I love the feeling I get when the ball touches my foot. The instant it collides with my instep, the world stops. A firework bursts into neon flame. A million cogs magically slide into place. A key turns into the lock, and the bass drops. Just the thought of it sends a swarm of butterflies to my stomach and causes the tips of my fingernails to zip to the inside of my teeth. The one feeling greater than this occurs on the field, passing the ball back and forth, hypnotized by the rhythm of the game; pass, touch, pass, touch, touch, touch, long ball, touch, pass, pass... and then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, shot, goal. The sensation is pure magic. All the times I have scored, I feel a rush of invincibility course through my body. An invisible force seems to guide my leg, my foot, to the exact spot where the ball wants to be hit. Suddenly, I feel power ripple through me, and the ball becomes a projectile missile that punches the back of the net. Soccer is the most beautiful thing I have yet encountered. It's not only iridescent because of what joy it gives me to play, but because it has the ability to bring things together - people, skills, ideas, jokes, dreams, all bonded by the “beautiful game.” I have a theory; every moment in a soccer practice, game, or casual scrimmage, anywhere, is hand-crafted in heaven, or at least someplace better than Earth. It must be, the feeling it brings those who play it is literally out of this world. I also believe the same thing is true about friends. And when soccer and friends come together, the world becomes a dazzling, resplendent, and bewitching place. Sometimes though, the combination of soccer and true friends comes in the most unexpected places.
	 It all started when the rain came. It rained and rained and rained and rained. Our weather channel marveled at the record-breaking downpour. The sky was crying so hard, that it sometimes made me a little teary-eyed. The pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof was like anxious fingers drumming on my forehead. For a whole week, this plaguing precipitation raged on, until the sun finally peeked out from behind the bleary, gray clouds and created the most majestic double rainbow in all of America. The beauty, however, was short-lived. The following months were filled with the worst water damage in history. The house down the street was stricken with mildew. Our neighbor's flawlessly maintained lawn was reduced to a quasi-lake of mud, grass, and dead petunias. Our own basement was flooded a foot high. But worst of all, the Polanski's house across the road was so terribly drenched, that it ultimately collapsed. Fortunately, it was a slow, dramatic, catastrophe, giving the distressed family enough time to escape with their three snakes, four dogs, nine fish, and their ratty old hamster named Spunk. This rain, despite its inconveniences was the best thing that ever happened to me.
	 The workers came in May. They stripped my family's basement down to the core, hauling out soaked boxes of old books and doused remains of my old toys. Big machines that roared louder than hurricanes sucked the water out for hours on end, consuming the house with cataclysmal noise. They painted the walls, poisoning the air for weeks. The workers set up a miniature kitchen, decked out with a tiny fridge filled to the brim with pop. Eventually, they laid down plush, forest green carpet that almost reminded me of the turf we played on at soccer practice. In fact, the entire basement looked like the soccer fields I played on. It had walls the color of sea foam that seemed to spread out for miles on end, without ever looking desolate. The kitchen had the same grayish-silvery granite as the sports bar my team and I bought Slushies at after games. The wall on the far side was the perfect size to accommodate for a goal. It was an exact replica of the Drexton Soccer Arenas. Suddenly, the brand new basement made me sick. I was abruptly repulsed by its resemblance to the soccer field at which I suffered week in and week out. It made me recollect all the fumbled passes and missed kicks I made at practice for which the coach, Markus, made me do push-ups. It hinted at all the fitness days when I finished last, huffing, puffing, and gasping, bending over with cramps while the rest of my team was already finished.  The look of the basement made me reminisce about all the try-outs where I cranked out 110% of my effort for every minute, but still ended up on the stinking, junky, no-good third-string team of the Drexton Charge Football Club. It amazed my family, friends, and teammates that I still had an undying passion for soccer despite all my years of failure. It sometimes amazed me, too. I tried harder than everyone else in the club, always the first one there at practice and the last one to leave. I listened to whatever the coach said and made the greatest effort I possibly could to execute his wishes. My effort, however, never got me anywhere at the Drexton Charge F.C., except for a nice, warm spot on the bench. This basement was nothing more than a tribute to my wasted attempt to play soccer.
