Number 6

Every year I got on a new soccer team, I would usually make one or two friends, three if I was really lucky. The friendships would usually end as soon as the season was over though. I trained every day, practicing twice as long at home on the days we were supposed to have off. I wanted to become good and I really didn't care about anything or anyone else, so I kept to myself. I remember several extreme occasions where my dad and I practiced trapping the ball and slowing it with the side of my foot, but without making it come to a complete stop, hours after the sun went down. I was taught how to run, how to anticipate, how to dribble, how to fake, how to trap, how to scissor-step, how to double-step, how to hip-check, how to take corner kicks, how to take penalty kicks, and a list of many more things which I have now forgotten. For some coaches more than others, I was a more useful instrument. For the longest time I was a Sweeper on defense-the last man. I controlled the field and called the shots, telling my teammates where to go and how to support each other. Some listened more than others. The times they did listen, our defense was impenetrable and I was thought of as an unlucky omen for opposing teams. From then on I took up the number 13. It was like my charm and a mental boost for me. The only year I couldn't have it was the last year I played in high school, so I took the next unlucky number I could think of-6. I can still hear the coach's voice, full of excitement, tension, and muster from the sidelines, shouting as I fought against another girl for possession of the ball, "Get her 6! Get her!"