True Story Tuesday - Sometimes They Call Me Mia

If I had half as much athletic skill as competitive drive, I could probably be an Olympian. I'm the only person I know who can turn a foosball match into an aerobic activity or choreograph a victory dance when I win a round of Mall Madness; however, I can also be humbled beyond humbled, as I learned not so long ago.

I transferred to my high school alma mater after my freshman year. As a new sophomore I was a member of the volleyball, swim and soccer teams. I had been the starting goalkeeper on the varsity team my freshman year at a small Christian school, but at my new, huge public school, I was a second string keeper on JV. Of course, I didn't mind that so much, since my previous team went 0-11-1. I just wanted to win. Our high school's varsity team regularly contended for the state title, and expectations were astronomically high.

My first game as a member of the junior varsity squad was against a weak opponent. At halftime we were up 8-0, thanks heavily in part to my solid play at starting right bench. Our AARP-card-carrying-shaven-leg-ponytailed-fashion-design-instructing-man coach decided that the start of the second half was the perfect setting for my moment of glory. As I trotted out to the goal, I felt a surge of adrenaline and excitement.

The objective of the second half was fairly simple... our team wasn't allowed to score a goal unless we achieved eight passes. Most of the action was taking place in the form of keep-away amongst our defensive unit. Feeling confident I assertively demanded that our center defender pass the ball back for me to clear to our midfielders. Our she-male all-star turned to pass it back, but apparently she was disoriented and wasn't sure where she was on the field. Instead of a gentle pass, my teammate turned and shot on goal. Unable to stop the ball with my hands, I stuck to my plan to clear the ball with a swift kick to the ball's leather gut.

With the proper angle, goal and motion, I launched my foot toward the spherical missile hurtling toward me. Expecting to feel foot-meet-leather, I was shocked when, instead, I was met with empty air. With a collective gasp from the crowd I turned as the ball continued to travel swiftly toward the net. In slow motion I tried to chase down the errant play. My struggle was to no avail. Despite urging inertia to cease all existence, the ball swished soundly into the back of the net. When the game ended the score tallied a respectable 9-1.

Although my tears flowed in a torrential downpour of shame and embarrassment, for the duration of the season my sensitive coach continued to report each week that as a team we had only allowed one goal... the goal that I whiffed (skillfully, of course). Unsurprisingly, my illustrious soccer career ended shortly thereafter. I still get mistaken for Mia Hamm around the Queen City.