The Day I Learned I Could Do Anything

"How did you DO that?" Bradley asked. I shook my head, shrugging.

"Ah fwohn whoa."

It was dinnertime, the last meal before our final practice of the day, and we were all pretty starved. I wasn't just hungry though. I was trying to get food into my face as quickly as possible. We had an hour or two before our next practice and to prevent vomiting I had to get digesting ASAP. As such I didn't make for good conversation.

Mr. Berthel was our soccer coach. But unlike most coaches his goalkeeper training was intensive. Painful even. Only the vigor of youth could allow me to do some of the relentlessly acrobatic diving that was required to prevent me from smashing my body beyond repair. And that third practice was no different. Fortunately, it was late in the week. Third practices were starting to develop into light scrimmages. Coaches included.

We were lined up on opposite teams which meant that my coach would be shooting on the goal I was assigned to protect. He played soccer in high school and maybe even a little low tier professional ball before going into teaching, but there's no doubt the man had skills. Mr. Berthel could kick a soccer ball with better accuracy than I could throw one. Push ups were punishment for not following his shot to conclusion which, often, was the back of the net I'd been assigned to protect. Eight times out of ten he could put a ball into places I couldn't get to. And he was gonna play Center-Mid, aka Mr. EVERYTHING, for the other team. I was gonna spend a lot of time on the ground.
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I was in eighth grade when Mr. Berthel first called me into his office. He was the Varsity Soccer Coach. This was my second year playing soccer, ever. In seventh grade I was too fat and goofy looking for the coach to play me in the position I wanted, goalkeeper. Instead of being disheartened I played again in eighth grade. I was still fat and goofy looking, but no one else wanted to tend, so the coach let me start at the position. Midway through the year my goals against average hung below 1.0 and I had four shutouts in eight games.

"You could be All-State if you wanted to ya' know."

Mr. Berthel smirks when he's serious. Legs crossed, leaned back, he was the picture og GQ-cool. I wasn't sure if he was kidding or not, but as a kid anything an adult says can hold a kind of power. So if he said it, maybe I could make it true?

There were four slots available to the top goalies in C-Class (Division III) schools: First Team, Second Team, Third Team, and Honorable Mention. There were a lot of schools in the state of Michigan. Quite a few in our class. I was in the middle of playing my first year as a soccer goalkeeper and he was telling me I could rank with the best in the state? Well...it was a nice thought.

I finished the eighth grade soccer season strong and broke all sorts of goalkeeping records. Going into Freshman year I thought I'd be a shoe-in for Varsity. There were three guys in camp: Justin, me, and a new guy. His name was Mike. And he had a lot more years under his belt. And a goalie shirt. Goalie shorts. Cleats (plastic AND metal). And technique. I was at camp taking shots from seniors in a t-shirt, sweat pants, and gym shoes (last years cheap cleats bit the dust in the off-season). Oh, and I was still fat and goofy looking. Justin was returning Varsity. Mike became the JV starter. And I sat the JV bench.

The third game of the season I was given playing time, but as a forward. With two minutes left. When we were ahead 3-1. It was pity play. But I still managed to score the only goal of my high school career.

Six games in tragedy struck. Mike and a forward collided going after the same ball on a breakaway. The ball bounced out of bounds. Mike's leg broke in two places. So now I was the starter. By the end of the season I'd once again gathered a bunch of shutouts, a low goals against average, and a good deal of acclaim. But I was still fat and goofy looking. If I wanted to show myself approved to the coaches, I'd have to go away to soccer camp with everyone else.

Mr. Berthel had suggested I go to soccer camp the season before and I'd scoffed at the idea. I'd been to camp before. There were several dozen reasons I didn't wanna do it again. But as it seemed to be the main reason I was passed over for the starting job in JV the first time around I sucked it up, packed my gnat repellant, and got on the bus.
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The Center-Midfield position handles the ball more than anyone else on the team and is an integral part in setting up the offense or helping on defense. The position requires the most amount of personal stamina as whoever played it would be expected to be anywhere and everywhere at once. Quickly. Mr. Berthel played the position easily, running his own players into the ground and giggling all the way.

In our scrimmage, his team would spend most of game on our side of the field. When Mike was in nets, I'd laugh as Mr. Berthel sent him from one side of the net to the other with shot after shot. When I was, Mike laughed harder as I endured the same punishment. But Mr. Berthel was also not above a good bit of ribbing during play. During corner kicks he'd either stand right behind me and grab my shirt or directly in front of me so I couldn't see where the ball was being kicked. On indirect kicks he'd rocket it right at me, daring me to drop it so someone on his team could punch it in for the score. On direct kicks he's fake shots and pass off to someone with a better line on net. It was miserable. And that was when I wasn't swatting away those stupidass gnats.

