"WHY! WHY DO WE DO THIS TO OURSELVES, DAD!"
said a teen boy, rubbing his dark hair with his hands, his eyes closed as he lowered his head.
The man sitting in front of him didn't even acknowledge the young boy's outburst and sipped his beer with a smile.
"AGAIN... SECOND... you know what they call us now, I'm gutted, Dad?" the boy said, looking at the man.
He had the same dark hair, some little patches of grey, his glasses were on the table, and a sunny smile that drew people to him. The man had a natural charm that made him successful in the business world.
He sighed and looked at the boy with a grin.
"Gooners, right? That's what they call us."
"THEN WHY DO WE SUPPORT SUCH A SHITTY CLUB, DAD!" said the boy in a high-pitched voice; even his dad was surprised at the boy's outburst.
"Matt! Mom's sleeping," he said, lightly scolding the boy.
Realizing his mistake, the boy slapped his forehead.
"Sorry, Dad, I... just—" he hesitated, finding no words. He looked around nervously. It had been a long day. He remembered his friends' mocking gazes after the match; the Arsenal shirt he was wearing was a witness to this humiliation.
"I get it, I was the same as you, lad," said the older man with a chuckle.
The boy looked curiously at the man. It was rare for the father-son duo to sit down like this since the older man was always busy with work.
"I was six when your grandfather took me to watch my first game. We lost 2-0 to a team I don't even remember the name of. You angry because of the Prem?"
Matt nodded slowly.
"I've seen worse, even before the Prem was a thing, son. I shouted, cursed! And punched walls! Everything."
The boy smiled at the image of his calm and composed father throwing a fit of anger at a lost game.
"But as I grew old, I realized football is not about the trophies. If I wanted, I could've started supporting Real Madrid. But no, we don't chase trophies; we build memories." He took a big chug of the beer, emptying the glass.
The boy absentmindedly nodded, all his anger vanishing, remembering the days when his grandad took him to see matches. He remembered everything.
"When your grandpa passed away, I... I could see everything... images of the games we watched together. I felt I was lost... but those memories... they made me move forward and cherish each moment I have with you and your mom. I never said it, but... I'm proud of you, son," he said as tears rolled down his eyes, showing a rare moment of vulnerability,.
The boy was stunned. He heard his father's words; he quickly wiped his tears and smiled at the man. He wanted to say something, but before he could, his father continued.
"I hope I can do the same—take my grandson to see matches, maybe see Arsenal lift the Champions League and with phase 6 I can see that happening... Can you bring another from the fridge?" he said, pointing at the empty beer glass.
Matt sighed, "Alright, but this is the last one. You've already had three," as he walked toward the kitchen, leaving the old man alone in the living room.
Richard Peterson smiled and wiped his face. It had been a beautiful day. The last time he went to see a game at Emirates Stadium was with his father, Highbury was a distant memory now. He sighed and rested his head against the sofa.
"Here," said Matt, handing him a pint.
The man took it, and as Matt moved to sit down—
"How many sips did you take?" he said without looking at the boy.
Matt lowered his head without saying anything, quickly wiping his mouth.
"Dad, will we sign a striker this season? We seriously need one!" said the boy, trying his best to change the subject.
"Hmm, maybe. The Portuguese boy is alright, maybe that German midfielder."
"Gyökeres and Florian Wirtz?"
"Yes, maybe next season will be us gooner's season," said the older man.
"Dad!"
"Hahaha," laughed the man.
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Matt
Matt
"MATT!" said a voice, bringing him back to the present.
"Are you okay?" A blonde woman, wearing a worried expression, which didn't make her look any less beautiful. Her blue eyes were swollen as if she had cried last night.
"I'm fine, Mom," said Matt, trying his best to ease her worry.
"Doctors told me you are improving! That's great, son! Soon you'll be back on your feet. I can't wait to make you your favorite food; you've gotten so thin my baby!"
She tried her best to be cheerful; she tried her best at lying, but the boy knew his mother well.
"I can't wait either, Mom," he said with a sigh. She picked up her purse and a bag; it was time for visitors to leave.
It had been two years since that Arsenal loss, and eight months since he had been diagnosed with a rare disease. These few months passed like a blur; his whole world was crumbling. Seeing the sad faces of his parents broke him. He made sure to hide the pain so that they could atleast sleep peacefully.
He was dying.
"Matt."
"Huh?" He looked at her.
"Are you really okay, darling?" She hadn't left.
Matt paused and looked at her face, the wrinkles, dark circles, her shaky hands, the thin worried smile she gave..
He gave her the best smile he could.
"I'm okay, Mom."
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That night Matt Peterson passed away at the young age of 19.