Throughout my youth I spent a large portion of my time playing club soccer. Half of that time was spent playing for Windsor United which was my local hometown soccer club and the rest of that time was spent playing for the prestigious Santa Rosa United, another larger club that eventually attracted most competitive players in the area. Windsor is a very small hometown so our team was much like something from “The Little Giants” or “The Big Green”. We consisted of a mostly Mexican team that spoke Spanish as the primary language. We were far from the most skilled team around and most of the kids didn’t have aspirations to pursue soccer past their youth. To bring it into perspective, I’m pretty sure we had stint where we won 1 game in like 3 years and man-oh-man did we celebrate that fluke win like it was bringing home the Stanley Cup. Anyhow, this story isn’t about that and how sorry we were as a team but more about my hate for soccer and actually practicing.
Now, as a little one, I was athletic by all means but for the love of God I couldn’t channel any of that athleticism into practical skills regardless of the sport I attempted. Let alone my issues with being able to actually excel at any sports, I plain and simple didn’t enjoy sports. That never stopped my dad from enrolling me in our local church basketball league, the local baseball leagues, soccer leagues, and eventually the occasional tennis camp and Taekwondo. Just to really nail home the fact that I would never have time to study or do homework, my dad also had me in Boy Scouts.
I was never particularly good at soccer and honestly; of baseball, basketball, and soccer, I was probably the least capable at soccer. My first soccer experiences came at a young age when I was enrolled in the local recreational league. My dad wasn’t some hotshot retired soccer player and actually played very few sports growing up. His idea of “practicing” was him toe punting the crap out a ball in every which way forcing me to spend more time just chasing balls and recollecting them than actually passing them. My first actual coach once I started playing more competitive club was one of the player’s father, Manny. Manny was a bit rough around the edges and I think he had a hard time accepting the lower capabilities of our team. He loved soccer and really cared for our team but it usually came out as him yelling and us unable to reach his expectations. It also didn’t help that most of his speeches were in Spanish which left me and a few others a bit lost.
Let alone my lack of desire to play soccer, it was even more depressing knowing I was constantly getting picked on, laughed at, or yelled at throughout practice. I despised soccer but I gotta give it to my dad, year in and year out he would wrestle me to the ground and toss me in that back seat, drive with me repeated kicking the back of his chair (Hondas are quite durable), and then drag me by the arm, leg, whatever he could get ahold of, and get me out on that field. My friends still bring up those days of me balling my eyes out throwing a fit while standing on the soccer pitch – and mind you, I was probably around 8-10yrs old at this time.
One of the most predominant memories of Manny is of a time when my dad was running late to pick me up after practice. Of course the coach has to wait around for the last kid to get picked up before they can go home and I’m quite confident my dad had just completely forgotten I was even at soccer. Keep in mind this is also back before everyone had cell phones *shock & awe*. Given my lack of soccer abilities and awkward social skills, Manny and I weren’t the type to have ourselves a conversation waiting around for me dad. So, on this very evening, as the sun was quickly setting and the night approached, Manny communicated with me the only way he knew how, through soccer. Not far from the gate of the field and close to where we were waiting were some smaller trees spaced about 10 feet apart. Up until this point I was a hardcore right footed kid, my left leg was basically just to help me balance. Any attempt to kick the ball with my left foot was futile and usually resulted in a complete miss of the ball. Out of our whole team I think maybe 1 or 2 kids could barely use both feet. Honestly, soccer wasn’t high on my list of things I wanted to pursue in life so there wasn’t any desire to improve or practice during my free time. Manny on the other hand thought this would be an opportune moment to keep me from babbling on about video games and also get some touches in. He came up with a drill that involved me running from one tree to the other and receiving a pass from him which I would return one-touch with my left foot. As he broke down that what I was meant to do and indicated that I would do it until my dad came, complete and utter despair entered my life for the first time.
I’ll admit I’ve had to do a lot of things in my life that I haven’t wanted to do but I’ll go to the grave before I’m considered a quitter or lazy. I try to do everything 100% to the best of my abilities whether or not I actually want to do it. I can’t stand lazy people or people that dog things. My dad raised me one hell of a weird way, but I will say he raised me to always give my best and to be as competitive as possible.
Anyways, now it’s nearly pitch black outside and I have this coach telling me to sprint around these 2 trees passing the ball solely with my weak foot until my dad comes to the rescue. I was conflicted if this was supposed to be a training session or a punishment for him having to wait with me. Regardless, I got into my ready position and things kicked off… My memory becomes a little blurry around this part probably because of dissociative amnesia, but what I do recall is eventually balling my eyes out, whilst sprinting around these trees, and making every sorry attempt I could to kick the ball back to Manny. He even made me “call for the ball” each time I came around the tree despite my tears and clearly being out of breathe. You ever sprint and continuous call for a ball that you can barely see while also balling your eyes out? It’s not easy nor fun. Basically, I wouldn’t quit and it didn’t seem like it was bothering Manny to retrieve the balls allowing this to go on for quite some time before eventually my dad did arrive and man I can’t imagine the words I had for him. I can confidently say that there are very very few other memories of my dad being late to pick me up past this experience.
Looking back on this nightmare of an evening I couldn’t be more grateful for Manny. I learned that I could use my left foot and while it wasn’t instant, I believe this was a huge moment when I really began to grow as a soccer player. He pushed me hard and forced it into me but as I still play soccer to this day, I will say this is one of my fondest and more cherished memories with a coach. I wouldn’t of learned to push myself as hard as I can now if it weren’t for this character-breaking moment. Sometimes the growth you need in life isn’t easy or pleasant, but if give in or quit, you’re passing up on the opportunities to build a stronger character and level up.
