4th and 5th grade was my soccer heyday. We were good and mostly all friends. We’d won the state championships. And when we had each other over for playdates, all we wanted to do was play soccer.
Dave, one of my besties, invited me over and we almost immediately begged his dad to go out and play with us in the backyard. 2 on 1. Kids vs the adults. Our favorite.
Dave’s yard was slanted, enough so you had to compensate for it when you passed the ball. And his dad had just cut the lawn, which put a certain magic in the air (and made the ball roll a little faster).
Dave’s dad wasn’t an athlete, but we were still at that age when adults could beat us simply by being adults.
The score was tied 3-3 when Mr. H. made intercepted a pass and split our defense. He hustled down the field toward the open goal. No one between him and victory. I can still remember standing, not running, realizing we were about to lose. State champions, about to lose to a dad who never played in his life.
But…
He missed. Didn’t play the curve and shanked it. Rookie mistake. Missed by inches.
“Oh geez,” he said. “That wasn’t very good,” which put me and Dave in a fit; we flung on our backs, laughing our little 10-year-old butts until we couldn’t even breathe. I honestly couldn’t stop laughing.
Decades later, I’m a dad. And a coach. Thirteen 8-year-old girls. They swarm me like bumble bees. It’s sort of become a thing: trying to get the ball from Coach Cliff.
And they’re at that age when I can keep the ball from them simply because I’m an adult. But let’s not forget I’m also a former 4th-grade State Champion, so I can keep the ball from them for a good while.
And I do.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit sloppy with my ball control. Part of it’s teasing them, but part of it’s me, in the back of my mind, hoping they stick their foot out a little farther or figure out my mojo (I only remember so many moves). It’s almost like I’m creating the opportunity to lose.
Or, perhaps more to the point, leaving an opening for them to win.
It goes on for a while, me doing pull-backs and step-overs and them following me. Some cheat; they tug at my arms and pull at my belt, giggling the whole time. Others keep it serious; you can see it on their faces: “I’m gonna get that ball.”
And they always do.
Perhaps I’m a bit rusty. A bit less refined than my elementary school days. Less coordinated than a bunch of spanking-brand-new 8-year-old athletes.
But that kid that gets the ball, she’s so happy.
“Aw, geez,” I say, with a crestfallen hunch in my posture. They laugh and run away down the field.
And, as I’m in the midst of losing this made-up game with so much joy in my heart, I gotta wonder, still to this day…
Did Mr. H. really miss that shot?