My son Daniel started playing soccer the way most fourteen-year-old boys start anything—with obsession. He’d kick the ball against our garage door until the sun dipped low and the neighbors’ porch lights flicked on. He’d practice footwork in the driveway, sweaty and determined, like he was trying to outrun something. And for the first time in a long time, he talked. Really talked. Mostly about his coach. “Mom, Coach Charles says I’ve got potential,” he told me one night, eyes bright. “He thinks I could play varsity next year.” I smiled and nodded like this was normal, but inside I…
My Sons Coach Turned Out to Be My First Love – and My Past Hit Me like a Truck!
