I played soccer and baseball all four years of high school. Although I can’t be certain, I truly believe that if I wasn’t the worst two-sport athlete of all time, I was certainly in the discussion for top 5.

People with my skill set are supposed to try Little League for two years, then join the marching band. But a perfect storm of perseverance (stubbornness), undying belief in myself (delusion) and a small high school (He’s a senior, so I guess we have to let him play?) kept me pressing on.

I was a terrible high school athlete and am currently an even less athletic adult, so what reason could I possibly have for playing in my high school’s alumni soccer game last Friday?

I blame it on the shoes.

I am fortunate enough to work at a place that gets tons of sneakers and sports gear to feature in our magazine. Some of this stuff gets shipped back to Nike and Adidas and Under Armour, but some of it we’re allowed to keep. Because of this, I have a giant collection of free shoes that are way too nice for my skill set.

One of these shoes is a pair of $220 Puma soccer cleats. They are (this is a direct quote from the website) “inspired by muscles, tendons and racecars.” They are also more expensive than any other pair of cleats I have ever owned by $180. When I put them on for the first time, I no longer felt like the world’s worst soccer player. I. Played. Fútbol.

But here’s the thing: $220 cleats don’t do you any good if no one knows you own $220 cleats.

That’s why I decided to play in the 2014 Heritage Christian School soccer alumni game. The plan was to play about 10 minutes, collect compliments on my footwear and see if maybe, just maybe, the problem with my athletic career had been the shoes all along.

If you’re the type of person who doesn’t like reading or suspense, you can stop right here, because I’ll tell you right now that my plan didn’t work even a little bit.

In fact, the plan got derailed the moment I arrived at the field. Usually, the alumni game brings back enough guys for three teams. If you want to play five minutes and spend the rest of the game joking around on the sideline, you’re fine because there are five other guys who play your position waiting to get into the game. But this year, 10 minutes before game time, I counted exactly five guys kicking a ball around on the field.

When I stepped onto the field, those five guys greeted me with variations of, “Oh. I didn’t know YOU would be playing.” They clearly didn’t see the shoes.

While I laced up, I looked desperately for a huge group of athletes to save me from playing more than 10 minutes. They didn’t come. At kick-off, we had enough mildly to severely out-of-shape alumni for one full team and four reserves.

The whistle blew, we got the ball, and I made my first run down the field. I immediately noticed two things:

1. The shoes were glorious. I felt EXACTLY like a racecar.
2. I couldn’t breathe.

In my haste to show off the $220 cleats, I hadn’t consulted my body about the plan, and it was NOT PLEASED. In about 30 seconds, my ambitions dropped from scoring a goal to doing something good to not embarrassing myself to simply conserving enough energy to walk back to my car.

The game went downhill from there. It’s all kind of a blur, but the highlights included:

• Spending more energy on trying to wheeze quieter than running to the ball
• Dusting off my high school trick of pretending a botched shot on goal was supposed to be a pass
• Getting my ball stolen multiple times by people who were not yet able to walk during my high school career
• Fishing for just one compliment on my shoes
• Having this exchange when I stumbled back to the bench, gasping for air:
  Teammate: “I thought you run?”
  Me: “It’s been awhile.”

Halfway through the second half, the racecar had run out of gas. But just when I was ready to hang up the cleats for good, a sliver of opportunity for redemption presented itself.

I looked up to see the ball slowly bouncing between me and the goalie. If I could just beat him to the ball, I’d kick it into the open net and be the hero. Everything would change. I’d be carried off the field by my teammates and would treat everyone to ice cream after the game. Sure, the goalie may have had athleticism and experience on his side, but I had stubbornness and delusion, and sometimes that’s enough.

He may have had athleticism and experience on his side, but I had stubbornness and delusion, and sometimes that’s enough.

I dug deep for the last bit of energy and started sprinting as fast as my Pumas could take me.

He walked. I dug deeper.

He picked up the ball. I tried to slow down.

He lowered his shoulder. I hit his shoulder.

He stood tall. I crumpled.

I lay still on the ground for a couple seconds, waiting until my body decided it would be fine to breathe again. When I realized they weren’t going to stop the game for me, I pulled myself to my feet and hobbled to the bench. Game over for the racecar.

Eventually the rest of the alumni team ran out of gas too and ended 80 minutes of regulation in a tie. Then, we missed every single penalty kick and lost for good.

Hot, tired and broken, we started the post-game handshakes. That’s when I heard it.

Goodgame
Goodgame
Goodgame
Nice shoes.

Thank you. I didn’t see who you were, but thank you very much – that’s all I actually wanted.

LIFE LESSON #31

Even free shoes sometimes have a cost.