The Cleats That Carried Me

The cleats sat quietly at the back of the closet, coated in dust and memory. To anyone else, they were just a pair of worn-out football shoes. But to seventeen-year-old Rafi, they were everything.

He bought them three years ago with money saved from helping his uncle at the mechanic shop every weekend. They weren’t flashy or expensive—just black leather with dull studs—but they fit perfectly. And more importantly, they represented something Rafi had never had before: a chance.

Back then, he was just another kid in Lyari, Karachi’s chaotic but vibrant neighborhood. The streets were loud with rickshaws, arguments, and children playing cricket in alleys, but Rafi only cared about football. He played barefoot on gravel until his feet bled, sprinting across trash-strewn fields and weaving through imaginary defenders.

The day he bought the cleats, he didn’t even wait to get home. He laced them up on the sidewalk and jogged the whole way to the ground, ignoring the curious stares. That evening, for the first time, he felt like a real player.

Rafi’s talent bloomed quickly. His cleats danced across fields, slicing through defenders like wind through reeds. He was small but quick—his low center of gravity made him hard to catch, and his fierce eyes made coaches take notice.

But life didn’t stop throwing curveballs. His father lost his job, and his mother fell ill. Every evening, Rafi had to choose: train with the team or deliver groceries to support the family. Most nights, he chose the latter. The cleats sat unused for weeks at a time, but he never forgot them.

One day, during trials for the U18 national camp, his coach convinced him to go. He hadn’t trained in weeks, and the cleats were worn thin, but Rafi showed up anyway.

He played like a storm had been trapped inside him for years. Twists, turns, tackles—he gave it everything. The ground was wet, and at one point he slipped, tearing the side of his right cleat. But he got up. Kept going. By the end of the match, he was limping, but the scouts had already noticed.

He didn’t make it to the final squad. But he made the reserve list—and that, in itself, was a victory.

Now, a year later, those same cleats sat beside his bed again.

Rafi had moved to Lahore on a scholarship. The pitches were greener, the lights brighter, and the challenges tougher. He had newer shoes now—flashier ones, sponsored and sleek. But he still kept the old pair. Sometimes, before a big game, he’d pull them out, touch the torn leather, and remember where he came from.

One rainy morning before a semi-final, his current pair tore unexpectedly. Panic set in. The club manager promised to bring him another pair, but it would take time.

Rafi looked at the clock. Then at the old cleats.

Without another thought, he laced them up.

They felt tighter now. The sole had thinned. But the moment he stepped onto the field, everything aligned. The muscle memory kicked in. He played like he was seventeen again—fast, raw, and hungry.

His team won 2-1. He scored the winning goal in the 88th minute. The crowd roared. But Rafi didn’t hear them. He only heard the beat of his heart and the rhythm of his old cleats against the grass.

After the game, a reporter asked him, “Why did you wear those old shoes? They look like they’ve been through war.”

Rafi smiled. “They have,” he said. “And so have I.”