Soccer

The son sets the ball on a flat patch, takes three steps back, eyes the upper left corner, and rushes towards the kick.

The son, five-years-old, sits on the sofa watching the sports channel. It’s nearly noon on a sunny summer Tuesday. Italy has just upset Brazil one-nil on a last second goal, a laser off a midfielder’s foot from outside the penalty box into the upper left corner, millimeters from the leaping keeper’s outstretched fingertips. The son is watching the highlight for the eighth time when the garage door opens. A moment later Dad is in the doorway with his tie stuffed into his trouser pocket and a big smile on his face.

“I took the afternoon off,” Dad says. “We can do anything. You name it. Anything you want.”

“Soccer!” says the son. “Soccer, soccer, soccer!”

“Well,” Dad says, “if you don’t have any ideas, how about we drive over to the park and play some soccer?”

The son rushes to find Mom and announce that finally Dad doesn’t have to work. They’re going to the park. To play soccer. He fetches his ball from underneath his bed, then waits in the car for Dad to finish lacing his bright new sneakers.

Dad covers the field in a few long strides. Following, the son dribbles a crooked course up the pitch. Standing near the goal, Dad shouts, “I’m open! Pass it here, pass it here.”

The son stops a few yards beyond the penalty box.

“You stand over to the right,” he says. “I’m going to shoot it up into the other corner. You are going to dive and try to save it, okay?”

“Okay.”

Dad gets in position. The son sets the ball on a flat patch, takes three steps back, eyes the upper left corner, and rushes towards the kick. He grunts as the tip of his toe crashes into the ball, which leaves the ground briefly before rolling towards the center of the goal. Dad shuffles three steps over, and easily traps the ball to the ground with the sole of his shoe.

“Why don’t we try some passing?” he says.

“I want to try again,” says the son.

“Okay,” says Dad, and he rolls the ball back.

The second shot doesn’t even reach the goal line.

“How about you move it up a bit?” says Dad.

“I want to do it from out here,” says the son.

Dad picks up the ball.

“But son, that’s not how the game is played.”

“But Dad,” says the son.

“No buts,” says Dad. “If you want me to play with you, you have to learn to do it correctly.”

“But Dad.”

“No buts.”

The son sniffles and tears roll down his cheeks.

“That’s it,” Dad says. “We’re going home.”

In the car there is more crying. That, they think, about does it for the soccer playing. But neither one realizes, yet, that so much more than a game has been lost.