The Soccer Game
This kid had participated in a weeklong soccer camp for about seventy-five children earlier that month. The directors of the camp were amazed at the little boy's ability to juggle, pass and shoot a soccer ball. In fact they had never seen anything quite like him.
Summer lulled its way into autumn and I had the opportunity to follow James' career as his coach when his mom and dad signed him up to play on my soccer team-one of seven local department of recreation in-town teams composed of boys and girls in grades three through five. It wasn't long into the first practice when I realized that James was indeed a remarkable soccer player for his age.
He possessed incredible visual acuity and was able to size up the development of each play intuitively. I continually had to remind myself that he was an 8-year old child. I soon learned that if I were going to have any difficulty associated with James being on my team, the problem wouldn't be with James, but in getting the other kids on the team to look around and realize he was open.
Once James got the ball, he knew how to juggle and run with it. And for a little kid, he had a wicked shot that only got better as the season progressed.
Our main play quickly became pass the ball to James.
We finished the regular season in fourth place, which guaranteed us a spot in the playoffs. James' goal scoring ability had been a huge factor during the regular season, leading the team and the league with ten goals and a handful of assists. His teammates loved him.
The first round of the playoffs started a week later, on a cold night in November. Because we finished in fourth place, we drew the first place team. James and his teammates were nervous. These guys had beaten us during the regular season. "Let not your heart be troubled," I told them.
We met under the lights that night knowing that the winner would play in the finals.
It was no contest-the other team was never in the game. We beat them handily 2-0. James scored both goals. We were ecstatic. We couldn't believe we were going to the finals in just two short days.
Saturday dawned without a cloud in the sky. It was a typical cold and blustery day in late autumn in the northeast-a perfect day for a soccer game.
We warmed up with a pre-game passing drill I had developed more to loosen up the players and to help them relax than to sharpen their skills. I could sense the tension on the field and along the sidelines before the game among the children and their parents. This was big.
Suddenly the referee stepped out on the field, and blew his whistle, signaling the game was ready to begin. We won the coin toss and took possession first. As we worked the ball down the field, I couldn't help but notice both teams seemed a little tentative-a trend that persisted for the entire first half which proved to be a real, defensive juggernaut by both sides, ending in a 0-0 tie.
We met on the sidelines and huddled to discuss strategy during halftime. We had played a great first half and there was really nothing about their play I could criticize. Instead, I offered simple words of encouragement to my players.
I had emphasized having fun all season long but it was different now. "Do you want to win the championship?" I asked them, trying to get them pumped. "YES!" All but one shouted back in unison. I looked over at James momentarily. He was the only one who remained silent.
"Your destiny is in your own hands," I continued. "You want to win? Get out there and score a goal!"
The referee blew his whistle again signaling the start of the second half. My team was psyched and they ran out on the field determined to win the game.
Almost immediately, I sensed that the tempo of the game picked up. During the next thirty minutes, both sides had several opportunities to score. But the goaltenders extended the first period shutout, stopping every shot from the opposing teams' forwards.
Then, with the clock running down, we suddenly had our opportunity. With only nine seconds remaining in regulation time, one of our midfielders stole the ball about fifteen yards in front of the net. Turning quickly with the ball under his control, he delivered a bullet off his instep. The ball was a spinning blur of black and white, rising towards the goal, with the goalie hopelessly out of position.
But the shot sailed over the top of the net, missing the crossbar by mere inches. Seconds later, the referee blew his whistle three times signaling regulation had ended in a 0-0 tie.
We walked off the field frustrated and exhausted. But the game was still not over.
"You've got to reach down and keep playing," I told them. "You can't give up now!" After the short five-minute intermission, they went back out on the field, resolved to score a goal and break the 0-0 deadlock during the ensuing ten-minute overtime.
But ten minutes later, we were still deadlocked at 0-0. It had finally come down to a shootout.
The five best offensive players from both teams walked out on the field. James was, of course, among them. Valerie, a pretty blonde girl who also played forward with James was the first to score for our side, making it 1-0. But the next two forwards on the opposing team scored and when it came time for James to take his turn, we were behind 2-1.
The other team's goaltender had been cocky and he underestimated James' ability because of his small size. That was a mistake. James looked over at me and I signaled, "Make sure you don't kick the ball at the goalie. Aim high and for a corner." He got a good running start and ripped a shot off his foot that went to the goalie's right.
The ball was kicked hard-so hard that it surprised both the goalie and me as well. The goalie moved quickly to his right, but the ball was too hot to handle. We burst into wild cheers as the ball dropped in behind the shocked goalie for our second goal.
The score was now knotted 2-2. We had exhausted our five chances. The other team had one forward remaining, their biggest and best player.
An uneasy hush settled over the field.
Then the referee motioned with his arm, signaling for the last player to begin his advance towards the ball. The big forward took four long and powerful strides, accelerating confidentially towards the ball. In one quick motion, he kicked a screamer off the inside of his right foot that cleanly beat our goalie over his left shoulder.
We had lost the game 3-2, and the season championship.
I looked over at James who was still standing in the middle of the field, stunned. He stared in disbelief at the ball, slowly spinning on the loose mesh gathered on the ground in the corner at the back of the net. His body went limp and I could see from the expression on his face that he was trying somehow in vain to undo the undoable.
Slowly his bottom lip started to quiver. He lowered his head and tears welled up in his eyes as the realization settled over him.
I ran over and dropping to my knees, hugged my son tightly, trying to console him. He is just too competitive sometimes for his own good.
And then I was reminded: "Who hath made man's mouth? Or who maketh the dumb, or deaf, or the seeing, or the blind? Have not I the LORD?"
A peace came over me, and I realized that James' competitiveness would ultimately be a trait that would help him in his older years as a deaf adult when he would be forced to rely on his determination to succeed at things other than a childhood soccer game.
We walked off the field together, both of us with tears in our eyes.