	 I marched up the stairs, vowing never to set foot in that basement again. I grabbed my ball and trudged outside, fuming. Kicking the ball against the side of our house was the only thing that could calm me at a time like this. From the backyard, I saw a black Escalade pull into our neighbor's driveway. When it rolled to a gentle stop by their front door, out hobbled Avery Kampfer.  She was short and lean. Her lengthy golden hair was usually tied into a loose, low ponytail that hung down her back. Avery's icy blue eyes always seemed to be glaring at something. Just a couple years my senior, she was one of the top soccer players in the Midwest. A starring forward on the U-17 Drexton Charge's top team, she was fast, strong, and skillful. Her explosive sprints were were impossible to compete with. Avery could easily tackle the ball from a Titan, yet was still agile enough to dribble around the quickest defender. It was all over the local newspapers that she was to attend a national camp this summer in Kansas, to prepare for next year's Women's U-20 World Cup. To be selected for the national team was every soccer player's fantasy. To Avery it seemed like it was no big deal. As her father was handing her a pair of bone-colored crutches, my eyes flickered down to her tanned, muscular leg to find that it was covered by a thick, hulking, purple cast. An injury that severe was sure to keep her out of soccer for a few months, if not an entire year. This meant...Avery couldn't go to the camp! A lifetime of hard work, only to be spoiled by a career ending injury. I doubted even Avery could make a comeback from such an obstacle. Pity, though, is not what I felt for her. Avery was nothing more than a stuck up little snob. Who did she think she was, prancing around like she was better than everyone else just because she could play some good soccer? Avery Kampher had it coming. Never again would she waltz around a club practice, rubbing her skill in everybody else's face. With a humph, I spun on my heel and resumed passing the ball against our brick siding.  
	Later that night, Mom brought up Avery at dinner, 
	“Did you hear about Nancy Kampher's daughter?” she gossiped, “Y'know, the one who's good at soccer?” Zack, Dad, and I nodded. She continued, “Well, she tore some knee ligament at a game last weekend! She's not going to go to that national camp! How horrible...” 
	Dad winced, “Yowza! I tore my ACL in high school. What a royal pain. I haven't been able to play sports since!” 
	“You probably weren't able to play sports in the first place!” joked little Zack. 
	“Anyway,” Mom chuckled, “Avery's in some intensive physical therapy downtown. They hope to get her back to normal by autumn, but the chances are slim. Nance said the poor girl's been crying in her room since one o'clock!” I suddenly felt guilty for my mental outburst this afternoon. Avery may be a little pompous at times, but that didn't mean that she deserved to have soccer, her true passion, taken away from her like this. An icky feeling sprouted in the pit of my stomach. Avery deserved to play soccer again as much as I deserved to be recognized at the Drexton Charge. 
	The spring months rolled by, and before I knew it, I was signing yearbooks and hugging   people  goodbye at school. All my friends were either being shipped off to sleep away camp or taking an exotic vacation. Channel 4 News predicted that our wacky weather wasn't over, with temperatures expected to be record-high. I braced myself for the most boring summer in all of Michigan. However, I began to question my fate when an orange moving van pulled into an old farmhouse down the street. Drexton was the kind of town with grand, luxurious mansions with a scattering of a few large farms. Even though it wasn't hit as hard by the recession as some other places, it was still rare to see people move here. I jogged down the street to get a closer look at the new family. Out of a minivan on the driveway came a family of five. Two of the children appeared to be tiny twins, and the older was a girl who looked my age, with hair the color of the tangerine-hued truck. Her mother motioned for her to walk around a little bit. The girl with the bright locks introduced herself to me. 
	“I'm Hanna,” she said timidly. 
	“I'm Bridget,” I replied with a smile. An awkward silence followed the introduction. “Um... you have really cool hair,” I said. 
	
	“Thanks,” she answered, her white cheeks turning scarlet, “But it gets annoying sometimes, 'cause its the only thing people ever notice about me.” I could relate. My own short locks were the color of a lemon.  
	Hanna motioned to the soccer ball in my hand, “You play?” she asked. I nodded energetically. “Me too!” she exclaimed, her sapphire eyes lighting up, “I'm going to try out for the club here. It's the Force or something, right?” 
	“The Charge,” I corrected, “I play for them too.” “It would be so cool if we were on the same team!” said Hanna. I giggled. Be careful what you wish for, I thought.
	 “So, are you doing anything fun this summer?” she inquired. 
