Personal Narrative: My Love Of Soccer

I grunted as cold drops of water land on my forehead. Pouring water on my head was Mom's favorite way of waking me up when I was being rather difficult because it was deemed too early to get up out of my warm blanket cocoon. It was nine o'clock on October second 2012, the last day of the big soccer tournament, which my team was tied first for. "Is dad going to be there?" I asked sleepily, unsure of which answer would upset me more. "Of course, honey. You know how proud he is of you," she reassured me. "Proud?" I scoffed, "He's not proud. He's disappointed." Getting ready for the most important game of my eleven year soccer career, I began recollecting on how my love of soccer began. Dad's worship of soccer was very apparent. Every Saturday morning of the soccer season, or the futbol season as he preferred to call it, my father would eagerly run down the stairs wearing his beloved bright red jersey to watch Arsenal play. Once my brother and I heard Dad's heavy footsteps coming down the stairs, we knew the time had come to turn off the Saturday morning cartoons and fork the remote

The whistle blew and both teams began to viciously fight for the ball until our fallen drops of sweat created puddles on the field. Every time someone would attempt a goal, the entire world fell silent until the ball idly stopped short of entering the goal. This continued for a long, strenuous forty minutes, and my team was sure we had won by a one point victory, when, unexpectedly, the other team scored a goal. My heart and confidence shattered as I watched the ball fly into the open goal. I could not believe that we were now tied, all the hard work for nothing. Even if we won the free kicks, we still would not have that feeling of pride that comes with a victory. I would not allow the championship game to end this