Why I like scoccer

I remember when i was little boy, my mother bought me a soccer set, it came with; Goalkeeper gloves, a ball, two cones to mark out the goal and a pair of plastic boots that I enthusiastically cramped my feet into. I'd never played soccer before, sure i'd seen it plastered on the family television set, my father greedily lapping it up with ravenous eyes, his dinner growing increasingly cold whilst his warm beer takes the spotlight. But i'd never actually touched a soccer ball. I trudge down to the nearest park, ball in hand, boots on feet, cones on head. I mark the goal out and set the ball at my feet. My brother wrapped up in a winter coat stands in the goal, annoyed i have dragged him down to the field on such a cold morning, he refuses to put on the gloves, instead he loiters in my way hands buried deep in his pockets. I let out a war cry and kick the ball with all my might aiming for the left, i plan on rocketing it into the corner of the goal and across the far side of the park, the ghastly hike to retrieve it hardly seems to matter as my right foot makes contact with the dew infected ball. The speed in which it travels amazes me, the chances of my uninterested brother saving it seems minuscule, but he does. The ball strikes him right in the face knocking him to the floor, blood flowing out of his nose as he whimpers on the ground like a little girl. I laugh while he cries out for Mum. That was the first time i played soccer and I've been in love with it ever since. - James