With the World Cup already under way, I thought it would be fitting if I paid homage to the very minimal soccer roots I have by recalling my first and only encounter with soccer.

Growing up, I dabbled in many sports and participated in countless camps and leagues. There wasn’t a day that went by during the summer months that wasn’t devoted to some sort of sports activity. Being busy not only reduced the number of times my brother and I used each other as human punching bags, but it also limited the trips my mother took to the hairdressers to get her hair colored because of us.

Soccer- lets just say- was an experimental decision on my part. Every summer, my parents presented me with a smorgasbord of options. That year, it was the Western Onondaga Youth Soccer Association (WOYSA) that perked my interest. I was allowed to sign up for any competition under one stipulation: I was to finish it from beginning to end. I wasn’t allowed to quit and at the end, I decided if I wanted to pursue it further.

Why the heck not? You just kick a ball around and hope it goes into the net at some point. How hard can it be?

At the ripe ol’ age of six, I knew what a herd of cattle felt like when they forged together to greener pastures. Now imagine a handful of ankle biters running around, all in the same direction with one thing in mind: GET THE BALL.

This didn’t stimulate me to exert any extra effort. I wanted out. My shins throbbed from the other kids’ horrible kicking aim and I wanted a water break nonetheless. However, my parents were the first ones to bring me back to reality and remind me of honoring my verbal commitment.

It wasn’t until the end of the soccer schedule that I finally would be able to bask in a moment of glory. Or so I thought. Separating myself on a breakaway, I gained control of the ball and started to make a push at the opponent’s goalie. My dad was on the sideline yelling for me to get rid of it sooner, but I wanted no part of his advice. Just as I was about to kick, a boy with Ronaldinho-esque qualities came out of nowhere, snatched the ball away from me and started to make his way down to his goal.

Standing there in disbelief, I quickly realized there was no time to indulge in self-pity; I had to do something about this twerp. Matching the boy’s speed, I was now right in his face, unmasking the ugliest of ugly faces at him to try to throw him off his game. When that didn’t work, I decided to take it into my own hands. Literally. I unleashed my inner hockey player and shoved him to the ground without even thinking.

Needless to say, when the game ended, I escaped with no reprimand. No boys messed with me and my ego was now at an all time high. (The “you were better than some boys out there” comments by my mother fueled the fire even more). Too bad that was the last time I ever kicked around a soccer ball.