It was a summer afternoon. The sun gently played on the leaves of the trees spread across the schoolyard. The school's old bell had just fallen silent when John walked toward the edge of the field—backpack on his shoulders, a notebook filled with blank pages in his hand. The children had already gathered, and as soon as they saw him, they ran forward clapping.
"John! Will you tell us a new story today?" Daniel asked, being the first to reach him, just like always.
John smiled. "Today, we're not just going to hear a story—we're going to write one together," he said.
He sat under the old tree in the corner of the yard. About ten children surrounded him, sitting on the grass. Their eyes sparkled—with anticipation, curiosity, and dreams.
"There's a story that begins with a goalkeeper," John began. "He was new—from a small village. He had only his gloves and a big dream: to protect what was precious to him. But he didn't yet understand what exactly he was protecting. The goal? The team? Or maybe… himself?"
He looked at the children. "What do you think, kids? What's the most important thing a goalkeeper protects?"
Anna raised her hand first. "The team," she said confidently.
Michael shook his head. "I think his name. So people say he's a good goalkeeper."
John smiled. "You're both right. But let me add one more thing. A goalkeeper also protects his heart. Because every mistake is instantly visible. He's not just standing in front of the goal, but facing pressure, silence, and responsibility. And he learns to endure."
He opened his notebook and wrote: "When you're a child—you play. When you're a goalkeeper—you learn your strengths."
Then he looked up. "Let's create a story together. I'll give the beginning. And you'll add to it."
He began: "There was a little boy named Aram. He lived in a village where no one wanted to be a goalkeeper. Every day, Aram stood alone with an old ball in front of him—learning to stand, to watch, to wait. One day, he met a man who asked him, 'Why are you standing like that?'"
John looked at the children. "Now—who wants to say what Aram answered?"
"Because I don't want to run—I want to feel," little Sophie said.
John wrote down her sentence. "That's a beautiful answer," he said. "To feel—without fear. That's a goalkeeper's first strength."
They continued the story. Each child added a sentence, a thought. One said Aram dreamed of playing in a big city team. Another said he once saved a match when everyone had lost hope. And so, the story took shape—formed by the words, thoughts, and dreams of the little ones.
Then John stood up. "Now—let's play a little. But not a regular game. Each of you will become a goalkeeper. And after each goal—you'll say what you felt in that moment."
The game began. Each child took a turn in the goal. When David let in a goal, he shouted, "I was afraid they'd laugh." But the children clapped for him. John approached. "You took the first step—you spoke your fear. That's a victory."
When Stephan stood in goal and stopped the ball, he said, "I felt like I could do it. I felt strong."
And John added in his notebook: "Strength doesn't come from catching the ball, but from the moment you believe you can."
After the game, the children returned to the tree. John brought out paints and paper. "What do you want to draw?" he asked.
Sophie drew a goal shining with sunlight. Vahagn drew a man with gloves and a book. Anna wrote: "When I look at the ball—I see my fear. But when I catch it—I defeat it."
John gathered all the papers. "These will go in our next booklet. We'll call it 'Through the Eyes of Goalkeepers.' Because now, you're learning to see not just outward—but inward."
That evening, the children left. John sat alone in the library. Lian approached him.
"Today, you changed something," she said. "They're starting to write not just what they see—but what they feel."
John was deep in thought. "I realized something. Kids don't become goalkeepers because they're fearless. They become goalkeepers because they learn not to be afraid. And that's not just in football—but in life."
The following week, a new group came to the village. Children from refugee families—quiet, tense. John decided to begin with a different kind of game. "Today we won't play. Today we'll just look at the goal. Let's sit—and tell me what you feel when you look at it."
A boy named Matevos said, "I look at it and feel like I'm small."
John looked at him. "But small ones can do great things—when they believe."
A girl, Lucy, said, "I've never played. But I want someone to tell me, 'You can.'"
John smiled. "You already can. Because you spoke."
That day, John wrote in his notebook: "When a child speaks about their fear—they've already won. And we—our duty is to listen."
The project continued. Every week, the children wrote new stories. The book—"Words of the Goalkeeper"—became a lesson. Not just in football, but in life. And people began to come to Aven—to learn. Because here, children were learning to be strong—with words, not just the ball.
One evening—when everyone had already left—John opened his notebook. On the page where he had never written anything, he finally wrote:
"When you stand in the goal—you're not alone. With you are the fears, hopes, and words of others. And when you stop the ball—you're holding not just the game, but people's belief that beauty can be protected."
He closed the final page of the book.
The next morning—when the children gathered again—John smiled.
"Today—I'm not going to tell a story. You will. Because now you can. Because now, you've become goalkeepers—not just through defense, but through your words."