NOV 28 — Not again. I craned my neck towards the sounds of garbled words and muted giggles. The boys were up to something. I sat on the edge of my bed and waited…

“Logan boy! Come here!” the voice welcoming yet ominous.

I walked over to the other side of the dorm. The whole team was present. I felt my stomach churn. This was not going to be good.

One of the senior players walked up to me, holding a deflated volleyball. He gave me the once over and smiled. 

“Logan boy, do you want to play football?” he asked.

“In the dorm? Uh... no?” I replied.

He glanced towards the pack of wolves scattered all over. They laughed eerily at my answer. 

“It’s just penalty kicks, Logan boy. It’ll be fun!”

I deliberated the thought. How bad could this be? I nodded to signal that I was game on the idea.

Four of the burliest players got up and grabbed my limbs, each clinging onto one to ensure I remained in place. I was positioned at one end of the dorm. The rest of the team — minus the “limb guys” — lined up at the other.

I quickly internalised everyone’s role. The guys on the other side of the room were the kickers. I, obviously, was the goalkeeper. What the hell were the “limb guys” doing? How was I expected to save shots if they were latching hard onto my hands and legs like gum on shoe?

I heard the whistle go off and the smacking sound of foot on ball. 

Followed by the smacking sound of ball on face. My face…

The players jumped up in joy and celebrated amongst themselves. The referee (whose qualifications are questionable at best) declared it a goal.

I was confused as hell. How on earth was that a goal? It hit me! 

Another kick, straight to the groin. Goal again. A gasp of air escaped my mouth, along with my hopes and dreams of being a dad. Raucous laughter and celebration filled the air.

Three more shots were taken, each hitting me with unbelievable power and accuracy. And then, it dawned upon me.

I was the GOAL! And the “limb guys” were the posts, tasked to ensure the “goal” remained consistently in place. This went on for another five minutes. I couldn’t believe how accurate these guys were. No one missed a shot.

Amid the laughter and my screams of pain, one of the players stood up and stationed himself right between kicker and goal. He looked solemn and, in my eyes, slightly dismayed.

“Guys!” he called out.

“This simply isn’t right!”

I looked to the skies to thank the Lord. Finally, someone with maturity and compassion.

“Goalposts don’t wear clothes. They’re bare metal. We need to add an element of realism here!”

Naturally, everyone concurred. I was stripped down to “bare metal” and the game ensued.

The next day, the volleyball mysteriously went missing. * This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of The Malay Mail Online.