I remember the first day I met him as if it were yesterday.

I was only 5.

My dad in his tattered orange shirt was playing soccer with him and his older brothers. It was a fun game to watch, but one player stood out above all the other foreigners.

Max.

He didn’t care that he wasn’t the best, he shouted back as hard as he got yelled at. He got dug in, ran hard, and tackled ferociously. Papa was running down the wing in that dumb Dutch shirt, and Max slid in on him, clearing him out completely, meeting my eyes and grinning as he did it; and it was then that I knew.

I wanted to be like Max.

Sadly, he went back to England after that three-month vacation and his visits to my country became less and less common. But I would still see him once or twice a year in church.

At night when I my brother and I went to bed, I would tell stories, stories of the legend of the Englishman Max. We dreamt of being able to play soccer like he did, with him, shouting back at all who questioned us.

We live in hope of seeing him gracing the green turf again.