MY GAME MY RULES

The sky over Marrowfield, Robin Ashwood’s neighborhood, was a canvas of rust and smoke. Concrete buildings leaned tiredly over muddy alleys. The streets smelled of engine oil and grilled plantains. Horns blared like war drums. Somewhere far off, a baby cried. A couple argued. A dog barked.

But none of that mattered to Robin. Not when he had a football under his foot.

On a makeshift pitch behind an old car wash, Robin danced with the ball as if born with it. His bare feet kissed the leather with delicate precision, juggling, flicking, twisting mid-air, then catching it on the back of his neck before flipping it over his head.

He wasn’t training for fun. He was training for escape. "Yo, Rob!" a voice called out from behind the fence. It was Kev, one of the boys Robin used to hang with. He leaned lazily against the wall, chewing gum, smirking. Malik and Jordan were with him, laughing.

"Still out here doing circus tricks, eh? Thought you'd be rich by now," Kev jeered.

Robin ignored them. Malik snorted. "No scouts here, bro. Just goats and gutter water."

Jordan added, “Maybe FIFA's hiding behind that pile of trash.” Laughter.

Robin exhaled, let the ball roll down his back to his foot, then booted it clean into the sky. It soared high above them all hung like a dream before landing perfectly back on his toe. Silence. The laughter stopped.

Kev grunted and spat. “Whatever, man. You’ll die with that ball and nothing to show.”

They disappeared into the street, their voices fading like a bad song, Robin didn’t flinch. This was every day. Bullies. Doubters. Friends turned to ghosts, He looked down at the ball scuffed, faded, but still whole. Like him.

Back at Home...The Ashwood apartment was small. A kitchen the size of a coffin, walls cracked from age, and a ceiling fan that groaned louder than it spun. Robin’s mother, Martha, sat by the stove, stirring a pot of beans.

She looked up and smiled when he entered. “Eat. You need strength,” she said, scooping food into a chipped bowl.

Robin sat. He didn’t speak. Just ate quietly, eyes distant. “You went back to that dusty field, didn’t you?” she asked gently. He nodded.

She reached across the table, placing her rough, calloused hand over his. “They can’t see it yet. But God gave you fire in those feet. One day, the world will notice.”

Robin wanted to believe her. Truly. But some days… it was hard. “I’m almost twenty-one, Ma. Every scout wants kids half my age.”

“They want hype. But what you have is power,” she said firmly. “Let them look away now. You’ll blind them when they finally look back.”

That Night... Robin couldn’t sleep. He climbed out the window and took the ball with him. The moon cast silver shadows on the quiet street. Streetlights flickered like dying candles. He walked to the open space behind Golden Crest Hotel, a fancy building way out of place in a slum.

He’d trained here for years, but tonight… it felt different. The air was crisp. The stars unusually bright. Robin placed the ball down. No cameras. No fans. Just him and silence. He began to juggle.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty. A hundred. Then spins. Turns. Bicycle kicks. Backheel volleys. He created rhythms, music through motion. From a fourth-floor window above, Don Marco, a silver-haired man in a black robe, paused while brushing his teeth. He narrowed his eyes.

Outside, Robin moved like water, effortless, fierce. A football warrior with nothing but shadows for an audience. Don Marco blinked. He grabbed his phone. He hit record.

The Next Morning...Robin woke up to the sound of frying oil and gospel music. Another day. Another disappointment waiting to happen. He checked his phone. No messages. No emails. Nothing new. Same old life.

He kissed his mother’s cheek, grabbed his ball, and left for the market where he worked part-time unloading tomatoes and onions off dirty trucks, Across the city, Don Marco’s video titled “The Hidden Genius I Just Found in Nigeria”, had been posted to his 5 million followers on X (formerly T*****r) and InstaBall.

It exploded. First, it reached a thousand views in two minutes. Then fifty thousand. By breakfast, the hashtag #WhoIsRobinAshwood was trending across Europe.  Clubs were already calling his agent. Except Robin didn’t have one.

A Storm Brews...While Robin carried sacks of onions under a blazing sun, the football world was ablaze. In Italy, Inter Milan’s youth director shouted across the training ground: “Find this boy NOW!”

In England, Manchester United’s assistant coach slammed a table. “I don’t care if he’s from Mars! I want him!”

In France, PSG analysts rewound and zoomed in. “His movement… it’s not just raw talent. It’s instinct.” And yet, Robin had no clue. He was still trying to figure out how to get home with enough change to buy dinner.

Later That Night...Back in his room, Robin collapsed on the bed, drenched in sweat and despair. He scrolled through his dead phone again. Still nothing. He sighed and turned it off. Just as he did, His mom burst in, phone in hand, shaking. “ROBIN!”

He shot up. “Ma? What’s wrong?”

She shoved the phone at him, voice trembling. “Is this you?!”

Robin took it. There he was. In full motion. Juggling. Spinning. Gliding.

A caption glowed beneath it: “Remember this name: Robin Ashwood. The streets just birthed a legend.” His jaw dropped. “Ma… how did this…?”

The phone buzzed. It was a number from Spain. Then another. From France. Another. From England. Then Don Marco called. Robin stared at the screen. His hand trembled. He answered.

A calm, deep voice spoke: “Robin Ashwood, how fast can you get on a plane?” He looked at his mother. She nodded, tears in her eyes. He didn’t just pick up the phone. He picked up destiny.