Why Do I Have to Play Soccer?

It was one of those things I just wasn’t good at.
Most physically active things as a kid—I just didn’t have the coordination for.

I didn’t even like soccer. Or t-ball.
Or any of the other peewee sports Mom threw me into.

Why couldn’t I just sit and read?
Or play video games?
Or just go play with my friends?
They weren’t playing soccer.

But it wasn’t an option.
Mom had paid the registration fee—so I was going to do it.
She made that very clear.

I’d have to put on the shin guards,
pull the pants over my legs.
Nothing really fit right.
I was an awkwardly sized kid.
And it was fucking itchy.

My friend Steven would tell me how lucky he was
not to have to play soccer.
He wore leg braces, so he got to go with my other friends
to an after-school camp that had a Nintendo.

I wouldn’t run.
I didn’t want to kick the ball.

The coach tried to make me the goalie since I was pudgy,
but I would duck every time the ball came my way—
so that didn’t last long.

Eventually, my mom told me she’d give me a dollar
if I just tried to make a goal.

Dad said he’d beat me if I missed.

The one game I got put in against other kids—
the only time someone kicked the ball toward me—
I kicked it straight toward the bleachers.

I spent the rest of however many weeks soccer ran for on the bench.
My parents still made me go,
because they paid for it.

Fuck them.