Penalty Kick, the Game Was Ours. If

¶ … penalty kick, the game was ours. If we missed, the game went into overtime and we risked losing what we worked so hard toward. Overcoming immense obstacles, we rallied from a 5-2 deficit in the second period. Our best kicker was out due to a hip injury; two of our star players fell ill some a severe flu; and the captain must have underwent the psychological trauma of weeding through our roster to find replacements. My seats were top-notch, as I believed that paying the extra $20 was worth sitting an entire section closer to the field. My best friend next to me, popcorn in hand, I let a few yelps fly in support of my team. Loyal since childhood in spite of a deplorable record over the past decade, I consider myself a die-hard soccer fan. Over the past few years I have been unable to attend many tournaments due to my heavy work load, so being here this evening was a real treat, one I knew I totally deserved.

Our seats offered us a stellar view of the benches. I watched our team's coach whisper into the ears of his players, ostensibly offering advice or pep talk. I placed myself in his cleats. Like the coach, I offered rational, compassionate teachings based on sound principles and a firm academic foundation. Until September, I worked as a Provider Education Coordinator, training home child care providers on developmentally appropriate practices, health and safety, conflict resolution, child development, behavior guidance, and even business management. My work was not much different from that of the coach: I did not simply give orders but rather I coached, led, and directed health care workers in the directions appropriate to each client. Just as the coach tailored his advice for each team member, I studied each situation individually to determine the best plan of action. I once worked with a woman who, although she was fully eager to assist teenage girls with eating disorders, had little prior experience. I watched our coach pat the shoulder of our top rookie and it reminded me of when I had to heave a huge sigh listening to this woman's account of her day's activities. She encountered an anorexic girl who also exhibited signs of psychosis. As the case might prove to be out of her league, I suggested that we refer the case elsewhere and the counselor stared back at me in disbelief: she thought I was inferring that she was somehow incompetent.

Nothing could be farther from the truth," I told her. "You helped her a great deal. It's just that her needs are far beyond what we can provide her. It would be in her best interests if we referred this case to a higher authority. I truly appreciate that you care about her, though."

She smiled and nodded her head. We moved onto the next client just as the coach inched his way down the bench to counsel other teammates. My reverie was interrupted by the penalty kick. I gripped my soft drink as he lunged forward, left leg lurching to hit the ball. As it soared through the air I remembered my first day at my new consultant position with Willow Glen Middle School. As a coordinator of the student assistant program there, I encounter students from all walks of life, who, because of horrific childhood trauma, develop unhealthy and unproductive behavioral patterns. For instance, one student skipped a hundred days out of the school year and was destined to fail. Yet his standardized test scores showed that he was highly intelligent. Having had experience with students similar to him, I knew that academic performance reflected deeper psychological issues. When I met with the parents, I assured them that their son's behavior was not due to some organic problem but rather to environmental problems. I suggested further counseling sessions. By the end of the school year, his attendance improved, as did his grades.