I have many memories of my father growing up. One memory that stands out is when I played PeeWee Soccer in the third grade. The first year I played, I happened to be friends with the superstar player, Sean. It’s amazing that PeeWee soccer had superstar players, but it did. I had the honor of being Sean’s friend because our parents were buddies.
Being one of the only girls in the entire league was tough, but I managed to have a successful first season (with Sean’s help). By the time the second season came around, Sean had aged up to the big league, forcing me to fend for myself. The second season definitely was not as good. The boys were horrendously mean to me and the coach was even worse.
A few games into the season, I had spent most of the time on the sidelines. I wasn’t the best player ever, but we were in the third grade. No one was a good player! I’m not sure what had exactly pushed my dad over the edge, but one day, as I sat bundled in a blanket, watching the game clock tick by, having barely played at all, my dad went up to the coach. Why wasn’t I playing? It’s a recreational league. Everyone should have time to play! Was it because I was the only girl on the team? Because no one else had sat out the entire game!
Granted, my dad was a bit of a bulldog back then. He threw the jersey in the coach’s face and we marched off the field. Soccer was no longer my sport of choice.
That definitely wasn’t the last time my dad came to my aid when things were unfair. Over time, his approach has definitely mellowed. His support may now come more in the form of hugs and supportive words then telling off a soccer coach, but I know, without a doubt, my dad always has my back.
And true to form, to show that I am definitely my father’s daughter, I write this post a day late. J
Thanks for everything, Dad.
Happy Father’s Day.