Smells like defeat

It's a Saturday evening in the future. My 13-year-old daughter is crying after a soccer game. Her team lost on a last-minute goal. The girl she was marking scored the clincher. I saw the ball go into the net, and I saw her crouched into a sitting position on the cold turf staring at her foot in tears.

I've been preparing for this moment for three decades.

I played sports my whole life. It wasn't really my wife's thing. She said she played one year of Upwards Basketball, and they gave her the "Most Christ-like" award.

On the ride home, I look in the rearview at Abigail’s tear-soaked eyes and say:

"Have I ever told you about the Morristown West game?"

She shakes her head, staring at her seat belt buckle.

"It was a crucial 3rd and 2 — one first down, and we put the game away."

"Dad, what's 3rd and 2?" she mumbles.

"It's our 3rd of 4 tries, and we have to get 2 yards, or we do the punt thing," I say.

"Coach called 20 Read. The 20 told me a run to the right. I didn't care about the read: that was the QB and the back's problem. All I knew was that I needed to give a hard shove to the defensive tackle on my right and then try to put my face mask in the linebacker's ear hole trying to make a cutback lane."

I’m talking with both hands now, doing blocking motions against the air.

'"Let's run it on down,' I said to coach. I'm the center on the offensive line. "'They won't be ready for it.'"

"Dad, what's a center?" she asks.

"The guy who snaps the ball."

"That's what you did?"

"That's what I did," I say.

'"Great idea. Let's do it.' said coach."

"The ref in his black and white stripes, with his whistle in his hand, set the ball. I felt the cold leather in my hands. I could smell the rancid breath of the defensive tackle in front of me. It smelled like a McChicken and Gatorade."

"Dad, that's gross. I don't need to know that," she says.

"I'm bringing the story to life, Abigail. It's good storytelling."

"It's gross storytelling."

“Teenagers,” I mutter.

"Suddenly, the nose guard shifted. They went from a 3-front to 4. In the chaos, I didn't hear the quarterback shout, "Down." The rest of the offensive line fired off, and the official threw his yellow flag. False start. Five yards."

"The penalty backed us up to 3rd and 7. We ran the play but came up 2 yards short."

"So you had to punt?" she asks.

I have one of those moments as a parent where my chest expands.

"Yes, we had to punt," I say into the mirror — a solitary tear in my eye.

"Morristown West ran the punt back to our ten-yard-line, scored two plays later, and won the game. I cried the whole bus ride home. When we got off the bus at the high school, my friend Joel —"

"Thomas' dad?" she asks.

"Yes. That Joel," I say.

"Thomas' dad came up, put his arm around me, and said "'We had plenty of other chances to win that game. It's not your fault. It's not your fault.'"

"So you see, failure happens, kiddo. It's OK to be sad about it. It's not your fault. The rest of the team had plenty of chances to win that game too."

"But Dad …"

"No buts, dear. It's not all your fault."

"Dad."

We stop at a red light. I lean over the seat, resting my arm on the headrest. "I mean it, sweetie. It's not all your fault."

"Dad, I was crying because I stubbed my toe. Did we lose the game?"

Her mother's daughter.