The game of life

I never understood the power of team sport until my son joined a soccer club. He begged us for a whole year. He told us he was a good player. He told us he would work hard. He said if he didn’t start soon he could miss out turning pro, earning millions and building a mansion in the shape of a soccer ball like Messi.
 We thought it would be one more burden to add to a litany of parental obligations. We thought soccer was just a phase. Like Leggo or Minecraft or wheelie sneakers.
 So, we gave him a chance and signed him up to play Under12s at Whitehorse United Soccer Club. And we watched our son grow up before our very eyes. We watched him become captain of his team. We watched him train and play like his life was on the line: fast, focused, furious — our hearts rising and falling from the sidelines, as his team of skinny legged players hit the field across the sludgy footy reserves of Melbourne’s east.
 We watched his emotions get the better of him. A smart quip to the ref in his second match — ‘Are you blind?’ almost cost him a yellow card. But he was hungry to play, desperate to stay, so he quit the backchat.
 His team has won a few, lost a few more. Dirty faces. Slumped shoulders. Voices cracking. But never completely down, because they’re in it together. Hugging and backslapping, dissing the opposition for dirty tactics. Consoling themselves that they’ll lift.
 We watched him inspire his team with his ragged determination, trying to rally after defeat. We watched him score a raft of goals, sometimes single-handedly running the length of the field before that magic boot to the net — which he describes as ‘when the world goes quiet’.
 We watched him make friends, and make plans, talking positions and game play with his young coach — the two of them deep in conversation long after the others have left for lunch at McDonalds. 
 Every match for him is the World Cup. You can search a lifetime for that kind of intensity and never find it.
 People complain about the early Sunday mornings, the muddy uniforms, the fight for a car park against a brigade of testy Toorak Tractor mums who can’t manage to function until they’ve had their skinny soy latte with one artificial sweetener.
 But this sport, this community ritual, this loud and frantic 40 minutes of football every Sunday is turning our boy into a young man. Every obstacle is a test of character. Every loss is a lesson in failure, and a call for resilience. Every victory is a win for the body, a fist pump for the soul, like a shout of confidence to the world, that they’re doing okay, that they’re worthy. 
 He has become the hero of his own story. He is rising under his own steam — understanding the importance of motivation and passion and hard work. 
 We thought it was just junior soccer. But we were wrong. It turns out our son is playing the game of life. We are merely loyal spectators, breathing it all in. This is his show, and he’s running with it.