The time I accidentally brick-walled one player, and then another player, in soccer

I hadn’t played recreational soccer in well over a decade. But then our dog developed a truly insatiable urge to fetch soccer balls.

One day we took her to the park and thought we’d kick around a soccer ball while Luca ran around. To our surprise, she became entranced by, fixated on, obsessed with, the orange soccer ball. We’d kick it, and she’d launch herself after it, body rippling like a ribbon in the wind, wrap her teeth around it, and trot it back to us, grinning, begging for another kick. She was so relentless in her pursuit of the ball that eventually she puked a little, on the ball, from running too hard. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything as much as Luca loves her now-deflated, decrepit soccer ball.

Anyway, this lead to a lot of soccer kicking, as well as dribbling—Luca is as accomplished a defender as she is a fetcher—and, thanks to being strong, I’m actually a pretty good kicker. I move pretty well still; there is life in the old girl yet. It is constantly nice weather outside here in LA. Which got me thinking, why not try to play soccer again? I played a little in my twenties, and up to the point of travel teams as a kid (by which point I was the only girl on our team). I prefer other sports to soccer, but soccer is just seemingly what everyone does. I found a spot as a free agent, and the team graciously added me to their email list and gave me a lovely lime green jersey.