The game would often progress until everyone was too tired and hungry to continue. But just before ending this practice, the third practice on the next to last day, he broke away from everyone else. Mr. Berthel didn't just control the ball, he willed it David Copperfield-style. Around one defender, over another, and through the legs of some flat-footed unfortunate. And before I knew it, I was the last one he had to burn.

No one else was even coming to help. Half my team was sitting around midfield, swatting gnats and catching their breath. The rest were just standing around waiting. No one knew the score, but we all felt that the game was just about over. All that was left was for Mr. Berthel to call it. One final score might've done it. So they did little to muster up that last bit of fight. Barring some cursory maneuvers, they let themselves get humiliated.

He was at the eightteen yard line and coming quick. I was on my line and in position to stop him if he shot, but no matter how agile I was his kick was much too strong for me to have time enough to stop it. If he wanted to score, that was the simplest way. But still yet, he kept coming. Twelve yards out he still hadn't shot. He was coming right for me. The gnats were everywhere, but I didn't notice. I couldn't see anything else but him and that ball, rolling, at his feet, hungry for the back of the net. Ten yards out he deked, but I didn't bite. Eight yards out he deked again, but still I didn't bite. It was gonna be him versus me, ball versus net, and the Vegas odds had him at 50 to 1. Still, I stood my ground.
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Soccer camp started in the second week of August. It was an 8-day trip that included a week of grueling 4-a-day practices and an end of camp canoe trip. The summer leading up to it I spent every day caddying, eating tuna fish sandwiches, and working out to music videos on MTV. By the time I got on the bus, I'd dropped from 218 lbs. to 188 and could do a thousand crunches without breaking a sweat. I'd like to say I was preparing for soccer camp, but I was meerly doing an experiment on myself to see how much weight I could lose and still be healthy. But when I showed up for attendance that first morning everyone noticed the difference. I was for damn sure goofy looking, but I was no longer fat.

Maybe I hadn't done all the working out for soccer's sake, but thank goodness I had. Every morning at dawn we were required to go on a three mile run before breakfast for first practice. I never completed it, but doggonit did I try. My body was built for speed and quickness, not endurance. And between the asthma, allergies, gnats, and raw, gaping hunger I think the best I ever did was half-way before turning back.

The second practice was mostly endurance increasing and skill building where everyone did shuttle drills, sprints, and other non-ball work. The third practice, for the first four days of the trip at least, was the first one where everyone would actually put our cleats on that day and do some actual ball work. Fourth practice was usually a wrap up and cool down for the day. Don't think it was easier than the rest though. Since bed-time was imminent and the sun wasn't nearly as hot on us as before, Mr. Berthel would often work us harder then than at any other point of the day.

There were three goalies my first year of soccer camp. Justin, the Senior. Mike, the Junior. And me. Justin had started, alone, the previous year on Varsity so it was a given that he would start that year. Mike was probably going to back him up that year so as to get ready for his Senior season. That left JV all to me. It was nice knowing that I didn't have to fight Mike for the starting spot. But that didn't stop them from training me like I was starting Varsity. I ruined a lot of t-shirts diving into the hard, unforgiving earth that week.

The workouts were grueling, but I still had plenty of energy to get into trouble. I talked a little smack to the offensive upper-classmen on the field, daring them to shoot on me. They did, of course. And it hurt. I stopped more than I let by, but the costs were often much more severe when I did. And Mr. Montgomery, my eighth grade Civics teacher, called me out on a lesson in respect that had me carrying him, piggy-back, halfway around the field. Mr. Montgomery, at the time, was 250lb. I learned respect.
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Mr. Berthel had the ball on his foot. I'd given up ground so that I could have more time to watch him as he made his way towards the net. Moving off my line prevented me from covering the angles like I wanted and put me at a geometric disadvantage. But if he'd wanted to score he'd have already done it. And he was smirking. It was that same smirk that he'd given me before he'd laid down the gauntlet.

"You could be All-State if you wanted to ya' know."

I took it was a suggestion, but it grew into mantra, a focal point of my high school existence. All-State. The best. I could be if I wanted. At the time, I didn't even know that I didn't like soccer. All I knew was that I had the potential to be the best at something. The ball was at his foot and he was smirking. But this time he wasn't going to tell me the facts. I was going to have to learn it for myself.

