Just Breathe...

Suddenly soccer

Little can get me to alter my plans for a leisurely Sunday. In fact, precious little: one is 2 years old, the other, 7— my nieces, my twin sister’s little girls.

I had never watched 7-year-olds play soccer, but Ariana’s invitation was irresistible. It had to be adorable, those tiny legs sticking out of bloomers as they scrambled around on the grass, chasing the ball like chickens in the rain.

I reached the soccer field at the end of the first quarter. The “Swarm” was trailing 0 to 1, and the tension was palpable.

I recognized those little legs in their baggy shorts, but they were strong and agile. The girls moved like miniature mavens, darting after the ball with purpose and corralling it with carefully choreographed footwork.

I had expected to watch these little girls “play” soccer. But they weren’t playing at it; they were competing in it, their faces surprisingly serious, determined, focused on the game and completely unaware of their audience.

I studied Ariana’s feet and thought about how they had looked laced into pink toe shoes that spun across the stage at her ballet recital, the same feet that slid into black slippers to prance among the crossed blades of the swords at the Highland Games. Here they were, encased in soccer cleats, exhibiting the same agility while pounding through the grass to finesse the ball down the field.

Minutes later, she ran past me, so close I could have reached out and touched her; but she never saw me.

Her skin was flushed and damp, with blonde tendrils, escaped from a lazy ponytail now moist and dark with sweat, framing her face. She disappeared into the Swarm and then re-emerged at full stride. Drawing back her left leg, she then kicked forward against the ball, driving it straight down the field and into the goal.

We shot our arms into the air. We clapped. We danced. We slapped palms. We screamed. We completely lost it, right there on the side of the field. So did anyone whose child was a member of the Swarm. We cheered as though we had something to do with it.

Meanwhile, Ariana bent her knees, shot both fists skyward, and yelled “Yes” before jumping into the arms of her best friend and encircling her waist with both legs as the rest of the team closed in.

I imagined my twin and myself at age 7, age 10, age 15. We never made a goal, never scored a touchdown, never hit a home run. The only reason we weren’t chosen last in sports was because each team had to settle for a twin. I never
sported that messy blonde ponytail or assumed that fierce determination that
would lead me to a goal.

It hit me, right then and there, that this child was my idol, everything I’d ever wanted to be. At 7. She’s even good at math.

The play resumed, and within five minutes the other team scored what became the winning goal. But the drama continued as our little competitors did what many Olympic athletes do upon settling for silver: They cried.