The two teams had played to a scoreless draw for 90 minutes of regulation time. And for another 10 minutes of overtime.
Now the game was in penalty kicks. The goalkeeper for my sons’ high school team had stopped one of the first four penalties. The opposing keeper hadn’t stopped one yet.
And so, when Charlie, my older son and a senior, stepped up to take the fifth (and final) penalty kick, the game was on the line. If he made it, his team would win the conference championship. If he missed, the penalty kick shoot-out would continue.
Here’s what happened:
(NOTE: I did not shoot that video. I was hiding behind a bush on the opposite end of the field — trying not to throw up from nerves.)
Regular readers know that I don’t talk a ton about my two boys in this space —aside from an occasional reference to all of our soccer-related travel.
Part of the reason for that is that my wife and I are very cognizant of protecting the kids’ privacy. Another part is that I think bragging on your kids publicly is a little unseemly.
And let me make clear: Charlie didn’t do ANY of this alone. His four teammates all buried their penalty kicks before he stepped up to the spot. The keeper had made a brilliant save. The bench had been amped up from the starting whistle. No one on a team achieves anything by themselves.
But, with all that said, I am making an exception from my “no kids” talk this time. Because I think what happened on Thursday on a soccer field in northern Virginia captures so much of what makes sports and parenting and, well, life so special.
So, yes, this is about my son — and that singular moment where he sealed the championship for his team. But it’s also about hard work. Resilience. Determination. Not being afraid to fail. Taking chances.
This is a love letter to my son. But it is also a love letter to the beauty in this world. In the small things that become big things. In making a memory that will sustain for a lifetime.
First, let me tell you a little bit about Charlie. (Yes, I asked his permission before I wrote this!)
He’s always been on the quieter side. (I know…not like me in that regard!) He’s not someone who comes into a room and tries to be the center of attention. He’s an observer. He’s confident enough in who he is and what he brings to the table that he doesn’t need to try to impress you. Or make you laugh.
He is — and, yes, I am tearing up as I write this — what I always wished I could have been as a teenager and young adult. I never felt truly comfortable in my own skin. I was forever trying to mold myself into what I thought would make me cool. Or popular. Or whatever.
Charlie is something else I wasn’t when I was his age too: A natural leader. He has been picked as the captain of every soccer team he has played on. That spans two different travel soccer clubs and his current high school team. This is not because he has always been the best player on the team. It is because, I believe, he cares the most. He wants it the most. And he’s not afraid to wear all of that on his sleeve.
And it’s not just wearing the captain’s armband that makes him a leader. He has a magnetism to him. I think it’s the quiet confidence, the sense of knowing who he is and where he fits that draw people to him. To borrow some of my boys’ vernacular, Charlie never tries to “do too much.” (Sidebar: According to both of my boys, I am often “doing too much.”)
It’s not just me — an obviously adoring dad — who sees Charlie’s leadership qualities.
After the game on Thursday, I received an unsolicited email from Ash Sawkar, a former FBI agent who now refs high school and college soccer games. Ash had reffed several of Charlie’s games over the years.
Here’s part of what he wrote to me about Charlie:
“It is clear that Charlie commands respect. That isn’t given, it is earned. His calm demeanor, his respectful tone, and his disarming personality lend to an incredible environment. When things go wrong, he takes accountability rather than finding fault. That’s a true leader, and that’s rare these days.”
Yes, that ALSO made me cry.
(NOTE: I asked Ash if it would be ok to quote a part of his email to me. He agreed, noting that with Charlie being a senior and him not being assigned to any more of our high school games, there was no conflict of interest. A truly principled man!)
The other thing I want you to know about Charlie is how determined he is.
Charlie might not blow your doors off the first time you meet him. Or the first time you see him on the soccer field. Or the first time he sits down in your classroom.
But, watch him for a while. Stick with him. He’ll grow on you. You’ll start to see that this is a kid any coach would want on his team. A kid any college would want in its class. A kid any company would want as an employee.
Because he works. And works. And works.
A quick story from the Covid years. Charlie was in 5th grade when Covid hit. He spent — like most kids — the next year or so at home. And even though soccer is a sport played entirely outside, the leagues canceled their seasona as well. (We didn’t know anything! Hell, we were washing our groceries!)
Charlie wanted to get better at soccer. He wanted to give himself a chance to play in college. (Sidebar: He has committed to play soccer at Wesleyan University next year.)
And so, almost every morning, I would hear him outside our house — kicking the ball off our wooden retaining wall to work on his touch. He asked us if we would buy him cones so that he could set up drills he had seen on the Internet. And he worked. By himself. Every damn day. For YEARS.
It felt to me like ALL of that work, all the practices, all the games, all the sacrifices, all the self-discipline, all that soccer had taught Charlie, all that we, as parents, had tried to instill in him — came to a head as he walked up to the penalty spot on Thursday afternoon.
I would like to tell you I knew he would make it. I didn’t. I knew he had done everything he needed to do in order to be ready — mentally and physically — for a high-pressure moment like that. I knew how much soccer, this team, this school meant to him. But whether he would score or not? I almost fought myself from believing he would — knowing that he (and I) would be utterly devastated if he missed.
He didn’t miss.
It was the first and only goal he has ever scored for his high school team.
When it hit the back of the net, I wept. So did my wife, who was standing about ten feet from me. We staggered toward each other and hugged — both ugly-crying as the team (and their classmates) celebrated on the field.
As we walked onto the field a few minutes later to congratulate the boys, I caught Charlie’s eye. We walked to each other and hugged. Through my sobs, I just kept telling him “You deserve this. You deserve this.”
It was one of the best moments of my life. And one I will never ever forget.
Because, really, this wasn’t about whether he kicked a soccer ball into the back of a net. The world would have kept spinning if he had missed and the team lost. Our lives would go on. Charlie would — and will — experience lots of other highs (and lows) in his life.
But to witness your child experience pure joy — a joy that can only be felt when real sacrifices have been made to achieve it — is the greatest thing any parent can ever hope to see.
As a friend who was at the game texted me about Charlie afterward: “He’ll never forget this day. That’s all you can hope for, for your child.”
Amen.
