Metaphor Madness by Sydney Martinez

My life is a soccer game. There’s a goal for you, then a goal against you. You have to think, but still live in the moment. Sometimes you can’t slow down or the ball will be taken away from you. Other times you have to time your run to get where you need to be on time. An elbow is thrown in your gut, sometimes the foul is called, other times it’s not. You get upset, scream and yell and the ref pulls out the yellow card. You make a mistake, but you can redeem yourself by getting that goal, it just depends on how much you want it.

The whistle blows and the game begins. It’s my team’s kickoff. We use the same play as always: small touch to my left, player turns the ball and passes it back, and I’m off running. Excitement builds and I receive a pass. I’m sprinting, rushing down the field, wanting to get that goal fast; wanting the fame fast. I look to my left and my teammates calling for a cross. Do I want to share the glory? I don’t. I take my shot from the eighteen and miss, not even on frame. A heavy sigh escapes from the crowd. A mumbled, “Nice try,” from my teammate, and then my coach, “Look for the cross next time, we could’ve had that one!”

I’ve been living my life the same way since the beginning. I’ve played the same sports, gotten the same grades, and had the same personality. The familiarity was great for me, it got me noticed. In the beginning, I just wanted praise, but then I wanted more. People tried to be nice to me, but eventually learned to ignore me. I wanted people to care who I was and what I was doing, whether or not I got the glory in a good way. It was about me. And when I wasn’t commended, I felt worthless and gave up.

The rivals have the ball. My defense is calling me back, wanting me to mark up. Why would I want to step back when I’ve already gotten this far? I watch as the ball hits our net. 1-0, we let them score. “Midfield! You have got to get back,” yells my coach. My coach is mad, my teammates are mad. They want to sub me out, but they can’t. There are no subs. I’m the only me, I’m the only one who can do what I was meant to do.

My family and friends needed help, but I was absorbed in my own pity. I didn’t help them when they needed it, and they were scored against. I didn’t want to lose what glory I had already gained. They told me they needed me, but I ignored them, I was working for me. At that time, they may have thought I was selfish and rude, but I was the only me, they had to put up with it.

Our kickoff again. We make the same play, the other team has caught on, but I don’t care. I do what I want to do, what will give me the glory. An attacker from the other team takes the ball. She’s sprinting towards our goal, she makes a pass. The player makes it straight into the net. Another goal. She was my mark, the one who made the goal. I think my teammates hate me. They won’t look at me, they hang their heads low, and I do, too. I’m ashamed. Everyone knows it’s my fault.

When I had an opportunity to start over, I didn’t take it. I stayed the same person that I had become. Just as I thought I was back where I wanted to be, someone passed me by and tore the praise away from me. In place of the praise was shame.

The whistle sounds twice, halftime. It’s time to rest, think. Even more, time to face the mistakes I made. “You should have passed the ball.”
“I know. I’ll look for the pass next time.”
“We need your help on defense.”
“I know. I’ll get back.”
“You need to time your runs.”
“I know,” I say, barely a whisper.
Everyone’s quiet. “Look, I know the mistakes I made. I let you all down, and I can’t change what I did, but I can make it better.”

Eventually, I had to face the mistakes I had made. People told me what I did wrong, but I already knew. I could fix the mistakes, I knew I could, I’d just have to try my hardest.

We’re back on the field. The other team kicks the ball. It’s going to the flag. I’m to the ball in a flash. I dribble up the line. I look up, watching where I’m going, making smart decisions. I fake out the defender. I’m out wide on their defensive third. I still have an angle to take the shot, but there’s my teammate. She doesn’t even have to call for the cross. She heads it over the keepers stretched arms. There’s screaming and cheering coming from the crowd. “Yes,” yells my teammate.
We don’t stop. After their kickoff, we keep the ball in our possession. “We’ve got two minutes, ladies! Let’s do this,” yells my coach.

This time, I took the chance to start over. I was thinking before making a move. I was making good decisions, something I felt I hadn’t done in a while. I kept my life under control and I was being rewarded for it.

My teammate dribbles the ball down the field. She looks at me and passes. I’m going in to take the shot when I’m tackled, they didn’t want me to succeed. The ref runs over and pulls out his yellow, the other team’s foul, their mistake. I was in the box, time for a penalty kick. I line up at a forty-five degree angle, planning what to do next. I’m looking at the top left corner, but I just touch it into the lower right corner, an in-the-moment decision. The keeper jumps instead of dives. It’s in! The whistle blows three times. That’s the game!

I was about to succeed without anyone trying to take me down, but somewhere in the back of my head I knew that would be too perfect. And guess what? I was torn down, and for a while, I didn’t want to get up. But I did, with the support of everyone who knew me. The problem was, I just didn't know I had to be a part of a team. And when I did figure that out, we, my family and my friends, won the game, the game I’ve been trying to win all along.