I am basically using Jojo’s idea of other people adding their soccer experiences, so I am making a story to add on to it. Enjoy!

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I took my hat off and pushed a few stray curls out of my face. When I settled the hat back on my head, I worried—again—that my brown, curly hair would turn into what I call hat hair.

Dad stood in the goal and called out, “Ready?”

I tightened the hoodie tied around my waist, like a belt. “Ready!” I shouted back.

He drop‑kicked my brand‑new soccer ball—my pretty, shiny, pearly white one with the pink and blue highlights. I’d never used it before… until now.

The ball soared high into the air, and I sprinted to chase it down. I trapped it under my foot and cut back hard, turning on the ball. Then I dribbled straight toward the goal where Dad waited, running almost full‑speed.

I took the shot and—

“I DID IT! I GOT THE GOAL!” I yelled. I jumped up and down, even though I felt like I was about to melt into a puddle from how tired I was.

If this had been a real match, my team would’ve won. But it was just me and Daddy. (And yes, I’m 13. Don’t come at me for still calling him Daddy.)

I repeated that whole process over and over—sometimes finishing cleanly, sometimes sending the ball way off to the side, and sometimes getting blocked.

Earlier that day, Daddy had wanted to spend some time with me on his day off. He packed his soccer cleats, both of our balls, and tossed everything into his bag. We drove to a real soccer field, but when we got there, it wasn’t set up. No nets. No lines. Nothing. We both groaned.

Once we had recovered, we headed to one of our churches instead and walked around back to the little makeshift field. It wasn’t fancy, but it worked. We played for a while, then went inside to refill water, use the bathroom, and take a quick break.

After that, we came back outside and picked up right where I left off—hence everything I’ve been describing so far.

We switched places, and Daddy took a few shots on me. He scored some, and I actually managed to block a couple of his attempts. Then we switched again because he was getting tired… at least it wasn’t just me!

Eventually Daddy gave out completely; he was exhausted. Endurance isn’t exactly his specialty. Honestly, I think that’s where I get it from. 😭

But we had fun. And I didn’t realize—until later—how much it meant to him that I was out there with him, getting melted by the sun, hurting my ankles, and brushing hair out of my eyes every five seconds.

A few days later—maybe even a week—Daddy walked up to me.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve been looking for a new job, and nothing was working out. I finally started praying, and suddenly the puzzle pieces started coming together. I kept praying, and I decided to transfer to a different location with the same company. Everything was going smoothly… until Satan stepped in.”

He sighed. “A coworker got really upset and tried to cause trouble for me.”

He said almost in a whisper, “I think he was possessed by a demon…”

He continued in his normal voice, “I was worried sick that I’d get fired. I felt so down, and I didn’t know what to do. But then you and I played soccer, and it helped me more than you know. It gave me a break from all the stress. I got time with my daughter. It refreshed me.”

Daddy smiled. “God helped me through it. I didn’t get fired. The bosses realized it wasn’t my fault, and I got the new position. I even got a raise.”

It warmed my heart that something so simple—running around in the sun, hurting my ankles, brushing hair out of my eyes—could help my dad that much.