That afternoon, the sun began to lean to the west, leaving long shadows on the dusty ground. In the simple yard, surrounded by green trees and rusty iron fences, the sound of laughter and small, enthusiastic shouts could be heard.
That's where we—village kids—turned the yard into a soccer field. There was no green grass, no neat white lines or goals, just dry soil and a faded ball. But for us, that was enough. It even felt like a big stadium on the television screen.
I clearly remember how my little friend kicked the ball with enthusiasm, running here and there barefoot, not caring about the dust that billowed or the small scratches on his feet. We played by our own rules, sometimes quarreling over imaginary violations, then making up again as fast as the wind passed.
The ball rolled here and there, accompanied by laughter and cheers. Some tried to dribble the ball professionally, while others chased the ball aimlessly. But it all felt beautiful. There is nothing more precious than those afternoons—when the world feels small, just in the yard.
Now, when I look back at those pictures, childhood memories come flooding back. A time when happiness came from simple things: empty land, worn balls, and friendships that grew under the afternoon sky.
