por Javi Rosario
When I was a kid my friends and classmates had just started getting into soccer. For a time, popularity and status revolved around your skill on the field. Unfortunately for me, I never really saw what the big deal was about soccer, though certainly not for lack of experience. In fact, one of my earliest memories of soccer is also one of the most interesting.

I had just gotten dressed for gym class and ran out the locker room and out to the activities court. It was technically a basketball court, as evidenced by the two hoops on each side, but since it was the only real sports area in the new and small Ashton School, the coaches had decided that it could be used for anything and everything, whether it be football or baseball, tennis or volleyball. That day, however, stood two noticeable goal nets on each side right under the basketball hoops.

The kids around me cheered and hollered on the way to Coach Martinez as he waited for us in the center of the court. I more or less stumbled my way there though. You see, back in elementary school I was a real shrimp, so much so that the smallest size for our gym clothes were a few sizes too big on me. I liked it though, sure it wasn’t the best to run around with, but it was cozy and felt like some kid of portable blanket.

Anyway, the once we all piled around the coach he started talking about the spirit of sports or some nonsense. It didn’t take long for me to just sort of space out, and by the time I came back to my senses I noticed all my classmates acting all weird. Some were groaning and complaining to anyone who’d listen, some were practically jumping all over the place, and some looked so pale I though they might just drop dead right there. Figuring I must’ve missed something, I asked the guy next to me what was going on.

“Are you deaf? We’re going against eight graders! Can you believe it?”
That’s when confusion turned to shock, and then dread. The thing was, Ashton School was a kindergarten through eight grade school. That made eight graders pretty much the kings and queens of the place. I never really saw them much, what with having lunch at different times and all, but from what I knew eight graders were true monsters. Furry and big, I even remembered seeing one guy with a mohawk. These days it isn’t such a big deal, kids wear mohawks all the time, but back then that was the epitome of danger. Put that together with sports, and I was sure we were walking into a bloodbath.

I’m sure that our team met the eight grader team sometime after that, maybe exchanged a few words and whatnot, but the memory gets a bit fuzzy. All I know is, at some point, I was on the defense.

Now I hadn’t really played much soccer before then, maybe one or two games but not much more than that. I always tried to avoid it, even if all my friends were obsessed with the game. It took a while, but eventually they stopped asking me to join in, and I was happy about it. Sports hadn’t ever really been my thing and I knew it, even back then, so I wasn’t going to waste my time doing something I didn’t really want to do. Out on that court though, watching as my team desperately tried, and failed, to keep the ball on the eight grader side, I cursed my stupidity. If only I’d known that my life was going to be in danger because of my lack of soccer skills I would’ve tried to at least learned the basics besides ‘kick the ball’.

Deciding to save my lack of forethought for later, I decided to just concentrate on the game. My eyes glued themselves to the ball, my legs spread themselves apart, and I took a crouching stance. This wasn’t the time for a panic attack. I mean, how though can it be to stop one guy from getting to the goal when he had to drag a ball around with his feet? Even if he was a few heads taller than me, even if he was growing a noticeable beard, even if his gym clothes looked like they were about to rip to shreds, I could do this.

That’s when I spotted one particular eight grader, the largest of them all, completely obliterate our offensive opposition. All thoughts of my success were thrown out the window at that moment, and with horror I realized he was heading straight towards me.

I thought about running, but I didn’t want everyone to call me a pansy, even if I had legitimate reasons. I thought about maybe stealing the ball from him, but I didn’t know the first thing about stealing or anything like that. So I just stood there, waiting for this mass of muscle and hair to trample me and end my puny existence.

Then, at the blink of an eye, I was in pain. I idly remember holding my stomach, and kneeling over on the ground. I hazily remember hearing other people’s voices all around me, watery and fluid, like they were all coming from the same source and still sounded different. The thing I remember the most though, is the panic that set in just a few seconds after. It took a while, but eventually I somehow sorted out in my confused mind that I wasn’t breathing. I quickly tried to take in some air, bit my chest wouldn’t expand, my lungs wouldn’t open. I got extremely scared then. I’m sure I tried to scream, in horror or for help, but I couldn’t make a sound come out.

Darkness started to creep my vision then, and I managed to register that Coach Martinez started carrying me on his shoulder. The last thing I remember is my coach saying some pretty stern stuff to the eight grader that hit me with the ball before I started to sleep.

The next thing I knew was that I felt really comfortable. I knew I was asleep, maybe in my bed or something, but I didn’t really feel like getting up yet. Unfortunately, I felt that weird falling sensation you get when you’re about to wake up and I almost fell off the bleacher seat I was lying against when I did. Looking around, I didn’t see anyone else sitting there, but when my eyes traveled down to the court I saw that the game was apparently still in progress. I felt a little disappointed then, thinking that maybe they’d just stop playing when they saw how badly I got hurt, but I quickly waved it off, knowing that it’d be girly to stop playing just because someone passed out.

Luckily for me the game ended a few minutes later, and it was time to change back into our normal uniforms and get back to class. I sighed and started heading down the bleachers to my friends when I suddenly stopped. I didn’t know what they’d think about the whole ‘passing out’ thing. I thought maybe they’d make fun of me or something. After a few moments of hesitation I decided that I couldn’t just hide out there, mostly because my teacher would notice if someone went missing, and started walking to my friends again. When I reached them, the weirdest thing of the day happened.

People started giving me high fives and pats in the back. They cheered for me, and clasped my shoulder and started saying something about how I was some kind of hero. Apparently, I had been really close to the goal, and the eight grader that had shot a ball at my stomach sort of missed me since I was so short. When I got hit by the ball, I not only stopped him from scoring, but also got him kicked out of the game too.

As people kept congratulating me, I couldn’t help the smile that split my face. It felt nice to be the hero for once, even if it hadn’t really been planned. I don’t even remember who won that game, or if I even bothered asking back then. That day, I realized why people loved sports so much, why some can’t live without them. Everyone wants to be the hero, the person who did something others couldn’t. After that, I started playing soccer a bit more, and though I’m still not really very good, I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.