i wan't my child to play soccer...

I seriously want my kid to play soccer. What do I mean by this? I'm not quite sure myself. No, I haven't become a fan of soccer, and I doubt I ever will be (except when the World Cup rolls around, then I'll know everything there is to know about the damn sport).

Oh but before I delve any further, I'm going to write my own "5 essential items for college dorms":

1) Computer. 'Nuff said.
2) Ipod. Can't live without music!
3) Rice cooker. Now that I think about it, this should probably be first... It's just so awesome to have! It's ridiculous. It can cook just about everything. Rice, ramen, dumplings... etc.
4) Brita. My roommate brought it along. It magically creates bottle water-esque water from tap.
5) Fruits and Veggies. Not so much the veggies. But fruits, yes. I bring an apple from the cafeteria every day. Or at least I try to.

Now with that done, I'll continue what I was saying before.
I want my kid to be playing soccer. Imagine this: There exists, in the middle of the city, a perfectly rectangular expanse of asphalt. Enclosing the perimeter is a towering ten foot high green metallic fence; what it is for, or what it is attempting to repel I can only vaguely fathom. Right down the center of this blacktop paradise is an apathetic concrete partition which creates two equal squares of land. On one side of the partition is a colorfully painted jungle gym, complete with cheesy monkey bars and low angle slides. The other side is barren, indeed, depressingly desolate with two lonely goal posts with flimsy netting. The vista is incongruous at first, but slowly and painfully it begins to make sense: this barren concrete field is for soccer. How I come to understand this fact is unclear.

This week in "Writing the Essay" class (aka. English 101), our graded essays were handed back. The professor handed out the neatly stapled sheets of paper dispassionately, calling out names at an excruciatingly slow pace. The room was breathless, festering vigorously in a dead silence; I could faintly see drops of sweat slithering inaudibly down the students' pale faces. My own heart was pounding so violently I was sure it would explode in a catastrophic nuclear explosion of a heart attack. My breath was held so tightly, under so much pressure that I was feeling an oncoming stroke. Needless to say, my name was last; it's a bloody miracle I'm still living.

Anyway, after I got my essay back, I viciously flipped over to the last page as quickly as an adolescent rips open his Christmas presents; what I saw baffled me. It was a letter to me from my professor. There was no grade in sight. This got me worried. Did I do so badly that I didn't even deserve a grade? Forcibly gouging my curiosity through a myriad of questions, I began reading the paper. And I must admit, the beginning of the letter gave me a small glimmer of hope. This is how the letter began:

James,

I was worried about you; no drafts, a critical lesson missed and a conference where you announced you didn't know how to start... But what has happened? You've turned in a very promising essay. I'm amazed and extremely happy - reading your essay has made my weekend. You write in your note that you realized you are not a very good writer. I would disagree. There is a beautiful fluency to your writing, details are managed very well and the honesty of the writing elevates it beyond the mundane.

Up to this point, I'm physically and mentally freaking out. I'm contorting my body into awkward celebratory positions and muttering victory phrases like a homeless man on crack; I'm walking down a bustling New York City sidewalk, my nose buried in a flimsy piece of paper. I'm sure I looked ridiculous.

But life isn't worth living without its small bumps, right? This is how the letter continued:

The essay's idea may not develop enough for the purposes of this assignment, but I am convinced that you are a good writer and that we should work hard on improving your capacity to develop an argument, precisely because you have great potential.

Potential. That word pisses me off. Because for me, it signifies the end of the line. "Potential" is my last stop; it's where the dream ends, the shadow melts into the darkness.

I'm afraid to have potential. I find it incredibly burdensome. I would rather slack off and reap the occasional positive comment than try my best and fail miserably. My lackadaisical attitude creates a safety net, something to fall back on while yawning disrespectfully. If I receive criticism, well, it's because I'm not trying; you can't blame me. I'm sure if I attempted any task with my utmost concentration and effort, I would succeed with flying colors rivaling that of the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. But I never try, precisely because I'm not sure. I'm scared, in a sense. Because if I fail to succeed even after trying my best, what am I? I become ordinary, boring. I lose my uniqueness, my mystique.

And I don't want that. I don't want to put my everything into a task and find out later that all I had to begin with was emptiness.

Watch as my castle in the sky crashes and burns like the Hindenburg.

I don't want to uncover my own mediocrity, my flaws. I'll wait for my flaws to disintegrate along with my body - to the grave. I want to believe forever that I am unique, different from everybody else. I want to be more than just another person in this vast world of ours.

As I was coming home this weekend, the subway system had a service change. The A train's last stop was at 168th street, 7 blocks from my destination.

The end of the line had changed. Perhaps, in my mind, I had an inkling of my destination all along.

What lies beyond the last stop? Is it worth running into the dark tunnel, not knowing what is ahead?

Is it worth it to give it my best and claw intensely through my lackadaisical safety net? Even at the expense of discovering my innate shortcomings and flaws, my mediocrity?

As the A train speeds off, away from the 167th street platform, I see a fallen piece of paper revealing the cause of the service changes: Repairs.

I want my kid to play soccer. But I guess basketball is alright, too.