scroll to top

Honorable Mention 2021 -A

The Worst Are Sometimes the Best

Josiah Kellams

Everything paused around me--the people, the sky, the trees--and I just stood there, motionless. Absolutely completely still. The ball is at my feet, the grass wet from the morning's rain and our own noon-time sweat. The score is 3-3. Patrick on my right was staring up at the sky counting clouds. Nathan with his hand on his head was staring off into the distance daydreaming about what he had for lunch.

Now in the normal soccer player's eyes, 3-3 would be nothing that deserved to go in the books but our team had the unique distinction of losing every single game this past season. The fact that this team of short and slow kids, whose dads were construction workers and truck drivers managed to score a trio of goals was highly unusual. My foot knocked the ball; it soared across the field like a bald eagle. The goalie reached up toward heaven as if he was praying for victory, but God did not answer and the ball grazed his fingertips. It landed rightfully into the goal like a mother bird entering her nest. I looked across the field and all six of their players had the same face; all half a dozen jaws appeared detached from their skull.

With 7 minutes left in the game, it looked like we had the victory but little did I know change was coming. Out of the side of my eye, I saw Seth. At 5’8 and 190 pounds, he looked more like someone’s dad than an AYSO soccer player. He came storming into the field like a hammerhead shark. As I sprinted down the field, he intersected my shins at a 90-degree angle. The shin guard shielded the pain but the laws of physics would not budge: with my center of gravity nudged out of place, my limbs toppled beneath me like the blocks of a Jenga tower. On the ground, it felt like a sharp knife was being stabbed into the spot where the foot meets calf. In the stands I saw Dad, the guy who got me into soccer and helped me through the years. His eyes said, “Come on son, you can do this.”

Just then, Seth stormed at me with the ball. With a minute left of the game, I limped toward the goal on my one good foot. He met me at the goal and pulled his leg back, about to take the shot. The ball launched in mid-air, but my body followed after it. It ricocheted off my chest back into the grassy field. A loud whistle interrupted the moment. The game was over. Somehow this team of short, slow and gimpy boys had managed to win their first game all season on the last day of the tournament. Soccer, like life, can be funny like that.