My next sporting attempt was soccer. For some reason, soccer didn’t seem to create
the fear I often had with baseball or football. After all, you can’t tackle
people in soccer and all you have to do is kick a ball around. At least that’s what I initially
thought. I played six years of soccer. In those six years, I made only one
goal. It was for the other team. I can remember that day vividly. It was sunny, with cotton-candy clouds in the
sky. My grandparents had driven all the
way from Washington, Illinois to see my game in Decatur. Mom had purchased the expensive name-brand
sodas for the first time ever in my tenure with soccer as a half-time
snack. I was so excited! Mom, always budget conscious, would often
purchase the Kroger brand sodas when it was my turn for snacks. I always dreaded my turn at snack time, as
most of my teammates came from upper middle class homes and carried the finest
quality snacks and soda for their snack time turn. This day was different. I was on cloud nine. My grandparents were there to watch me play
and I had Coca Cola, Mountain Dew and 7-UP to serve! Life was grand!
My grandmother always carried her camera with her,
as she was a journalist for several newspapers in the Peoria, Illinois
area. That day, as always, she had her
camera with her. For almost fifteen
years after this particular game, one photo would be prominently hung above the
towel rack in my grandfather’s bathroom.
It was a picture of my team playing soccer that very day. I was featured, although my head was in the
air, counting clouds. My grandfather had
taken a pen and circled me, with my name written above “Brent.” Then, he circled the rest of the team, on the
opposite side of the photo, with the words, “Where the Action is.” That about
summed up my soccer experience. I did
love clouds. I loved the breezes in the
open playing fields. I liked “suiting
up” in my shin guards, long black socks, green polyester jersey, and of course,
protective cup. My favorite part of soccer had to be half-time. I’ve always
been a sucker for refreshments.
That game seemed to fly by that day. Towards the end of the game, it
happened. We had just taken a
five-minute coach-requested break to “huddle.”
After that, the referees had us switch sides, since the playing fields
were never even and it was only fair to have each team take a turn playing on
the opposite side of the field. For some
reason, I forgot all that happened. I
can remember running out to the field with wild anticipation. I wanted to
impress my grandparents—show my Grandpa that I was really cool. When the ball was kicked, it landed directly
in front of me. I started kicking that
ball, and kicking it hard. I couldn’t
believe it! There was no one trying to
steal it from me. I was chasing that
ball with an ease I had never felt before.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see my parents screaming. My Mom seemed to have her hands in the air,
wildly waving, while my Dad had his over his eyes. I thought to myself, why would my Dad cover
his eyes when I’m about to make my first—ever—goal in soccer? Chariots of Fire was playing in my head…. Da
na na naaa naa… Da na na naa naa… I was invincible! No one was going to stop me now! Within six feet of the goal post, I took my
right foot and pulled it back. With a sharp punt, I successfully kicked the
crap out of that ball. It hit the net so
hard that the entire goal post frame veered back. I DID IT!!!
I made a goal in soccer! I was on
the top of the world! And the most
important people in my life were there to experience it! I jumped up and down. Up and down.
For some reason, the crowd watching didn’t share my
excitement. Parents sitting in their lawn chairs shook their heads. A hush came over the entire field. My coach had turned his face in pure
disgust. It was like time stood still. And yet,
I still had no idea what I had done.
That was, until my teammates came running up to me. “You stupid dork!
You made a goal for the OTHER TEAM!”
“What a dork!” I had just made a
goal for the wrong team. Even my
name-brand treats wouldn’t make up for this.
I would be the target of every joke for the rest of the season. And I was.
My only goal, for the wrong team, marked the end of my soccer
career. It also cemented in my mind that
I wasn’t “wired” to do sports.
