Personal Narrative About Soccer

My soccer career started as soon as I could walk, but somehow I still wasn’t very good at it at the age of 13. You'd assume ten years of practice and a sister who'd been the mvp of her high school team would have rubbed off on me, but that wasn’t the case. That is to say, I wasn't absolutely pitiful. I was pretty quick, and I could get a good foot on the ball about four times out of ten.

My team that year, the Tornados, weren’t anything amazing, either. We had possibly a couple skilled people, yet most, like me, were what you could call decent. By some miracle, our mediocre team had played our way into the final round of the tournament. The last minutes of the game were counting down with the scoreboard reading 1-1 when down the field I spot
I couldn’t stop replaying the loss in my head for the days following and tormenting myself with the thought that if I hadn’t have froze, the Tornados would have been the champions of the tournament that day.
The team got together the next week for the yearly season ending party. I walked into my coaches house with guilt still hanging on my shoulders. To my surprise though, no one seemed to be mad at me, even when I had lost us the game, and they had to be upset about not winning the championship title. When our captain had started to organize teams for a little kick-around session, I realized why no one was disappointed at me, or in general for that matter. It was possibly the pressure of winning or the excitement that I might finally live up to my sister’s standards, but somewhere along the way I had forgotten why my teammates and I played soccer in the first place. Although it would have been great, it wasn’t to gain a tournament title or win the game. It was because we all shared the love of the game. I didn’t need to receive a trophy or even come out with an underdog win to have fun playing soccer with some of my closest friends, but apparently I needed to freeze up to remember