I have to poop. Which is a problem. Because I’m playing midfield in my rec youth soccer league. And I don’t know how to ask my coach to sub me out. Because I’ve never asked to be subbed out. If I do, he might not put me back in for the rest of this game. And I’m embarrassed about having to poop anyways. I don’t know how to say that to my coach.
So I sprint off the field without saying anything.
“Hey Wes, where the hell are you going?” I hear my coach yell. I pretend I don’t hear him and keep running. I’m on a mission now. The park restrooms are within sight. I try to distract myself, think about how my parents never swear in front of me but my coach does all the time. For some reason, I think my dad likes this. He says a lot of coaches are starting to get weak but my soccer coach is old school. He likes that he’s old school. I don’t know the difference because soccer is the only organized sport I’ve been in and I’ve had the same coach every year. I guess the coaches on the other teams do seem more relaxed than my coach. But I like my coach. I guess I’m like my dad. I like when things are run old school.
The pressure in my insides increases. I slow my pace to a jog, a walk. Now I’m standing. Squeezing. Twenty more feet. I limp into the restroom. I made it. Relief. There’s a certain kind of peace that only mandatory single mindedness can bring. For a few moments I have it. Then I remember I have to face my coach again.
Leaving the restroom, I see my coach walking my way. Why isn’t he still on the sideline? Briefly, I think about the Bible story where the shepherd leaves 99 sheep to find the one that wandered away. Maybe my coach is thinking about the same story. He’s certainly acting it out. But I don’t want to be found.
I sprint out of the park and into the neighborhood. I don’t look behind me. One of my teammates lives in this neighborhood. His house is a few blocks from the park. I find it. Hide in the garage. Wait to see if my coach really is like the good shepherd.
He’s not.
My teammate and his mom find me in their garage after the game. His mom calls my mom. My dad picks me up. I’m in trouble. He tells me I’m likely going to pay for my shenanigans in practice. I try to change the subject by asking why he and mom hadn’t been able to make it to my game. He coughs. Doesn’t say anything. We ride home in silence.