(Yes, I wrote every word of this. This is not the bastard child of ChatGPT. You’re welcome, world.)
John Nettle was born in Mobile, Alabama. He lived a normal life until he sprouted to a tall 6’8, weighing in at 280lbs to start high school. The son of two former dancers, Ron and Polly, his parents registered him in ballet lessons. “A future in dance. I can see it,” his dad posted on AOL. After a difficult two months of not being able to contort his ankles into a ninety degree pointe, John hated the idea of becoming a professional dancer. He dreamed of playing American football (Alabama tennis).
John had no familial connections to Sweden. That being said, our story really begins 24 years prior. After being dropped by his mom’s OBGYN, John was recognized as a savante in science but had terrible test taking abilities. He was held back for 8 years in various grades. Now you know. Back to the future.
John continued his rigorous ballet training. His parents had bet their entire 401(k) on an online casino that John would be drafted #1 in the World Ballet League (WLB). John never forgot his love of science. John was getting ready to publish a paper in Nature. His academic career would’ve been set forever, but before he could respond to the Editorial Committee with his final round of edits, his father deleted all of his papers and data. John was crushed. He had been nettled.
The eve of his ballet draft, he wept. To spite his father, he decided he would improv a Salsa routine during his draft day. He prayed it would scare off potential coaches. He got on stage in the velodrome and Salsa’d to his heart’s content. His father’s knuckles turned white, while his feet started tapping to the sound of the track, because, my god, his son had picked an absolute bop to dance to.
John registered for American Tennis tryouts a couple weeks later. He was classified as a strong candidate given his giant stature. Federer would personally coach him. John tore his ACL while driving to his first practice. Dream = dead.
His parents finally admitted that they had made mistakes. Their son was meant for football. Not tennis. Not dance. They sat John down, who had just turned 32, and told him, “son, it’s time for you to chase your dream.” John’s ears perked up.
“Really? That makes me so happy,” he smiled.
His father handed him a British Airways flight to London.
“London?” John tilted his head.
“Yes, son, you wanted to play soccer, no?”
Benjamin woke up. He was still comatose, but it had all been a dream.
I got invested in John. Feel like there is more . Is there a part 2 ? eagerly waiting for part 2…..
Lol what did I just read? That's hilarious. Do it again! (Or whatever it is you want to do, be encouraged!)