Was I that hyperactive when I was twelve years old? Give twenty girls soccer balls and ask them to run, and they explode out, bumping each other every which way, falling over, kicking their balls however many yards in random directions. “Is this what molecules look like when I heat them up?” I always think wryly to myself at the disaster scene before me. When they finally gather before me again, eyes waiting for my words, I can’t help but smile. The reason why? I love messes.
It wasn’t always that way. Perfection. Success. Like many others, I was raised to believe those words were the goal. Get good grades. Don’t bother the teachers. Make things easier for your parents. I was afraid of ruining something, stepping out of line. What if my answer was wrong? Every paper folded hot dog or hamburger style was done with millimeter precision. Presentations contained information straight out of reputable sources, no personal opinions involved. The coach’s instructions were followed to the tee – each soccer ball kicked each game. Every day was a walk on a tightrope, sleep my only respite. Over and over, balanced on the rope, monotony set in.
I was twelve. I was also bored. My nine year old brother was heading off to soccer practice, our father, the coach.
“Hey Dad! Can I go too?”
And that was how I became assistant coach of …show more content…
Children are spontaneous, wild, nonjudgmental. Their glee infectious, I’m not afraid to stray off the lines printed on paper to make up our own games. Their support behind me, I’m not afraid to speak up to the other coaches to let our opinions be heard. While other coaches bury their face in their hands amid the crowd of bouncing children, I want to swing my face to the sky, arms outstretched, and embrace the energy in the air. Sometimes I do. I get weird looks from that. When my brother and father moved on from soccer, I decided to coach a girls’ team in my area with another parent. It’s been four years and every debacle delights
It wasn’t always that way. Perfection. Success. Like many others, I was raised to believe those words were the goal. Get good grades. Don’t bother the teachers. Make things easier for your parents. I was afraid of ruining something, stepping out of line. What if my answer was wrong? Every paper folded hot dog or hamburger style was done with millimeter precision. Presentations contained information straight out of reputable sources, no personal opinions involved. The coach’s instructions were followed to the tee – each soccer ball kicked each game. Every day was a walk on a tightrope, sleep my only respite. Over and over, balanced on the rope, monotony set in.
I was twelve. I was also bored. My nine year old brother was heading off to soccer practice, our father, the coach.
“Hey Dad! Can I go too?”
And that was how I became assistant coach of …show more content…
Children are spontaneous, wild, nonjudgmental. Their glee infectious, I’m not afraid to stray off the lines printed on paper to make up our own games. Their support behind me, I’m not afraid to speak up to the other coaches to let our opinions be heard. While other coaches bury their face in their hands amid the crowd of bouncing children, I want to swing my face to the sky, arms outstretched, and embrace the energy in the air. Sometimes I do. I get weird looks from that. When my brother and father moved on from soccer, I decided to coach a girls’ team in my area with another parent. It’s been four years and every debacle delights