U-Pick: In the Front Yard*

When I was little, I used to get my brother a pair of goalie gloves or a "Calvin and Hobbes" book every year for Christmas. One or the other. And then I'd be furious when he guessed my present by the shape of the wrapping. But I knew I couldn't go wrong with those gifts. He loved "Calvin and Hobbes," and we loved soccer. Our favorite thing was to practice break-aways against each other in the front yard.

Neither one of us was a goalie. And we didn't have a goal, per se. We had a short, squat green electrical box with a sticker that said "DO NOT DIG!" and a good-sized rock that we moved behind the box when we mowed the lawn. Our goal was not regulation size. It was about eight feet across, I'd say. Small enough to give us a chance at stopping each other's shots and big enough to let some of our shots go through, making the game fun for both of us. No net. We shot toward our neighbors' house, and, bless them, they never once complained when our balls bounced off their windows or banged against their cars, which they eventually began to park in the street.

"And here comes Rebecca, on a break-away... all by herself toward the goal... she shoots... she misses! She blows it, folks... she blows the world cup! Brandon has done it again!" my brother would commentate as I came down the length of our front yard.

"That went in!" I'd shriek. "Just inside the rock!"

"No way," he'd laugh, spitting on the gloves. "Wide right."

"Gross!" I'd scream. "I have to wear those too!"

And off I'd go, chasing my own ball. The rules were simple: you missed, you chased; you scored, goalie chased. Five shots each, then we switched. Sometimes we shot from a set point, like a penalty kick, and other times we started farther back and dribbled in.

We could play like that for hours. My dad often came home from work to find us there, shooting and saving in the dusk long after we could see the ball coming clearly. He and my mom sometimes sat on the front stoop to watch until it was time for dinner. Then, we'd file in after them with grass-stained knees, bickering over close-calls or celebrating each other's best shots.

Because I'm four years younger, our front yard games helped me more than my brother. Still, on a real field, in a real game, with a real goal, I was never very good at penalty shots. I found the goal intimidatingly big, which made me all the more terrified to miss. And, more terrified, I did miss, many times.

But on a breakaway--dribbling full speed with my brother's voice in my head and the memory of the rock--well, that was just pure jubilation.

*This post brought to you by my brother, who suggested I write about my favorite soccer coach. Though I had many other excellent (and real) coaches--including a couple who occasionally read this blog--he was the most fun and infuriating. To find out how you can suggest a blog topic for one more day, click here.