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2018-07-05 - 10:37 a.m.

First, I apologize to myself and to anyone reading, for this, indeed, is a dream entry. I've been watching a lot of the World Cup (I love it, the emotion, the goalkeepers coming up in the 95th minute for a miniscule chance at a header that will tie the game and make children back home remember certain names on jerseys until they all die). And while I don't really care about the club side of the game, I did have a detailed dream that Real Madrid wanted to give me a look.

And in the dream, of course, I'm basically me, now, as I am. Haven't kicked a soccer ball in probably three years. Bike three-four times a week, and that's about it. Do all dreams for everyone go like this? The violin recital where you don't know the violin? The play where you don't know your lines? Anyway, I walk into the stadium via the players' entrance, and I'm in team-issued warm-up gear. Fans waiting in another line take photos of me.

And of course I keep wanting to tell the Real Madrid people how old I am, but I don't, because a part of me thinks they're trying out a new concept? Or maybe they want me to coach, and they're going to put me through a trial run to see how I'd do mentoring younger players? The practical side of me is alive and well in this dream, is what I'm saying.

And then it's time to get ready and I open my team-issued bag and in there are the last pair of soccer cleats I've owned, and they're from 1995, and they're dry-rotted and falling apart. And I'm about to pull them out of the bag, about to wriggle into them in front of this locker room full of 20-year-olds, and here they come, and the dream's over.

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