This was okay, a little bit boring, but okay. Fancy words DON'T make a piece better, though. Which is easier to understand: "I utilized a many-tined tool to process a starch resource" or "I ate a potato with a fork"?

I will sound stupid, but how do I publish an article to the AWS?

This reminded me kinda of Hamilton. Only slightly, though.

We were “winning.” We were “winning” in honesty, sportsmanship, effort, fairness, and integrity. They were winning the game. Our team had three players. Theirs had twenty-three. Nine of them had made a human wall around the goal, which was completely unnecessary owing to the four goalies sprawled there. The other ten were on offence. Zachary and Meghan, my only teammates, were somehow miraculously successful in keeping the horde of kids - who had an unusual yen for shouting and neon pink shin guards - from scoring a goal. I never said anything about Dave. Dave was thirty but looked fifty. He had greasy black hair and a grotesquely unshaven face. He was one of those people who think they are smarter than they are. Dave stood next to our goal and, whenever the ball came close, used one foot to trip me up and the other to score a goal. “Ha! Scored against a little kid,” he chuckled, which infuriated me. Once, when he failed to trip me up and I blocked the ball, his face grew as red as a sunburnt naked mole rat eating strawberry jam and he shouted, “FOUL!” My dad, who was watching much more passively from the sidelines, shouting out the occasional encouraging word or friendly remark, jogged over to say, “Well, Dave, it’s just an impromptu soccer team. We don’t have jerseys, award trophies, or keep score. We don’t usually do fouls. We’re not a league. I mean, if I were to—” Dave drew himself up to his full height of six feet, looked my dad in the face, and called him a name I’m not inclined to put in print. “FREE SCORE!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, picking up the soccer ball and hurling it pointlessly over my head. “SCORE!” he shouted, tripping me up just for old times’ sake. And on and on it went. Eventually the call came from Mr. Legan, the man who organized soccer, “Five minutes!” I cried a few tears of blessed, sacred relief. At last. Dave scored three more goals, but I hardly paid attention. Four minutes. Three and a half. Two. One. It was over. I hugged myself in the dying light, rejoicing that it was, at last, over. Then, to my disbelief, Dave walked over to the nearest person and gave himself up to bragging. Occasionally he glanced at me, looking smug, and then went on. “LEGAN!” he called when he was done. “I hear you’re giving a free three-course dinner and dessert to all the players on the winning team. Of course, that can't be afforded—” Relief washed over Mr Legan's face. “So,” Dave continued, “it would be much more convenient if you just gave it to me.” “Oh, but Dave,” Mr. Legan stammered. “I—I—I—well—I in fact never made this arrangement—surely you are joking—such a respectable person—and if the kids - you know I have thirteen kids - saw you eating—well—they’d all scream and shout for more—and I’m not a rich man—I've only got twelve dollars in my bank account—” Dave reminded me of a bull as he bellowed, "Silence! You shall do as I wish.” I expect, though I don’t know, that poor Mr. Legan had to buy Dave dinner. The one thing I do know is that I never went to soccer again.