After finishing my last set, I returned the bar to the squat rack. There is not much weight in the bar, me being only eight years old, but I am proud of my progress. A lot of people do not understand why adults are always stronger than kids; the reason is that as you grow older, your bones harden more, and therefore, your frame contributes more to your overall strength, whereas as in a child, the bones are still soft and bend easier. Children have more flexibility, but adults have more strength.
Having lived as a grown man, I can only squat sixty-five pounds. This is impressive because I only weigh fifty-five pounds, but it still doesn't feel good to look at.
Picking up my towel hanging on the machine, I wipe my face as I make my way to the Gym's locker room, which also has a shower. I started working out with weights about a year ago. I had read somewhere in my first life that children could start weight training without maxing out at age seven. So, my workout consisted of low volume and high reps. I wanted to see how high I could go without maxing today.
After showering and changing clothes, I go out of the gym to the parking lot. My mom said she would be picking me up at six o'clock, but it was only five forty-five. Placing my bag down on the curb, I take a seat while making sure to keep the bag within easy reach. You never know when you could run into a pedophile.
Staring into the distance, I reminisce about the journey to this point.
My parents were easily convinced to allow me to join the travel team, and from there, my talent and dedication took off running. I would play hard every game as our 10 and help facilitate play to a bunch of snotty brats. Whenever we needed a goal to win, I was our man. As we kept playing more and more, we lost less and less until eventually, we were considered the best team in the country and started topping regionals until eventually winning the National Title in the Under Eights. As the linchpin of the whole team, I received much attention from scouts who wanted me to go to their academies.
While this was happening, I knew I had to stay focused. I ran harder than anyone at practice; I repeatedly completed drills until they reached perfection because I knew the truth. I was not a prodigy. I may be the most hard-working youth in the soccer world, but that hard work was a talent I had been given by birth. It was one fostered by a lifetime of regret. So, when my parents wanted to celebrate my fame, I practiced. When other kids went to their friends' birthdays, I practiced. When school field trips were announced, I stayed behind so the teacher would take me to the playground for the day, and I could practice.
I knew people like Leonel Messi and Christiano Ronaldo were born as prodigies and still worked hard, so if I wanted to be considered the best in the world, I could take no breaks or have sick days. The only leisure time I allowed myself was the two hours between seven and nine to talk to my parents about my thoughts, feelings, and dreams. Even then, I increased my grip strength with various tools.
And so, time passed. We won my first national title at age seven and recently won my second a month ago.
I am startled out of my memories by a honk right in front of me. Looking up, My Mom's car is parked two feet away, so I gather my bag and quickly slide into the front seat.
"Hey, Mom."
"Hey, Sweetie. How was your day?"
I smile at the typical banter of a mother to her child. I loved my parents in this life. They were kind and supportive. I knew they had their troubles hidden from my eyes, but to me, my mother was the personification of Angelic, and my father was the Great Tree that shielded us from the rain and stood firm in the winds.
"It was fun, Mom; I tried to see how much weight I could do today and impressed myself," I beam proudly.
"That's great, Sweetie! Just be careful and don't hurt yourself," she glanced at me with worry.
"Don't worry, Mom, I know my limits," I tell her seriously.
Smiling, she reaches over her with her right hand while watching the road to tousle my hair.
"I believe you, Son."
Ah, what more could a son or daughter ever want to hear?