I play on a soccer team, the Statistical Ninjas. That’s right. You should be afraid. When I play soccer I look like this:
I mean, I’m such a baller that my feet don’t even touch the ground when I run.
Anyway, last night (Feb 20) the Ninjas had their first game of the season. Sadly, we were narrowly defeated by a score of 149-1. (I may have fudged the details of the score, but we did in fact score one goal.) Also, I took a ball to the head, a whopper to the shin, and a hand to the nose. Don’t worry Mom. I’m fine.
I hate soccer because I tend to get injured a lot because of it. For example: in 6th grade I was playing goalie and trying so hard to save a goal that I lost control of my 11-year-old self while sprinting and smashed the side of my face into a cinderblock wall, breaking my glasses, cutting my eyebrow with said glasses, and giving myself a spectacular shiner in the process. This injury is one of my most memorable, second only to the time I tore up my ankle (but I’ll share that story another day, I’m sure).
I love soccer because you get to run around and yell a lot in a socially appropriate setting. I think running and loudly expressing yourself is good for the soul and that grown-ups don’t get to do that often enough, which is why they(/we?) become tired and cranky sometimes. Also, you get to make friends with your teammates. Also…you get to fly, at least according to our photographic evidence in the form of Mia Hamm (I stole the pic from here).