One of the first sports teams my family signed me up for was with a local soccer league. I was about 7 at the time and was pretty panicked at the thought of being left alone on an open field with a group of strangers, but it turned out I recognized a few of my teammates as kids from my class at school, so that made me feel a bit better. The coach was also pretty nice, and my mom had even dropped me off with a snack and bottle of my favorite soda. It seemed like I had basically been worried about the whole thing for nothing.

But then the coach told us to start doing jumping jacks. This is when things took a bit of a downward turn.

Now I don’t know about you, but as someone who rarely partook in physical activity as a child, hence my chubby childhood photos, being told to all of a sudden start exercising was a bit of a culture shock. Suddenly I was running, jumping and sweating, and pretty soon I was out of breath and racking my brain trying to figure out what horrible thing I had done to my parents to make them decide to subject me to this torture. My extremities were sending signals to my brain asking what in the world was going on up there. By the time the hour was up and I saw the familiar, yet blurry, outline of my mother’s car in the parking lot, I was like a traveler lost in the desert who’s convinced that the helicopter coming to rescue him was a mirage.

“So?” my mother asked when I managed to finally totter over to the car. “How was it?”

Being so young and not yet fully able to articulate my feelings, I responded with a low-toned “Okay.” She had brought me an ice cream cone, and I buried my emotions in the sweet sugary embrace of its vanilla flavoring. Looking back, I’m relieved she even recognized me: all flushed and sweaty for once in my life, I must have looked like a different person. I’m surprised she didn’t end up picking up the wrong kid that day. I wouldn’t blame her if she had, honestly.

My dislike of soccer continued to grow as the weeks passed and the practices became routine. Being one of the… less than passionate members of the team, I was designated as a defensive player, which basically meant I would spend most of the time during games on just one side of the field and would often be switched out with the benched players. I was totally okay with this decision: During practices I had seen what being an offensive player entailed, and the amount of running they had to do was ludicrous to my fragile mind. Instead, I was blessedly placed with my teammates who were similarly uninterested in running up and down a field for an hour, and we spent the games collectively praying that the ball wouldn’t come within a 10-foot radius of us and our shaking knees. And I often got to sit on the bench, which back then wasn’t at all a punishment and was more like a safe haven from the war-torn battlefield before me. I’d even get to watch the other players have at it, and that was far more entertaining from the sidelines. Sometimes they’d even have punch. I don’t know why movies and television shows always make it seem like such a bad thing: The bench is fun!

Needless to say, I wasn’t long for the sport. I gave it up as soon as my parents started to come to terms with the increasingly likely fact that I was probably never going to become a professional soccer player in my lifetime (spoiler alert). The sport just wasn’t for me, and even now, looking back, of all the sports I played as a kid, I still say with confidence that soccer is my least favorite.

A few months ago I got a call from a school: They were looking for a substitute to fill a role for a few days. I had nothing else going on the days they wanted me for, and so I decided to accept.

Well, it turns out the role in question was for a gym teacher. Me! Of all people! A gym teacher! Imagine that!

I walked through the doors of the school and had one of those “Oh my gosh, is this really happening?” moments. At the office, they gave me my instructions for the day along with an additional slip of paper saying what sport I was supposed to have the kids play.

Soccer. Perfect.

My heart sank a little but I was quick to head to the gym to set up the goals and get everything in place; it wouldn’t be long before my first class came in. And when they finally did, the whirlwind didn’t stop until lunch and then dismissal.

And I ended up having a blast.

It feels weird for me to say that I actually enjoyed sports for once, but I did. Me, the furthest thing on the planet from an athlete, actually liked soccer. Soccer! Of all things!

But the biggest takeaway I had from the experience happened when I was out walking the other day and a little boy came up to me and called me a word I never in my life thought I’d be called.

“Coach!” he cried, his face lighting up as he pointed up at me. “Remember me?! You were the best! I don’t usually like soccer, but you made it fun!”

He smiled and waved as he continued on his way.

And I smiled too.

Crazy how life goes sometimes, you know?

(Note: This is an excerpt and edited version of a larger article that was published on adamssoapbox.com. For the full article, visit https://adamssoapbox.com/2018/06/28/my-relationship-with-sports-as-a-kid/.)

By Adam Samuel

Adam Samuel is a journalist from Teaneck. He blogs at adamssoapbox.com.