I remember when my uncle died.

It was a Tuesday evening in the middle of winter. Pier 5 was covered in snow and the falling sun lit the sky with a pinkish-orange highlight. On the far side of the field, two workers parked and jumped off their John Deere trucks. Their green uniforms were spotted with falling white dots of snow. Within minutes, they began shoveling away snow with black plastic shovels in their hands. From far away, they looked like the miniature army men from “Toy Story.” A group of 22 teenagers, each no older than 16, were playing a game of soccer on the nearby field. Around the pitch, people watched. One of the players ran by me and my nose picked up the scent of his sweat. One team was covered in blue bibs, the other in yellow. The blues passed the ball between themselves. Pass, move, pass, move, pass, move. Suddenly, a massive noise came from the field, and the ball started flying towards the goal. Yellow’s 6’1” keeper froze as the ball zoomed into the goal’s top left corner. Behind the goal lay the East River. Skyscrapers pierced the sky, each emitting varying amounts of light. The World Trade Center’s stem disappeared as it ascended into the clouds. The Verizon sign glowed in the background. 

I felt a buzz in my pocket. I unzipped my Adidas sweatpants and took out my phone.

Mom: Uncle Buba just passed away. Your dad is not doing good. Come home now. 

I turned to look at Phillip, my best friend who I’ve known since third-grade. Dressed in what I believe was a black Canada Goose jacket, he stared intently at the soccer game.

“Damn bro, my uncle just passed away.”

“Yo, that’s not funny. That ain’t something to joke about.”

“I’m being dead serious. Look at what my mom sent me. That’s actually crazy, too. I was just clowning him over Manchester United losing to Tottenham 6-1.”

I smiled. I remembered when Son Heung-Min danced with Serge Aurier. I remembered when Harry Kane scored his fifth goal of the season in just three games. I remembered when Uncle Buba screamed, “Luke Shaw, you idiot! Get out of my club!” I remembered his anger when José Mourinho smiled after the sixth goal.

I unzipped my bag. I took out my pink and white Nike Phantom cleats and the blue Champions League ball. I began taking off my sneakers before I heard Phillip ask, “Your favorite uncle just died and we’re still gonna play? Didn’t your mom tell you to come home?” I looked at him with furrowed brows, not knowing what he meant.

“Yeah, obviously. What else would I do?”

“I don’t know, maybe go be with your family, like a normal person.”

“What is that gonna do? He’s already dead. What’s gonna happen if I go home right now? Nothing will change.”

“Yeah, but you don’t feel sad or anything? You literally hung out with that guy almost every day. I remember you crying in sixth-grade when he left New York and moved to London because you wouldn’t be able to visit him.”

“I was a kid then. Plus, I don’t see any purpose in mourning. All grieving does is keep me from focusing on the stuff I gotta do. I have a math test, French quiz, and history essay all in the next week for school. I’m not distracting myself from what decides my future.”

“What does that even mean? How you just gonna sit here and continue to play, pretending like someone from your family didn’t just die? You gotta have a dark soul to do that.”

I shrugged at his suggestion. At that moment, the January wind seemed to blow harder at my face, with winter’s cold breeze scratching my throat. The blue-versus-yellow soccer game, which apparently had been a tournament semi-final, had just finished. Everyone on blue had smiles on their faces while those on yellow had a watery complexion in their eyes. The sky was now pitch black. Snow began to fall faster and heavier. 

Phillip and I spent the next hour or two playing a pickup soccer game with strangers. It ended 3-1, with our team winning. As we walked home from the train station, neither one of us said a word. When we came to his house, he looked me in the eyes. His mouth slightly opened, as if he were going to say something, before he turned his back and quickly went inside. 

I looked up. Phillip lived on 140th Street, and I lived on 149th. Marcus Garvey Park separated Phillip’s house from mine. For some reason, which I still don’t know today, I decided to take the long way home, which consisted of going through the park instead of around it. As soon as I took the first step into the park, I searched for a bench, sat down, and began to cry.