	“Absolutely nothing. Do you wanna come to my house and play some soccer?” 
	“I would love to!” Hanna shouted with glee. “Just let me ask my Mom and change.” She sprinted back to the house and bolted through the door. A few minutes later she returned to the foot of her driveway in shorts and a tank top. We walked down to my house and started kicking the ball around in the yard. After a while, the weather channel's projections came true. The air was sticky and sweltering. “I'm parched,” Hanna forced out between gasps. 
	“Same here,” I replied. Hanna was surprisingly good at soccer, her passing had laser-like precision, and her feet were as quick as lightning, something I could never accomplish, however hard I tried, but I felt I was getting better by the second. 
	I didn't want to stop playing, but the only place we could continue our game was the dreaded basement. I hadn't returned to that pit of memories since late May. I then realized the only way to escape my misery of setbacks in soccer was to play and practice as much as I could. “Um, we could play in my basement, I guess.” 
	An hour later Hanna and I were cracking up, telling jokes and funny stories while playing a light game of soccer. We skipped up the stairs together to get something to eat. To my surprise, Avery Kampher was sitting in the middle of our kitchen, while Nancy and my Mom were gabbing away at the table. 
	“Oh!” my mother exclaimed, “You guys must be hungry! I'll fix you girls a snack. Nance, didn't you say Avery could play a little again?”   
	“Yep. Dr. Arlow said you can ease back into it. Isn't that right, Avery.” Avery kept her head down and gave a gloomy nod. 
	“That's awesome!” my mother interjected. “Avery, why don't you go down with the girls and play soccer with them.” Following a much welcomed peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Hanna, Avery, and I went back to the basement. Without speaking much, we continued our game. Avery was one of those people who could wear a garbage bag and still look like a movie star. Her t-shirt was tucked into the top of her Adidas gym shorts, accentuating her flat stomach. Her long flaxen waves bounced as she dribbled the ball around us. While Avery seemed a little hesitant playing soccer, as if she was holding back some of her skill because she was afraid that her body wasn't capable of executing its full potential, she still was phenomenal. I expected Avery to sneer at me every time I failed to get the ball past her and scowl at every touch Hanna and I made, but she turned out to be shockingly kind. Avery complimented us each time we connected a pass and gave us pointers on almost everything. When evening started rolling around, Hanna received a text from her mother to come back home. I gave her a hug as she left and invited her to come back tomorrow. Avery stayed a while longer. Obviously, I was no match for her. I felt like a complete dunce every time she flew past me with the ball. What made it worse was that she was going horribly easy on me. 
	“Why don't we call it a night,” Avery stated after seeing the frustrated look on my face. 
	We sat down at the foot of the stairs. I noticed a scaly, crooked scar on her lower thigh. “You must be bummed, about not being able to go to the camp,” I said. 
	“Ya, ya,” Avery mumbled, “But I can't give up hope. If I keep working, I know that I can get back to the way I used to be, even though the doctor said I might as well quit.”
	 “B-but if the doctor said you couldn't, how are you so sure you'll make a comeback?” 
	“Since I've started playing soccer, people have been telling me I can't do stuff, that I'm not strong enough for this, or tall enough for that. Even I tell myself that can't do things sometimes. All your life, people will tell you no. You have a choice how to deal with them; you can agree with their “no's”, and give up like a total loser, or you can tell them yes, and become a champion.” 
	“Wow,” I said, “you're totally right.” 
	“Listen, this has been the best soccer I've played since the accident. Why don't you and that Hailey, or Hanna, or whatever come down here everyday and we'll play some soccer, and I'll teach you guys stuff. I promise that you guys will be amazing come tryouts in August.” 
	“Sounds great!” I exclaimed.
	 “Avery! It's time to go!” called Mrs. Kampher from upstairs.
	 “See ya, lets say eleven o'clock tomorrow?” Avery asked.  “Can't wait!” I replied.
	The summer turned out to be the best of my life. Avery and Hanna came over every single day, and we played until we couldn't feel our legs. Pursuant to Avery's vow, Hanna and I made the top team at the Drexton Charge U-15 level. Avery herself got into another national camp during winter break. In the end, we all learned something new about ourselves and about life. Soccer worked its magic once again; it brought three polar opposites together and turned them into best friends.       




1
The Beautiful Game, 6-8,