Friday, October 23, 2015
[warning: explicit parent gushing and strong language]
Picture: soccer playoff game. Both sides have been playing their hearts out. One team is down 0-1 with 40 seconds to play. One side of the stands is already celebrating; the other side is subdued and preparing to console their girls on the end of their season.
Then: a player takes the ball from near her own goal, dribbles through the middle of the field at top speed, and then launches the perfect pass, threading the ball through four defenders so that it perfectly intersects with a teammate running up the side of the field. Said teammate beats the goalie and tips the ball into the net. With 20 seconds to go in regulation time, the stands erupt. One set of girls on the pitch jump in delirious joy and surprise.
Eventually that last-minute-tying team loses the game in sudden death overtime. But that girl who created the tying goal by making that exquisite run and perfect pass? Was our kid. And she was in tears at the end of the game - she's been playing soccer for about a decade and this may be the first time I've seen her cry over a game. I sat in the back seat with her during the ride home to comfort her. And I praised and gushed until she laughed at my ridiculousness.
We like to think that we have raised our kids to be modest. At least that was our aim and that's what we tried to do. But yesterday, the kid played like a superstar; all those years of training and games showed in her moves. And that last play was a thing of beauty. What a memory. It's the morning after, and my buttons are still fit to pop (thanks for the image, Carolyn!).