![]() “If you play goalie for half the game,” coach pleaded with me, “I’ll let you be the striker for the other half.” I sighed, and did as I was told, restlessly watching the action I wasn’t involved in. As a goalie, I was one goal away from being a villain. Playing up front, I was always one goal away from being a hero. If I was standing in goal, I couldn’t score. Standing in goal was as bad as standing in the outfield in tee-ball. Because I was tall and relatively fearless, the coach of the Rangers wanted me in goal. I ran past the other kids, got to the ball first, and blasted it up the field. I couldn’t dribble or trap a ball or even complete a pass. My first team was called the Rangers, and we wore green T-shirts. By the time the other team had gotten three outs, I was running wild all over that outfield, waving my arms and shouting, caught up in this imaginary game. So as I stood around in the field, I’d make up an imaginary game in my head. At best, they might send a ground ball rolling toward first base. I stood and waited as a bunch of short kids swung and missed. Because I was a big kid, standing head and shoulders above all the other boys my age, the coach put me in the outfield. ![]() ![]() When I was six, my mom signed me up for sports leagues. ![]()
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