He deked again like he was gonna blast it, but I didn't move. Both feet were shoulder-width apart, like I'd been taught. My hands up, knees bent, eyes locked. Mr. Berthel loved to "nutmeg" his players by putting the ball between their legs. Success on the field meant a completed pass to himself as he ran around the burned player. Success on net meant a goal. So I kept my feet close enough to cut off that option. But by now he was less than six yards out. The odds were now 100 to 1 against me.

As luck would have it, he shifted near-side, to my right. I followed him to cut off the angle, but at that distance there was still a significant amount of open goal to aim for. In order to get around me he'd have to put it at a ridiculously precise angle. It would be like nicking the eight-ball from a 90 degree angle so as to get it to ride the rail into the corner. Even the pros can't hit that shot with regularity. Which is precisely why Mr. Berthel, smiling wide now, put it exactly in that spot.
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Goalie gloves were expensive. The pair I took to soccer camp were brand new and cost no less than sixty bucks. The fingers were laiden with some type of grippy foam-rubber that allowed me to get a grip on the ball that was superior even to my natural skin. Goalie gloves were also frail. By day two the finger tips had worn down from all the catching, falling, and getting up. But there was no way I could face my father with a beat up pair of goalie gloves that cost him that much money and ask him to get me another pair.

Instead, I taught myself a different technique for gaining control of the ball. Since the foam-rubber padding was stronger in the palms, this is where I learned to catch for the rest of camp. The first few steps were difficult though. Using the palms instead of the fingers led to a painful lesson in "stone hands" that would cause the ball to bounce off of me and back into the fray where I would risk fingers and ribs trying to get it back. Eventually I learned to use my chest as a third hand so I could trap it properly. Any other way and I was gonna be in deep doo doo.

Mr. Berthel's shot was an impossible distance away in the opposite direction. I look back now and see that the ball had left his foot moving quickly towards the opposite end of the goal. A rough estimate put it at about ten feet away from me and gaining distance rapidly. Add to that the fact that I had already shifted my inertia towards the near side of the goal. So not only was I out of position, but my body was already moving another way.

Good luck telling my body that though. Even though I was still sliding right, my right leg had enough purchase to change my direction. So despite the odds, despite the sun, despite the exhaustion clinging to every limb on my body my legs pistoned and my right arm reached across my body while my chest ate the fall. When the dust cleared the ball was resting perfectly underneath my palm less than six inches from the gaping maw of the goal. Depending on the referee, one hand might not necessarily consititute control and it was not uncommon for Mr. Berthel to kick the ball away from us simply because we couldn't stop him. So as soon as I realized I had the ball, my legs went into a flurry to scramble my body around it in a half-fetal position.
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My Senior year was my only year playing as the starting Varsity goalkeeper. I made Varsity the year before, but lost the starting job to Mike after a grueling half-season of competition. Mr. Berthel made us fight it out for the job, but decided that our skill sets were too even for him to lose out the starting job in his Senior year. It was a wise decision. Mike would go on to lead us a few games into the State Playoffs and along the way stopped three penalty kicks in one game from Ali Curtis, a guy who played Olympic Development and would later play professionally in MLS.

What I didn't know and what Mr. Berthel didn't tell me is that he told my Father, too, exactly what he told me about my All-State potential. So it was that much more satisfying when my Dad told me as much, shortly after I was handed my All-State: First Team certificate and medal. I got a bit of attention from colleges afterwards, but none that wanted to give me a scholarship. I could have walked on somewhere I'm sure, but I only wanted to go to U of M. And they didn't even have a Varsity Soccer program.

The lesson Mr. Berthel taught me back then, not only with his endless drills and preparation, but mostly with that one momentous save is that success comes with belief in self. If you're lucky you have parents and friends that love you and care for you and encourage you. If not, you're just on your own. But either way the ability to believe in oneself is a choice. It's very nearly exactly like faith in God, or Vishnu, or Buddha, or Muhammed, or whatever deity, spiritual advisor, or set of spritual principles you ascribe to.

If you work hard enough at it, practiced faith is like like being able to see the Matrix in the walls. It's like reading the stitches on a curveball and having enough time to smile before you swing. It's like seeing the blue stripe on the arrow and catching it instead of striking it in twain like the hundreds of reds before it. It's as if the whole world has slown down except you and The Zone isn't a vacation anymore, but a second home.

I wish I could say I stopped that ball because I had the skill, strength, and preparation to do so. Conventionally, that's what makes sense. But I know better. I got that ball because I believed I could. Great things have been done by lesser men simply because they had the audacity to believe they were greater than the sum of themselves. I'm thankful for their lessons and I will use my gifts accordingly.