Because I Love Soccer

That black and white ball. A familiar friend to me since I was 6. One way that I have described soccer to a friend is when I said, "It's hard to do a Maradona when you have a whole other team of determined players running at you at top speed." Or rather running at that black and white ball that is resting next to your feet in those few seconds when your mind is searching for a way to penetrate that line of people ahead of you. They are sprinting, ready to attack that ball, going after it likes it's signed by the whole Arsenal team, Beckham, Mia Hamm, and Pele. That's what soccer's about, your mind flashing back to that one camp instructor with the weird accent. The one who taught you how to do that Maradona (he called it "walking on water"). When you finish doing that fancy move and you get past what before seemed like an impossible army of uniformed people. You then are rushing towards the goal before they can catch up. You get that indescribable, overwhelming feeling deep in your bones of accomplishment. All those years of coaches instructing you, all of your gathered information, all of it flashing in your mind. Your muscle memory taking control. This is why I love soccer. There is mud all over me. My water bottle is calling to me. The pain of all the running is inside of me... The need to keep running is burning deep within me. People are kicking at me. My shins are sore. My coaches are yelling at me. My knees are skinned and bleeding. The ref is against me. Yet I keep going... Because I love soccer.