Monday, May 14, 2012

Win

Two seasons. One tie. Eleven losses.  

One last game.

No one had to tell this soccer coach that he had taken this season way too seriously. I already knew it myself. It was a team full of kids, many who hadn't ever played soccer before, and just getting them out there to learn the game was an accomplishment you could hang your hat on. But I was tired of losing. It was becoming tougher and tougher to show up every Saturday in the hot sun, watch the kids get trounced, and then give the same speech about how much they were improving and that they were on the verge of turning a corner if they kept working hard. I wanted a win. 

There was something about the upcoming final game that made the hunger for a victory stronger than ever. It was a game we could win. We were playing another military school with a bunch of kids who didn't have a stable soccer club to play with through their youth. They were also 0-3. It was like we were going up against a mirror. 

We had two weeks to prepare for the finale, and I turned up the heat. Every practice was a battle, and any time the kids lost focus, I was quick to remind them what they were preparing for. They bought into the fact that they were on the brink of getting the first ever win for the program, and most of them were just as hungry as I was. 

The final practice was a clear, hot Friday afternoon. It made me remember hot summer days in the Valley. After a morning of work, we'd make some phone calls, and everyone would meet up at Snoqualmie Ridge and we'd just play. If we had good enough numbers, we'd go until the sun went down. Soccer was our freedom.  I decided to split my kids into two groups and let them scrimmage. I wanted them to just play the game and feel that freedom. As I watched them play, I couldn't help but reflect on how far they had come from the first day of practice. Most of them could barely kick a soccer ball. Now they flew up and down the pitch, dancing and driving the ball all around. I jumped in and played with my group of starters, and our freedoms intersected. My old world and their new one fused together and we played well past when practice was supposed to end. I knew that we were ready. 

Saturday morning was another beautiful day and the field was brighter than ever. I marked the PK lines again, and this time I didn't second guess myself. Everything was aligning. 

Our opponent, Aliamanu, showed up and began warming up. If I just glanced over at them for a second, I would have mistaken them for my team. They had almost identical jerseys, and the kids looked so similar to ours. They also had a younger coach who wore soccer shorts and warmed up with the kids. I had a feeling that this game would be about as even as you could get it. 

The boys showed up on time and we had a great warm-up. As we got ready, the girls won 3-0. I was happy for them, but I also knew that coming up short would be even worse now. I went over the starting line-up and talked strategy. 

"It's out there waiting for you. Go out there and take it from them!" 

We did our pre-game cheer, and just before they took the field, I said, "Hey, guys- enjoy this." I should have listened to my own advice. 

For the next forty minutes, I didn't enjoy much of anything. I wanted to win so bad that I forgot how to feel anything else. Our star player, Dyako, took the ball up the field in the first minute, carved through the defense like a steak knife through a block of melting butter, and scored. After that, the boys lost some of their urgency and hunger, but I was still starving. We started to play a little too loosely, and it was hard to watch. But Aliamanu wasn't posing any threat on offense, and our defense was as stingy as they had ever been. Just before half, our forward Jordan got a ball that trickled through the defense and buried it into the lower right corner. It was 2-0 when the halftime whistle blew. 

I think I may have been the only one who didn't feel that victory was in our hands. Before the second half started, I told the kids to look over at Aliamanu's sideline. "There is no other team that wants to win more than that team right now," I said. "They are on the brink of losing every game this year, and they are going to do anything they can to avoid that. Go out there and bury their will." 

I still couldn't relax, even as it became clearer and clearer that Aliamanu didn't stand a chance. I had dropped Jordan back to sweeper. He was by far the fastest kid out there and nothing was going to get past him. I started putting in reserves left and right, making sure they got some playing time in front of their parents. But it still didn't set in. We scored a third goal, but all I could think about was why we weren't moving the ball around or talking enough. 

When the end whistle blew, it finally started to set in. I raised my arms and went out onto the field to congratulate my players. I began to let go when I saw their happy faces. Then, I felt a rush of cold water. Earlier in the year, when I really didn't expect us to win a single game, I asked Walje if we won to have someone pour the water jug on me. I forgot all about it until the ice and freezing water was streaming down my back and the kids were laughing. It washed away that fierce hunger, it washed away one tie and 11 losses. And all of those hot losing Saturdays in the sun were suddenly cooled away with that icy bath. 


After we shook hands with Aliamanu, we gathered for a team photo. I scribbled 3-0 on my clipboard and we held it up and posed for pictures. The kids were all smiles and I realized that this was the true reason I was here. It wasn't really about winning or losing. It was about these kids and their joy.

Sometimes I think we get so caught up in the process that we lose track of what really matters: their smiles.