| THAT GAME ENDED WITH REALITY Sucking breath greedily on the sideline and feeling uncommonly sorry for myself, I collapsed on the ant-infested grass and sobbed. I was aware of how pathetic I appeared,which only served to make me cry harder. Scalding tears coursed down my face and onto my knees while sweat soaked my scarlet and once-upon-a-time-white soccer jersey. The tears that weren't vaporized by the muggy heat were soaked into an already sodden earth. What had pushed me, usually so cheerful and enthusiastic, so far beyond the breaking point that I became vunerable to cry. It had been a soggy weekend, and my teammates and I could tell at once that we'd be getting more than our cleats muddy at this particular game. Still, we were optomistic. After all, we haddedicated ourselves to long hours of practice and drills. Though the season hadn't been proceeding as well as we would've liked, and despite a dearth of wins, we all preparedfor every muscle wrenching practice and emotionally draining game. Emotionally draining... But I loved soccer - the skill, the endurance, the impact of firm leather colliding with my shins. Kapak! A kick connecting solidly and the ball soaring to an awiting teammate's trap, getting dirty, and having fun. That's what I loved most, and that's why I played for my school for two years. That's not much ,perhaps, but it was enough time to impress a lesson or two on me. I had started late, in the eighth grade, merely for an afterschool occupation and out of curiosity about what it was like to be on an athletic team. Turns out that I liked it alot, even though my complaints of aching muscles, along with the rest of the team's, were in jest. If not, they would hae bailed by the end of tryouts, which had been rigorous, and even more so for the girls who were not normally involved in AYSO or naturally good athletes. Up to that point, I had been an incredible bookworm, devouring books like scrumptous candy, uninterested in excessive physical exertion, and, therefore, not very athletic. Try to imagine, then, my ecstasy at being kept on the team - belonging, contributing, earning about the game and the people who shared my enthusiasm for it. That enthusiasm never waned. After each loss I held tight to the belief that we could and would win the next game. If not the next, then the subsequent one for certain. I prayed, "Please God, please help us out in today's game. If we can't win, then don't let us look like fools." It helped, because we were blessed with two or three victories. These games we really had to fight for - battling fatigue, discouragement, and the ubiquitous opposing team constantly dribbling closer and closer to our anxious goalkeeper. So, if not my enthusiasm and devotion to soccer, what was it that kept me from trying out the third year? It was the realization, on that soggy game day of my second year, middle of the season, that I lacked a very important thing; skill. I was okay as a player, but my skills would not improve beyond a certain point, and I had reached it. I was shocked and upset. It didn't help that I gave up the ball to the other team following this epiphany on the feild. More accurately, I fell on my knees and let the world - the ball, my teammates,and the opposing team - pass me by. Thankfully, the referee let me leave the game for the sidelines, from which I could observe girls who really knew what they were doing. When the coahes queried, "What's wrong? Are you alright? Were you kicked?" I had no suitable reply. i could not tell them, "Yes, I got kicked, but not by another ball-hungry player. By reality." No amount of practice or desire could make me a better player. Some would call me a quitter... I am. I'm not proud of it, but I refuse to deny it. And I had my reasons, reasons that were hard to share with anyone for fear that they would'nt understand how helpless it felt to want some goal and know - not because you chose to, but because of a sudden insight - that you cannot suceed this time. I stayed on until the end of the season, ouwardly the same - enthusiastic and encouraging the others, but always persistently present in the back of mymind was "Failure." No exclamation point (as there had once been), just a period, a statement. The finality, the certainty of it, settled in like a dark demon. Despite this setback, a quiet competitiveness resurfaced after the soccer season ended. I wanted to be challenged, and yet, at the same time, perform at personally accepted levels, so I looked for other groups, such as math and drama teams. A great deal of pleasure came from those activities, but the need for physical competition led me to join basketball and bowling teams as well. Eventually, the prompt of "Failure" faded to a taunting whisper heard every now and then. The most enduring lesson I've learned is to take available opportunities, whether or not I excel in them, because I have a niche where I do suceed and it expands with experiences, good or bad; and that it is senseless to drive my head into immovable walls. Failure is not permanent. if it is a demon, then it can be cast out. Though I may admit to my flaws, I refuse to give up completely. |