The black and white ball is lifted off the ground. Its flying, soaring like a bird through the pale blue sky. It seems unstoppable. You can hear your heart in your ears, rapidly beating. Everything turns into slow motion. Everyone on the field disappears. It’s just you and the ball. You push off the ground, your hands shoot up above your head. You can see the ball spinning towards the goal. It’s so close. You spread your hands out into a w shape, your thumbs almost touching. The ball hits your hands. White foam shoots off from your worn out gloves. You can feel a tingle roll down your arm. You curl your hands around the ball, not letting it escape your grasp. You bend your elbows allowing the ball to roll down to the safety of your chest. Everything comes back. You can hear everything on the field. Your teammates are yelling your name. You stare down at the ball in your arms. You have it. You saved it.



That is the reason why I love soccer. I’m not sure if that is a good reason to like a sport. But, somehow, I want to keep playing. I don’t want to runaway when were losing, I want to fight. I want to cheer on my teammates when there closing in on the goal. I want to feel the ball makes when it slides into my hands. I want to feel the joy when we score a goal. I want to give my teammates hope when we are down. I want to believe that anything can happen. I want to be the best I can be. I want to get stronger. I want to outsmart my opponent. I want to play.