Personal Narrative Soccer

My lungs were burning, my knees stung, and my legs screamed with every step. I knew I had to keep on running. The crowd was roaring, but my breathing was loud enough to drown out the noise. Suddenly out of nowhere there was a girl at my side, I remembered her, and she played dirty. Keeping my temper in check I tried to push on, but she didn’t give up and sent me crashing to the ground. Pain blooms on the right side of my body. Truthfully I was glad for the break, the pain was manageable. Having paused for a moment, I slowly pulled myself to my feet and check my body for damage. My teammate asked if I was okay, I nodded. A shout from a familiar voice brought my head back into the game. I started jogging to where I was supposed to be even though

My mother had hyped me up to believe I was the cream of the crop and should move on to bigger and better leagues to further my blossoming adolescent soccer career. At eleven years old I had no problem believing my mother knew what was best for me. She knew me better than I knew myself and I was a cooperative child. Within a few weeks, I joined the world of competitive soccer. I experienced a new vibe and atmosphere on my new team. The coaches demanded more effort and time than I’d ever put into soccer before. Three times a week in the spring and fall were never enough, soon it became all year round with summer training camps and winter indoor leagues. Not to mention the hefty price tag that came with training. There was always room for improvement and that didn’t sit well with my perfectionist personality or my parents’ wallet. Moreover, my academics were beginning to suffer because school came second to soccer, leaving me to spend long nights and early mornings trying cramming in school work. After a few years, soccer became my worst enemy. It beat me down and stressed me out and I was done putting up with bullies. Before I confronted my demon I had to first face my mother; my biggest fan, my number one supporter since day one. This would be no easy

I told her that I dreaded another season of stress that soccer brings when I go on those fields, and while I appreciated all her support, I was burnt out from playing for eight consecutive years. Once I was done my shoulders became lighter and a wave of relief passed over me. I could breathe again. There was no time to celebrate just yet because our battle was not yet over. My mother, in turn, responded with a lecture for the ages about how I was ruining my life. About how I was missing out on joining the high school team and all the scholarships that go along with being as talented as she thought I was. Although some of her words hurt me, I was glad to have my feelings be heard and to be fixing my happiness. On the other hand, my mother did not feel the same alleviation as I did and proceeded to ignore me for three days. That hurt the most, but in those three days I had a chance to reflect on why my mother was acting this way. I figured she was living vicariously through me; she was no longer the young go getter she was when she was my age. In addition to coming to terms with her age, she also didn’t have an athletic son. Aside from forced sport sign ups, my brother had no interest in sports the way I did. Even still, I needed my number one fan back at my side to help me figure out what to do next. I had just made my first adult decision and I wanted an adult to help me move