Please Keep Off the Pitch

The sign was old, rusted, and barely hanging on the chain-link fence. Yet the bold red letters still managed to shout:

PLEASE KEEP OFF THE PITCH.

Tariq had seen it every day of his thirteen years. The pitch, once a proud football ground, now lay forgotten—cracks running through its concrete, weeds growing tall near the goalposts, and dust replacing grass. No one played there anymore. It was off-limits.

But to Tariq, it wasn’t just a dead field. It was magic. He could still hear the echo of cheering crowds in his mind. He had read stories of legends who played on this very pitch when the town still had a name in youth football.

And now, he stood on the other side of the fence, football in hand, the sign staring him down like a guard dog.

“Come on, bro, just one game,” whispered his friend Zeeshan. “No one will know.”

Tariq looked around. The sun was setting, casting gold over the abandoned stands. No coaches. No players. No security.

Just dreams.

He threw his bag over the fence, scaled it quickly, and jumped down onto the cracked concrete with a soft thud. Zeeshan followed.

As soon as his shoes touched the pitch, something stirred in him. He dropped the ball and started juggling—one, two, five, ten touches.

It felt like the ground was waking up.

The two boys played like their lives depended on it. They passed, dribbled, took wild shots at the rusty net. They ran like the ghosts of champions were chasing them.

Minutes turned into an hour.

Then came the voice.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Both boys froze. A tall man in a dark jacket stood by the fence, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable.

Zeeshan mumbled, “Sorry, uncle… we were just playing…”

“You saw the sign, right? ‘Keep off the pitch’?”

Tariq stepped forward. “Yes, sir. But it’s… just a field. No one uses it.”

“That doesn’t make it yours,” the man replied sternly. Then, after a long pause, he added, “What’s your name?”

“Tariq.”

“And yours?”

“Zeeshan.”

The man looked them up and down. “You boys have some skill. But talent means nothing without discipline. You want to play here, you need permission. Understand?”

They nodded, expecting him to yell more or call their parents.

Instead, he said, “Be here tomorrow. 4 p.m. Bring your shoes.”

“What?” Zeeshan blinked.

“I used to coach the town youth team before it shut down,” the man said. “Maybe it’s time we start again. But we do it the right way. No sneaking in. No disrespecting rules. Agreed?”

Tariq’s heart pounded. He glanced at Zeeshan, who grinned.

“Yes, sir,” they both replied.

The man turned to leave but added over his shoulder, “Oh, and clean up the field a bit. We’ve got work to do.”

---

The next day, more kids showed up. Then more the day after that. With brooms, paint, and hope, they cleaned the pitch.

A month later, the rusted sign was gone, replaced by a new one:

WELCOME TO YOUTH FC GROUNDS

Home of Dreams, Built by Respect

And every time Tariq stepped onto the pitch, he remembered that signs could tell you what not to do—but sometimes, it was what you chose to do that truly changed the game.