I turned the calendar in my downtown apartment, and it was New Year’s Day. I had somehow forgotten my entire past, childhood included. I didn’t even recall my name. Was it David? I looked like a David with my pious haircut. Was it David de la Cruz? No, it wasn’t. Ronaldo? Leonardo? Leo? Was I Lionel Messi? No, I wasn’t. I was, though, in denial. Perhaps of some accentuated failures. My inability to study law. My languid approach to language. My longing for prima ballerinas and tenured professors in the humanities or poetry, Western philosophy aka the depressive arts. No, I would never be Lionel Messi. I had never scored two goals against France. Try as I did.