The sun was barely rising when my dad's alarm clock blared through his room. It was 5:30 AM—a painfully early start, but today wasn't going to be just another day. I knew it. Everyone knew it. Coach had drilled it into us two days ago:
"Next tomorrow's practice will separate those who think they want to play from those who do."
It was more than a warning—it was a challenge, a statement of intent. This morning would test our limits, and those who couldn't cut it would feel the weight of failure. No excuses. No second chances.
I rolled out of bed reluctantly, every muscle aching from the chores I had forced myself through the day before. My arms felt like concrete, and my legs were stiff, the soreness gnawing at me with every step. As I pulled on my practice gear, a heavy feeling of anxiety began to swell in my chest. I knew I was one of the best players on the team—one of the top wide receivers, to be exact. But what if today wasn't enough? What if Coach decided to bench me? The lineup for the next game was far from secure, and every player on the team was hungry to prove they deserved a spot. The pressure was real.
To make things worse, Stanley—the guy competing with me for the same position—had been leveling up his game lately. He was faster, smoother on his cuts, and relentless in scrimmages. I knew I had to give more than 100% today just to keep my edge. No spot was guaranteed. Not even mine.
By the time I arrived at the field at 7:00 AM, the sun had climbed just enough to cast a faint golden glow over the damp grass. The air was cool, but I knew it wouldn't stay that way for long. Not with Coach in charge. He greeted us the only way he knew how: with brutal warm-ups designed to sap our energy right from the start—cones, sprint intervals, ladder drills, and agility circuits. Our legs burned before the real practice even began.
"This is just the beginning!" Coach's voice rang out, sharp and unwavering as he paced the field like a general readying his troops for battle. "If you think today's going to be easy, you're in the wrong sport!"
We exchanged glances. No one dared complain, but you could feel the tension in the air. This was going to be a long, grueling morning.
The first test was the 40-yard sprint competition. Coach called the receivers to the starting line. I glanced over at Stanley, his jaw set in determination. I knew he was ready for this. If I lost to him, it could mean the difference between starting and riding the bench.
"On the line! GO!" Coach's whistle cut through the morning air, and I exploded forward, arms pumping, legs driving hard against the turf. Stanley was just ahead of me, his stride smooth and effortless. My heart hammered in my chest, and by the second sprint, my calves were screaming. But I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop. Not today.
The competition was fierce, but I managed to hold my ground. Barely. Stanley gave me a sideways grin as we finished, as if to say, Not bad. But I'm coming for you.
Next, it was time for the position-specific drills. Coach was merciless. He had the receivers run routes over and over—slants, fades, out routes, curls—until our legs felt like jelly. Every pass was a test. High throws, low throws, fast spirals—we were expected to catch them all, no matter what. Miss a pass? Run another route. Mess up on a block? Start the drill over from the top.
"AGAIN!" Coach clapped his hands, demanding more. Sweat soaked through my shirt, and I could feel it dripping down my face and stinging my eyes. My lungs burned with every breath. A few of my teammates looked just as wrecked—Princewill, one of the younger players, hunched over, hands on his knees, looking like he was about to throw up.
But there was no sympathy. No breaks. Not today.
Just when we thought things couldn't get worse, Coach called for the scrimmage. He divided the team into offense and defense, and it quickly became a battle of endurance and willpower. Every play had consequences. If the offense scored, the defense ran laps. If the defense stopped the offense, the offense ran laps. Failure wasn't just disappointing—it was exhausting.
I lined up, nerves buzzing through me. I knew I couldn't afford any mistakes. But on one crucial play, I missed a pass. It grazed my fingertips—so close, yet not close enough.
"If you're tired, leave!" Coach's voice boomed across the field, sharp and unforgiving. "If you want to be on this team, GET THE CATCH!"
I clenched my jaw in frustration, biting back the urge to argue. I knew better than to talk back. Coach wasn't in a forgiving mood today. I mean, we had just won a trophy recently—shouldn't we be celebrating instead of going through this military-level practice? But there was no use questioning it. If you wanted to play, you had to survive days like this. Even if you were only thirteen years old.
There was no room for complaints. No room for weakness. I knew that now.
When practice finally ended, we all collapsed onto the grass, gasping for air like we had just finished running a marathon. My chest rose and fell rapidly, lungs aching from the relentless drills. Stanley lay beside me, staring up at the sky in exhaustion. Princewill was sprawled on the ground, his face pale but determined.
Coach walked slowly past us, clipboard in hand, his expression unreadable. He didn't seem the least bit tired, even though he'd just spent the last three hours pushing us to the edge.
"This is what it takes," he said calmly, almost as if he were issuing a final challenge. "We've got a big competition coming. If you want to quit, now's the time."
I leaned back against my helmet, heart still pounding in my chest. The exhaustion weighed heavily on me, but so did something else—something deeper. A fire. A spark of determination.
Today had been the hardest practice of my life. I was sore, frustrated, and completely spent. But quitting?
That wasn't an option. Not for me. Not now, not ever.
I wiped the sweat from my brow and sat up, ignoring the ache in my muscles. I wasn't going to quit. Because deep down, I knew: This was what it took to be great. And I wasn't going to settle for anything less.