing that has markedly changed is my family dynamic. The communication between Father and I has significantly improved, and not just because my proficiency of Common has advanced, though that is a subject worth tooting a small horn for, if I may. Rather, Father seems more open to me now, treating me as a son instead of a complete stranger. I catch him throwing me the occasional smile when he thinks I’m not looking, and he talks to me about all manner of things: the current politics of the town, his life growing up and even his time as an adventurer, though I can tell there are parts of which he intentionally avoids speaking of. I don’t press him on these, however. After all, I know what it's like to have parts of your past that you’d rather remain in the past...

… Sorry, didn’t mean to get all philosophical on you. On a lighter subject, I’ve also finally mastered my bicycle kick. You know, the one in soccer where you kick the ball backwards over your head to score? In fact, I’m doing one right now, as we speak…

“Goooaaallll!” I exclaim when I catch sight of the ball rolling between our makeshift posts. Instantly, I am swarmed by teammates, local townskids who leap atop me, giggling and cheering, and suddenly, I’m wishing I hadn’t introduced them to the concept of dogpiling.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Can’t… breathe…” I gasp, extending an arm out dramatically into the air, as if pleading for help. That’s when I hear a voice call out.

“Oy! You lot! Get off ‘r him,” it says gruffly.

The command works, and I feel the weight on my back beginning to lessen. When I look up, I see a girl, approximately ten years old, extending her hand out to me. She’s wearing breeches, dirtied with grass stains, and her black hair is tied up into a ponytail. It’s Roger’s daughter, Becka, the one who I said had a mean push kick.

“You ‘k, Sammy?” she asks.

I nod, using her help to stand. Then when I turn to look, I see that she has a pout on her face. “What?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“You didn’t tell me you had a new move,” she says, folding her arms across her chest.

“I just perfected it. I didn’t want to show anyone until it was ready.”

“Uh-huh,” Becka says, sounding unconvinced. But then I see her disapproval melt away. Her blue eyes light up, and she grabs ahold of my wrists with both hands. “Teach me. You’ll teach, won’t you, Sammy? You have to. It’s in the rules.”

I laugh, reminded again how quickly children can change their moods, and nod, saying, “Here, I’ll show you the basics.” I go to grab another ball, then stand so that my back is to the goalposts. Around, I can see other children starting to gather, curious as to what I was about to do. “First,” I begin, “You need to have the ball moderately high in the air. This can be from a pass. Or, if you’re practicing by yourself, you can-” I drop the ball into a juggle, then suddenly kick it high into the air, before catching it with my feet once more. “-do something like that. You’ll want to hit the ball while it’s still above your head. Jump off your kicking foot. Lean back your upper body. Straighten your leg. And-”

The ball flies into the air, and I perform the move as I described. For a moment, I am weightless, my body parallel to the ground. Then my foot strikes the ball, sending it rocketing away, and I land back down, my arms cushioning the fall.

I look up, turning to Becka, “Simple, right?”

“R-right,” she says hesitantly, “I can do that.” I see her go fetch the ball, taking the position where I had stood just moments before. She drops it into a juggle, kicking it high into the air, jumping up as it comes down, and-

-she misses in spectacular fashion. She waits too long, the ball already too low when her foot strikes it. This sends the ball soaring in the wrong direction, into some nearby foliage.

I wave her off. “It was a good first try. I’ll go get it,” I say, already running towards the bushes, in search of the ball.