FORMER YOUTH SOCCER PLAYER TELLS ALL
Several Reasons Why I Didn’t Start in The World Cup Final
My lack of bloodlust, for one
I can speak about great soccer players because I spent my formative years on the bench, watching more talented girls dribble their way to professional contracts.
From age nine through high school, my poor parents schlepped me across state lines for games every weekend.
I wanted to be a great soccer player so bad that I went as a trophy for Halloween one year, shamelessly roaming my neighborhood with a blonde wig and gold painted skin.
Every day, I practiced drills, studied strategy, and was berated by British men in their mid-thirties, who, though once promising athletes themselves, now spent their days teaching preteens how to slide tackle.
But despite all the work, no matter how much I wanted it, I would never be an elite player.
The future greats are plucked from the rest before puberty and forcefully molded into greatness. Everyone else is scaffolding meant to hold them up.
Some prospects will flame out, some will destroy their knees, and some will quit the sport to join the school musical (a la Zac Efron). Knowing this, the puppet masters of youth soccer add insulation to their rosters with players like me, who were pretty good but not great.
Like the best, I was quick, but, unlike them, I could not run forever.
By the sixth or seventh lap around the pitch, I would be crawling and praying for the sweet relief of death. The stars would be painting their nails blindfolded and still manage to lap me several times.
I was tough, but I could not play through anything.
During a game once, my team’s best player sprinted off the field, did category-five damage to a nearby port-a-potty, then returned to score 6 goals within the half. Color me impressed. And grossed out.
I loved the game, but I wasn’t willing to do anything to win.
Though I made myself out to be a champion’s trophy, deep down, I would have gladly been a certificate of participation.
For me, soccer was a way to make friends and to learn new things and to force childhood by a little quicker.
There was always a life waiting for me off the field.
When I look back, part of me is happy that I never started in the World Cup Final.
But mostly, I’m bitter.
My former teammates have earned glitzy sponsorship deals and fat contracts, while the gross revenue of my efforts is a profound hatred of cardio and generalized anxiety disorder.
But hey, at least I can look back with pride knowing that I got to watch a few of the sport’s future greats. I bet a lot of fans would pay big money for my seat on the bench right about now.
