—INTRODUCTION—

Alright, so, I know we have some soccer (or football if you’re just about anyone else or a hybrid like me) fans here on Guide, and I come from a line of precisely two soccer players. My grandfather was a really good striker, and my father trained me in goal. So I am the third generation.

I was thinking. The FIFA World Cup which is ongoing isn’t Christian, but I could share some of my and my dad’s soccer experiences and have some fun. And you know what? We’re all a team on here as Christians, right? So let’s make it a team thing! If you have a soccer experience that you can put a Christian spin on or that struck you as a God thing, write it down and send it in as part of the series!

Kenni

It was Friday at the Pathfinder camporee in September. I breathed in the smell of smoke and trees and smiled. Rustic camping wasn’t my favorite thing in the world, but there was a freedom in some things, including setting up tents and waiting for pizza on Friday afternoon.

After setting up tents, I sat around the campfire with some other people from my club. At length, a small boy by the name of Carlos came up to one of TLTs sitting three chairs away from me, Levi. Many of the other younger boys flanked Carlos. I noted the rubber ball with the large smiley face in Carlos’ hands.

“Hey, may we go and play some soccer?” Carlos wanted to know.

“Sure,” Levi nodded.

I bit my lip as I watched them run off. Soccer…

Quit it, Kenni, I told myself.

I walked back to the tent I shared with my sister to find our mutual friend, Isabella, quizzing her on pre-algebraic equations. Why anyone would find that enjoyable was beyond me. I had no idea what they were talking about and soon lost interest. My eyes kept flitting to the field beyond the campground, across the dirt road, and a little beyond the outhouses. I couldn’t see it for a small thicket of trees, but I could guess what was going on: soccer.

“Um, I’m gonna go watch the boys,” I said, grabbing my phone.

“OK,” Isabella and my sister nodded.

I walked past the Most Holy Place (the food tent) and looked both ways before crossing the dusty path that cut across the campgrounds. I could now see the boys playing soccer. Four orange cones marked the two goals. Where’s the crossbar, you ask? If it’s higher than the goalie can jump, you call “too high,” and the goal is illegitimate. I knew it from experience. I’d played with—I counted—two out of the 7 boys on the pitch before, but I hadn’t played soccer in two years.

“Mind if I watch?” I asked Andy.

“Sure,” he nodded, “just don’t interfere.”

I raised my coppery eyebrows, half amused and half rattled and slightly offended. Don’t interfere? Why hadn’t I just asked to join? That reply would’ve been fun to see! But I knew why I hadn’t asked to join. Was I really as good as I had once been? Would I still be the girl that they would make promise not to let anyone else in the goal? The answer? Probably not. It had been two years, and the only person I’d played against was my dad.

I stood on the outskirts and watched. I saw Jerry step in and out of the goal, saying he was no good at it. I saw Wallis sit down in the goal, and I almost yelled at him. Tears came to my eyes because I had once been the goalie. I had never realized that being part of a team and playing soccer had meant this much to me. But when I thought about asking to join in, I quailed. Would I ever be able to be as good as I had once been famed to be? No, and certainly not on a first game back. I’d be a laughingstock, and I’d ruin it.

Basically the only thing I did was play ball runner twice. I went back to eat pizza and salad somehow more dejected than when I’d gone out. I fell into texting with my dad, and he was enthusiastic. He’d trained me to be a good goalkeeper, and he believed wholeheartedly that I could do it. He encouraged me so much that I eventually made up my mind that, if they played the next day, I would be there, and I wouldn’t back down from asking to play.

The next day was clear, and, after church, the boys ran off to play again. I took a deep breath and trailed after. There were only three this time. Two, Carlos and Jerry, I had played with before. Timothy, arguably the best soccer player in my club, had joined the school where I’d played at, but after I’d left.

They were just choosing teams, I think, when I came in. I never considered before or after that one of them would have to go it alone, which might account for why I heard Jerry offering to be ref and Timothy declaring that he could do a one-man show just as well as he could do a team. Like I said, arguably the best player.

I summoned my voice, and my heart leapt to block it, but the words came out first. “Hey, may I join?”

Three pairs of eyes turned to me. Timothy’s dark eyes, Carlos’ moist ones, and Jerry’s green ones. I imagined their jaws dropping open at the thought that I, never-known Kenni, would want to join one of the teams of the three best soccer players of our town’s Pathfinder club. Carlos and Jerry would never remember my playing, would they? What my FOMO and FOR (Fear Of Rejection) saw as an eternity my mind knew was only two seconds.

In that two seconds, I had the shock of the camporee.

“Sure, you can be on my team.”

Was I dreaming? I stared at Timothy before moving to the goal. That was insane. The best soccer player and the one who’d never even seen my playing before was actually the one offering within the first five seconds a position on his team?

I looked heavenward and thanked Jesus because He’s in even the small things like that. I never did know why Timothy did that. But it was an encouraging boost just when I needed it. Jesus chooses the underdogs for his team, even if we feel like we’re not, or no longer, good enough.

Encouraging others can be tough, like clapping for them on the sports team when no one else is cheering, or like finding the good in them even when you don’t think you can…or you don’t want to.

I thought I was off to bad start when I clobbered Carlos’ shin in the first five minutes. My dad had taught me that when a player is getting close to the goal, if you see an opening to get the ball out, take it! I had seen an opening, but the ball had been replaced by Carlos’ shin before I could stop the path of my foot or even was fully aware of where it was going.

If that had been a real game, that would’ve been a serious red card. Carlos was on the ground for an additional five minutes wallowing in pain. I knew that, after 9 years of training them, my leg power was nothing to be taken lightly. I could only imagine what that must’ve felt like for poor Carlos, and I apologized five more times than was necessary. At least the ball was out. (And sorry if that last remark sounded sadistic.)

But then I came into my own. The fear was real, but so was the adrenaline. Especially when others came in to play—including Levi—I was nervous. Half the time it was just luck that kept the ball out, and I did concede several goals, but Timothy was over the moon at the amount of balls I was keeping out, and I was happy. I was playing soccer again.

So Timothy did get rewarded for his leap of faith, but he might not have. He had taken a gamble. Why did he choose me? I’ll never know. That was almost a year ago, so he’s probably forgotten about it by now. But I know that I’ll never forget it. There are some things in life you never forget, and sometimes having an unlooked-for friend when you’re feeling weak is one of them. Do you feel that with Jesus?