Football, or as we Americans call it, soccer.

Yes, I’m aware that the above is not a complete sentence.  However, the winter sports season is my favorite, as I get to play soccer.

Now, I hate running.  Even though I do cross-country in the fall and track in the spring, I am really not a runner.  I wish I was, but I’m not and that’s just how it is.

That aside, I love running in soccer.  I love the sprinting, and the distance.  My friend Ally and I run at least two additional miles after practice every day.

Here’s the other thing: I’m terrible at soccer.

I played as a kid in one of those coed AYSO leagues.  The only thing I remember from that was when a kid named Peter fell off the monkey bars near our practice field and got a concussion.  I was sad because he was never the same when he came back, and I had a crush on him.

I played again in seventh and eighth grade on the school team, and wanted to play my freshman year of high school.  But, I popped out my knee during cross-country and skipped a year, joining back up as a sophomore as left wing.

I’m currently the only left-footed player on my team, so I guess that’s something.

But back to the point, I’m awful.

I just can’t seem to get my kicks right and I don’t know why.  But that’s ok; I don’t mind.

Who needs aim when you can just smash?

That’s what I do.  I just barrel into whoever is in my way and pass it to the players on my team who actually have all that fancy ball-handling down.  It’s a party, and I like it.

I love the physicality of soccer, the movement, the heat.

There’s something incredibly fierce about the pace and the nature of the game.  It’s like an unexpected dance, the opposing team always has you guessing.  You have to figure out how to move with them, anticipate their actions and take your queues.

Of course…I’m a horrendous dancer, but that’s mostly irrelevant.