I learned how to play soccer, folks. I’m not talking about kicking a ball around, or maybe just taking a few shots at a goal. I mean we showed up to a legit soccer practice, joined the team, and actually played. For those who don’t already know, I was not involved in sports growing up. I was a dancer for some years, therefore growing up with little to no knowledge of anything sport-like (go team, score goals, amirite?) So to suddenly be a part of this team of teenage boys, who are all impressively good at soccer, was not something I was the least bit prepared for. And to answer your question, yes, there is a story. You ready?
First day on the job, I’m in a dorky combo of Adidas shorts, a black marvel t-shirt that is a couple sizes too big, and Chacos. Yes, I’m referring to the trendy outdoors sandals that people really only wear to give the impression that they’ve hiked the Appalachian trail. The coach puts me on front left, side field kicker scorer person (I’ve learned a lot), and I’m standing in the middle of this dirt patch used as a soccer field, not knowing a thing about the sport, and at this point, doubting my ability to even spell the word soccer.
Boy did I play anyway. Maybe for the wrong side at times, but I did it. And I had the shin bruises to prove it. Most of them were from getting tripped up, or falling, and usually contracted on the side of the field no one was on, so not actually related to playing well at all, but I put my all in. And you know what, it was not because of me that we ended in tied scores.
Was I overjoyed? Of course. My first time playing and my team didn’t get absolutely creamed because of me.
Then the coach lined us up and thus began the penalty shots, which began my tiny nervous breakdown in realizing that what this meant was I was expected to kick the ball into the goal with everyone watching. No worries, I scored. That’s not the story, though. The story is in how I made it.
There I stood, the crowd (a bunch of kids under the age of 10) cheering me on from every side (mostly just bunched around me), everything in slow motion (the coach just waiting for me to actually kick the ball), and there I stood, realizing that the only way I knew how to kick a ball was with my eyes closed, completely void of tact and ability. So I made a three step plan for myself. Step one: accelerate the 6 feet toward the ball. Step two: keep my eyes open. Step three: kick the ball toward the goal with everything I have. In theory, this is a pretty simple thing, over in about 3 seconds. What proceeded to happen, however, was the slowest shuffle toward said ball, a powerless kick that resulted in both my feet in the air and bum on the ground, and a slower than slowest rolling of the ball toward the goal. How did I manage to score, your ask? In Malawi, most people grow up playing soccer. So I think what did it was the sheer shock of my inability to play in any way whatsoever, despite my sporty appearance and intimidating looks of blankness and stupidity. Any that was the start of my soccer career.
Our boys went on the play their hearts out in every game, winning some and losing some, and I became the soccer mom cheering them on from the sidelines. There’s nothing super spiritual about this journey, I was just excited to tell you that I can (somewhat) play soccer now. And I do love all those boys to death. They were the saddest part of my goodbye to Malawi, and even to Africa, but I will truly always remember them, and carry a pride in my heart for the young men they are.
