When I was six years old, and the ball touched my foot for the first time it was magic. I did not want to play soccer. My mom signed me up without my consent. I was dragged to the practice field on a beautiful night in September. I stepped onto the field that night without the slightest concept of the beautiful game or how it would effect my life. I developed a passion, I wish there was a stronger word to convey my love for the game. The way it makes me feel. The thought of knowing when I step onto the field nothing else matters. I can let go of my fears. Soccer is not prejudice. It knows not race, color, size, or speed. The first game I competed in, I established what defines me. Scoring goals. Putting the ball into the back of the net brings glory and happiness, only truly felt by a finisher. What seems such a simple task is far from it. The instinctive ability to know where to put the ball and what power to do it with is a gift. When I was fourteen my life changed forever. I was tripped in a soccer game, dislocated my hand, broke my scaphoid bone, and had to have a screw put in my left wrist. God showed me through this injury that sports can be taken away. Only he is eternal. My life shifted. My focus changed. I no longer think of soccer as a right, but a gift. I treasure every opportunity I get to play the game I love. I no longer do what I do without thinking. I instead, live my life with a purpose. The purpose of my actions are to glorify my Creator. My behavior should point others to Christ. It is challenge to every day take up my cross and follow him.
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