Many times in life you learn valuable lessons when you least expect them. During the fall of my sophomore year I decided to coach my little brother's recreational soccer team. I had already been playing for almost ten years, and I thought, "coaching, no big deal". But when we had our first practice in early September, I realized the true extent of my predicament.
             There I was knee deep in seven year-olds trying to explain a corner-kick, but they were too busy screaming and fighting like Pokemon and Power Rangers. The hardest part about practice was keeping my temper through the endless : "I need to pee", "come catch me", and "I don't want to play today".
             And the practices were still only part of the problem. Two weeks after our first day of practice we were scheduled for a game. Yes, a game. Now I had to let my team, an extension of my own knowledge and abilities, out onto the field to fend for themselves. It was a nightmare. I wouldn't really even classify the afternoon as soccer. It was closer to an excuse for little kids to romp around in bright yellow shirts and kick each other. It didn't matter which team you were on, or if you had the ball or not – you just needed to be kicked.
             Yet, as I ran onto the field after our championship win, I realized what a blessing every little boy had been. They taught me much more than I taught them. I taught corner-kicks. They taught patience. I taught dribbling. They taught self-control. I found that after our season I had developed a new appreciation for my parents, teachers, and coaches. My boys were blessings in disguise, and I'm thankful for every one.
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