We all know someone who appears on the surface to have it all going on, but you never know what’s happening behind the external show. The following is a short story about making assumptions about people.
He moved through his youth like a natural theorem—elegant, self-evident, but somehow unproven.
There was the goalmouth, where he’d stand with a cigarette in one hand and casually block incoming shots with the other, as though both were merely extensions of his posture. It wasn’t arrogance, not really. It was something purer: a total disregard for performance. He played not to be seen but to feel—the thud of the ball, the sweep of grass, the unthinking rhythm of motion.
On the Gaelic pitch, his economy stood out. He’d guide down a high ball with one hand while the other was already sweeping in to catch it—a move so fluid it seemed choreographed. People called it artistry. Those closer knew it was instinct, a private language between him and the game.
He was too good, they said. The local radio said it; his teachers sensed it. He absorbed lessons like a landscape absorbing rain—effortlessly, without erosion. He could decode exams without revision, as if the answers were patterns only he could see. Yet he wore his gift lightly, like a jacket he might someday outgrow. Perhaps he feared what might happen if he tried his hardest and found a limit. Or perhaps he simply preferred potential to purpose.
But away from the lines of a pitch or the structure of a classroom, something shifted. In conversation, he often seemed like a translator working without a dictionary—aware of the meaning but unsure of the phrasing. Alcohol lent him tempo; sober, he was awkward, pausing where others flowed. Handsome, yes. Cool, certainly. But those who looked closely saw the slight hesitation at doorways, the quiet scanning of a room—not with pride, but with a soft, lingering uncertainty.
He wasn’t tragic. He was something more subtle: a boy full of visible grace and invisible caution. He could command a ball, charm an exam, silence a crowd with a turn of pace—yet he couldn’t always cross the quiet spaces between people.
And maybe that was the nuance of his gift: talent may get you seen, but it doesn’t teach you how to be known. It can draw applause, yet leave you lonely at the centre of the noise.
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