Memoir Rough Draft

It was a sunny day on the soccer pitch in my hometown of Melbourne, Florida. I was playing midfield which happened to be my favorite position at the time. As I turned to my right the ball comes to a stop by my feet. Contemplating what to do next, I realize the other team coming at me with their full speed. I quickly turn and head for the goal. I can hear the crowd shouting loud roars of mixed excitement and frustration. As I approach the goal I can feel the intensity of everyone around me as they waited for the next few events to unfold. My mind raced with the lessons I had learned from my coach. The basics of course. I looked up, saw my target, and shot. As the ball made contact with the back of the net I felt a sensation of excitement and then, unfortunately, dread. I had just scored on my own teams goal. I was quickly benched and spent the rest of the day going over the game in my head.
Although this seems like any eight year olds nightmare, I was use to it. The teams I played on in my early years of soccer were always known as the losers of the division. The score was always skewed in the direction of our opponent to where the slaughter rule, a score of nine to zero was an automatic win, became my teams only saving grace. I always played the position of left bench and occasionally played right bench should the opportunity present itself. The results of my teams games during these years speaks volumes of my self-confidence and pride at the time.
My parents were always adamant about me playing sports. I don't know if it was my weight problem or the fact that I wasn't very good at anything that didn't involve a classroom or a controller but I had no objection. I loved soccer. I was just no good at it. Finally, I confessed my wish to be able to make the Junior Varsity team my Freshman year of High School. My parents were ecstatic. The next day they were on the phone with my new Trainer; Scott Yarborough.
The first day I met Scott was one of fear and admiration. As I walked onto the field, that I would soon know as our own, I began to analyze him. He was in his upper twenties with a height of around five foot eight. He wore a pair of soccer shorts and a raggedy shirt that probably had to do with drinking or women; something I came to know him by. His hair was dark brown and stubby and his eyes appeared almost bloodshot (I wasn't aware at the time but Scott spent much of his later hours partying around the town).
We soon began with some simple drills. My nervousness ever so visible, I was able to make a mess of the drills with ease. However, Scott didn't seem to care at all. The whole time I tried to not mess up he just watched and would ask me the occasional question. The questions, although in the middle of a session, were all about my family, friends, what I liked to do, and other things I enjoyed to do on my free time. It was almost as if he was more interested in my life than how bad I was screwing up a simple drill. I soon realized that this would not be anything that I expected.
Scott's training style involved first beginning with the basics and then moving progressively to harder and harder drills. My first few days of training were all about the simple things such as passing, dribbles, and shots. The sessions would usually last around an hour and a half. The first hour would be straight drills and special games designed to target these specifics. However, the last half hour would consist of a easy game where we would spend time talking about life. Scott taught me things in that half hour that I would of never of learned On my own. I learned how to ask girls out, how to deal with overbearing parental supervision, how to drive stick shift, where to take girls for a first date and preceding dates, and even how to get a kiss on the first date. To a perfectionist high strung nerd like myself, this man was a genius. I still believe that to this day.
As High school tryouts came ever so close, Scott picked up the training sessions to three or four times a week for two and a half hours each. However, even though It was almost time to tryout, we still spent time out of the session to just talk. I don't think I've ever pushed myself so hard as I did those few weeks and it was no exaggeration that I had no life but soccer. I didn't care about school. I didn't care about my free time. All that I cared about was making that team; and I did.
I was able to take one of the Freshman spots for the high school Junior Varsity team. I would go on to make the Varsity team the following year and played all the way through High school. I owe all of this to Scott. He single handedly gave me the skills to make it where I did. However, he didn't just give me the ability to make it on the field. He gave me the ability to feel like I could be more than some nerd. Scott was literally my very own personal Will Smith from the movie "Hitch". Now that I think back I feel like he had that planned all along. Ever since that first day when he talked to me I think he knew all along what he was doing. Scott had been giving me the confidence I never thought I would have. I was proud of what I could do on the field and I was proud of what I could now accomplish off of it. I owe it all to Scott Yarborough and the several years he was there for me. Scott was not only my trainer, but my friend.