My unconscious mind was controlling my actions. Father’s encouraging words continuously echoed in my mind. Never would I have demonstrated such a courageous persona had this not been the case. His words made me bigger, stronger and braver. I was ready to engulf, digest and secrete these sorry bastards one by one. Or so I thought.

The horrific outcome of my seemingly cocky attitude was all but promising. I suffered fatal respiratory issues because of the numerous blows I received to my larynx and diaphragm in the tumult. I was lucky to be alive considering the low standards of hospitals here in the developing world. The Buziga Hospital was actually infamous for its malfunctioning equipment and overcrowded facilities. The news of patients dying was so common that it eventually became a part of the local culture. Every Sunday people gathered at the church. Ceremonies to honour the recent deaths in the village were held. These were sad moments.

Two days after the bust-up, a vivid and high pitched conversation between the doctor and my grandmother woke me up from my dream.

“How is he doing?” grandmother cried.

“Well his condition is stable at the moment but he has suffered severe injuries to his respiratory organs,” the doctor explained.

“Will he recover?” she asked with an anxious tone.

“At the moment I can’t promise you anything, but we will do our best to restore his condition.”

I overheard the conversation and it wasn't pleasant to hear. I began to feel the agitation build up in my stomach. My chances of participating in the ’Condica All-Star match’ were apparently minimal. It was devastating. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to. This was my final opportunity.