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...And here I go. Leaving my parents, my best friend, all with smiles on their face. The biggest smiles that could even light up a crying child on a cloudy day, sheer delight, hope, faith and belief: Aimee was going to Serbia to live her dreams and play football professionally. The Plane: Well, "what the hell am I doing?" "and where the hell am I going". Smiles, suddenly turned into deep knots of regret as I anticipated the long plane ride. "Relax, this is your dream", "the one where you always wanted to do it", the one where no one said that you could make it". "The dream", "the dream". "The dream where everything is going to be ok and nothing will go wrong". "How bad could it be?" Hours passed, and I let the feeling of leaving my family, my friends leave me. My body felt elated and like I was drifting in space. Out of all the sacrifices I had made, this one, this one felt like the biggest but satisfying in a strange way. When I landed and got my bags, I sat in silence. I heard a range of strange voices piercing the air, suddenly, I get a large tap on the shoulder. To my amazement, a rather, tall woman, 6 foot exactly hovered over me. "Are you Aimee Phillips my dear?". Stunned, I reply, "yes, that is me". "I really thought you were a lot taller". Embarrassed, I brushed the comment off and made my way through. Hours passes, speeding through what looked like desert land, a place a lot different to the green, luscious trees I left back home. A new land, a new place, a new country and most importantly a new adventure for me. Day 1: Was this environment what I had dreamt of? "Aimee!" "Aimee!" Girls with the most exotic accents tiptoed around me. "Aaaaaaa, I now know why people travel to Europe". "The accents how could anyone resist, the music, the different, the difference". Shoving my boots off on my way to the changing rooms, I get ushered into what I thought was the changing room but really was something like an ancient shrine, medals, medallions, gold saucers sparkled in what daylight that could enter the stale, cracked window. Posters of the football Club, "Lingua" were plastered against the walls and teared at the edges. The room, was dark, musky, old torn strapping tape was lingering off the walls and slowly aging, the concrete was rancid filled with stains with attempts of a clean and the smell, something odd was in the smell. In the middle of the room, on what looked like a chair, or dome sat a shadow. "Hello, Aimee Phillips, New Zealand International". "You are our next Champion".