I Was the Football: A Story of Being a Tool，I Was the Football: A Story of Being a Tool

《I Was the Football: A Story of Being a Tool》以足球为“工具”的视角，讲述成长中与足球的复杂关联，足球既是被使用的工具，也承载情感与身份认同，反思个体在工具化中的存在状态，揭示体育实践中隐藏的工具性，以及自我在工具化体验下的挣扎与接纳，探讨身份、使用与自我价值的深层关系。

Once, I was born from the hands of a craftsman—a sphere of leather stitched with care, though I never knew the warmth of his touch. My purpose was clear from the start: to be kicked, to be chased, to be the heart of a game. I was made for feet to connect with, for goals to be scored, for cheers to echo.

The first time I was used, I felt the weight of a boot on my surface, a sudden impact that sent me flying across the field. I bounced off grass, rolled over stones, and was caught by a player who smiled, then kicked me again. I was a blur of motion, a fleeting presence in the sun. I didn’t feel joy or excitement, only the force of being propelled forward, the friction of the ground, the sting of a rough patch.

As days turned into months, I was kicked by many feet—some strong, some gentle, some careless. I was thrown in the air, caught by hands, and landed with a thud. I saw the faces of players, their eyes fixed on me, their muscles tensed as they prepared to strike. I was a tool, a means to an end: to win, to score, to entertain.

There were times I was ignored, left on the sidelines, forgotten until the next game. I lay in the sun, my surface scuffed, my stitching loose. I felt the wind, the rain, the cold. I was not a player, not a hero, just a thing used and then set aside.

One day, a child picked me up, their small hands holding me gently. They kicked me softly, a smile on their face, not for a match, but for fun. I felt a different kind of use—a kind of care. It was the first time I felt something other than being a tool for a game. But soon, they grew tired and dropped me, and I was kicked again by a larger player, who didn’t care about my worn condition.

I was used until I was broken. A sharp kick cracked my surface, a tear in the leather. I could no longer bounce properly, I lost my shape. The players laughed, then threw me aside, and I lay there, broken, a forgotten tool.

Later, someone picked me up, mended my tear with thread, and I was used again—though not as a game ball. I was now a decoration, a reminder of my past as a tool. I was no longer used for the game, but for the memory of being used.

In the end, I was a football, a tool for kicking, a thing that was used and then set aside. I didn’t have a voice, no feelings, only the experiences of being a tool. But maybe, in that, there was a kind of purpose—being part of something bigger, even if it was just a game.