July 24, 2012


Please go HERE to read the re-write of this post.

When we were small, my dad used to play soccer with us in the alley behind our house on summer evenings as the street lights came on. There was always a soccer ball being kicked around either in the basement, backyard, or on TV. We even went to a ton of Chicago Sting games where we chanted “Let’s Go Sting!" and, when they scored, threw around wads of confetti that we spent hours the week leading up to the game making from newspaper.

from google images. my favorite (Sting) player.

When I was about 6, I was finally able to join a soccer league and compete. It was the late 1970s. I was the only girl in the entire league, and I loved it because I loved soccer.
I like to think that my love for soccer meant I kicked ass at it, but I always seemed to end up playing a defensive position... save for one particular game. The coach had me switch positions with a midfielder and then with an offensive player in a matter of minutes. I was on the right side of the field. There was only one opposing team player and his goalie before me. Suddenly I heard screaming and turned to see a ball flying toward me.

It was my time to shine.

It was my time to prove to everyone that I deserved to play an offensive position.

It was my time to score.

The ball flew closer to me, in slow motion, and now it was just me and the goalie. All I had to do was stretch my leg out at the right time for my foot to tap the ball past the goalie.

But instead my leg and foot completely missed the ball.

I was mortified and avoided eye contact with everyone as I ran off the field to be replaced by someone who deserved to be on the field in an offensive position.

Still, I stayed with my team in that league as the only girl for several years. For the most part, being the only girl became an issue only during our practices because I inevitably always had to be  member of the Shirts team (versus the Skins team who didn’t wear shirts). But other than that, I was one of them; we practiced together, we ran laps together.

Soccer was my life.

And then one day, things completely changed: I woke up bleeding from my crotch; my stick straight, thick hair started getting curly; and I had boobs that required an actual bra opposed to an undershirt.

I was 10 years old and often got second glances from men my father's age. It was quite disgusting and humiliating and I soon quit playing soccer because of the teasing  I heard when I ran laps.

I hated my boobs so much… still kind of do, today.

bubble chasing girly girl best get ready cuz she will be kicking that ball around soon! ;)

Please go HERE to read the re-write of this post.

1 comment:

  1. Ah, our boobs (or lack thereof, in my case) sure did cause us young ladies a lot of grief. I've made peace with mine, and I hope you have, too.


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