We sat in the car after a humiliating defeat. The jump to competitive 11v11 soccer was a rude awakening to a group of girls who had dominated their previous division. Chloe played goalie for the second half of the game. Our first half goalie ended in tears after a wholehearted effort of her own.
As a new goalie, Chloe had a love/hate relationship with the role. She loved saving the ball, but the pressure of being last in line between the goal and the ball was terrifying.
I stood on the sidelines and watched as the other team ran through our defense like a sieve, leaving a trail of frustrated and bewildered girls who reacted by doing all the wrong things, even harder. They clustered in front of the goal, backing up and timid, or left the goal wide open by herding after a player with the ball, one easy pass away from another score.
In the midst was my skinny little daughter, a tiny wall in a huge goal. She came out like a tiger, charging and brave. Then they scored. And again. And again. And still, Chloe flung her body after the ball over and over, diving onto the ball at a player’s foot. Sometimes she was alone guarding her net facing three opposing players. She would attack, running forward, arms wide, yelling “KEEPER!”, and sometimes, one versus three would win. But they kept coming, hammering the goal, and frustration and disappointment drooped her shoulders as discouragement whispered “You’re not good enough“.
Big brother crept behind the goal, directing Chloe direct the defense, giving her the best he could; “I can’t play with you, but I still have your back.”
Chloe dove on the ball, cradling it protectively it in her arms, and received an unintentional kick to the kidneys. She lay on the field, huddled over the ball, crying and gasping for air. I couldn’t get the ball out of her arms as I tried to make sure she was okay. She kept playing, tears trickling down her face until finally the game was blessedly over.
Several times, the opposing coach came over to say, “That is the best goalie”, and at the end, he wrapped an arm around her small frame, and an English accent told her to never ever be ashamed of her performance, that she was brave and courageous, and amazing. Her teammates wrapped her in their arms, holding her hand and wiping her tears.
Later, in the car, she asks me in a small voice why everyone was making such a big deal, because “I failed, Mom. I let in 7 goals!”
That’s when I tell her that success in life cannot be measured in wins and losses. That everyone was making a big deal, because she was courageous. She was outmatched and outgunned, but she didn’t give up. She kept showing up with everything that she had, even though she came short, time and time gain. It’s about grit, baby girl. And that is more admirable than soaring perfectly every time. It’s saying that I gave my very best, and that’s enough.
We commemorated her 16 saves with a jersey that she earned with tears and heart. And I’m pretty sure this guy would have approved…
